Me & Her

Me

Therapy – if I can even call it that anymore – passes by in an inkling of a moment.

Sooner or later, I find myself parked on the couch in the living room, head in a book. The words seem to float off the page, into another story, leaving this one senseless.

I have refused to speak to Alyssa since her little stunt, but she thinks my silent treatment is just a fluke. She needs to understand: we have to work together.

I asked about doing P.E for her – that was all I could do. Then she had to ruin her chances by stealing Light's keys, which made our session beyond awkward. I didn't think therapy could get any more awkward.

It could, it did, it's awful. More than awful. If that's possible.

Fuming, I bring the case of a murdered cab driver to an abrupt close. They'll have to manage without me.

Anger brews deep down inside, failing to bubble to the surface. Good. Being angry is uncomfortable, like apple skin stuck between my teeth. It doesn't suit me. I'm unsure whether I feel this way because of Light, Alyssa or school.

Mum has gone out to meet with her friends again and even though I'm happy she's finally thinking of herself, I can't help the ripple of jealousy that stirs. Why can't I be her shoulder to cry on?

A yawn ruptures my jaw, while my body starts to droop. Bone-tiredness is a feeling I've never really experienced, at least not often. Being in a coma doesn't exactly make you long for more sleep.

Searching the room, I wonder what to do. The files are gone, the books are superficial. Watching the television is a useless activity, especially when there's so much more going on. I wish I could just curl up and remember.

Remember my past in order to survive my future. Whatever comes my way.

"Alice?" The couch vanishes from under me as my body rockets upwards.

In a rush, I whirl around to find Dr. Light standing in the doorway, looking very concerned. Very, very concerned.

"Are you alright?" he asks. I notice that half my hair is hanging over my mouth, so I puff it away, which works about as well as you would expect. The act of brushing it aside with my fingers turns into a wrestling match. A year later, I win.

Smiling, I try to be civil.

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm totally fine. How are you?"

"Fine," he answers quickly. Too quickly. Oh well.

I should know by now: we're both liars.

As my vision adjusts, I can see him massaging his temples. When I look at his other hand, there's a small slip of paper. Stepping forward, he winces, as if the carpet is swathed in broken glass.

"This is for you," he grits out, handing me the paper. A permission slip, a note, a message. No, a favour.

"As of tomorrow, you can do P.E". I stare at the printed words, running them over my teeth like mobile cavities. He didn't do this for Alyssa, I realise. He did this for me. Eyes stinging, I clutch the note to my chest.

"Thank you," I say, meeting his gaze for the first time in weeks. He's staring at me with the same sincerity, like one planet orbiting another. He offers the tiniest smile before turning to leave. He's about to cross the threshold when he stops, holding his head.

"Light? Bohemian?" I want to rush forward, run to him, but Alyssa holds me back. It's dangerous, she's telling me.

Light staggers to the other side of the doorframe. His body is locked in an inward struggle – his hands clench and unclench rapidly. Despite the pain, he doesn't cry out, not until his hair turns black and he lets loose a yelp.

Dropping to his knees, his breathing slows. Now there is no trace of the white-blonde I've grown used to. Black hair, fluid posture.

That night, in his room, Alyssa kept me from the truth. The whole truth. But I'm seeing this with my own eyes, right in front of me. Happening. Happening. In front of me.

His breathing has levelled out and he stands, shrugging his shoulders. A click of bone resounds. I sense he's going to turn, but I'm still unprepared for it. Dark green pools watch me shiver.

His following smile sends me tumbling away.