Boys Don't Cry

Independent Investigation Part 2

[TRIGGER WARNING! Talks in detail about... Well, I said trigger warning. I don't mean to give it away, but you know your limits. If you want details or to talk about the content of this chapter after you've read it, don't hesitate to inbox me.]

Why did it always get so dark?

L sat on the middle of his bed, facing the foot of it with the ceiling light turned on. The furniture basked in the warm and plentiful light oozing around like cough syrup.

That's right: chemicals. Specifically, inorganic compounds, unless one actually did have a carbon in it somewhere. Chemistry wasn't his favorite subject.

Maybe the groundskeeper kept Paraquat. That sounded surprisingly matter-of-fact in the confines of his head. Suffocating on fibers growing, growing, until ARDS sets in, and it would take mere hours after that. It's happened before: your lungs filling up is a tolerable pain. He could be gone by daybreak, and if not, no one comes to wake him up. So, if he wouldn't panic, and wouldn't be disturbed, everything would end up fine.

Bleach just wouldn't be the same. He'd have to drink a substantial amount of it, and he'd probably vomit from the taste- and various tissues and blood would come up with it. Messy. The result? Possibly non-fatal mass internal bleeding, and a ruined upper GI track. Too survivable.

Setting a fire was out of the question. The best option would probably be the Paraquat. To the layman, it wouldn't look like a suic-

He perked up and looked around as if someone else had said it.

Suicide.

Yes. He realized he wanted to kill himself then.

Mind on autopilot, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and over the extra quilts laid in specific layers over the duvet. The old bedframe squealed in disapproval, and sent a spasm up his spine from his knee.

Pulling a necktie from the chest of drawers, he looked up into the mirror. In the light, the mirror told him everything.

His skin was a shade so pale and blanched that it would be gaudy to wear before springtime. The dark stains of his eyes wouldn't make it suitable to marry in. Arms and collarbones stood prominently against his square, skeletal shoulders. Lifting up his shirt, he looked at his body and felt intensely uncomfortable: this isn't what those videotapes and the books said puberty would be. Even then, it still made him uncomfortable to think about it. Nursey says he's nearing the end of the growth (that came intermittently, and always at the worst possible time); his voice had changed, other things followed...

It nearly passed his lips, "I look sick."

Truthfully, he did, but he knew he was in perfect health.

Wrapping the tie around itself in a vain attempt to do any kind of knot, he felt how soft the fabric was. It was one of Watari's before he gave it to L.

Which brought upon the fact that he wasn't here today. L sat alone. He confirmed to himself that he didn't want to talk when he was...sitting, but he never expressed he wanted to be alone. He didn't get a bath tonight, or dinner, or a snack... Mr. Wammy wasn't here to do whatever needed to be done. It seemed to be a fine rule to say nothing and stay out of the way. It was very boring without anything to do.

Feeling disgusted by the veins of his arm, he cut the light off and sat down again, rocking himself as the bed made tiny creaks to whisper their thoughts. Until, naturally, he went on autopilot again and threw open the window. It accommodated a person to stand on the ledge, and he did, looking at the concrete stairwell leading out from the basement labs. If he jumped, he'd die crumpled up in a heap on them.