The letter is written on several informal scraps of notebook paper. The frilly edges have been methodically shed -- When Beyond had originally finished the first copy of this letter, he had forgotten to rip those annoying bits off; as he went to, a tear had formed in the margins causing him to copy the pages over onto papers he tore the edges from before writing. For as casual as the envelop & parchments seemed to be, the calligraphy displayed between the lines was a stark contrast, yet an imperative clue as to who the author was, exactly.
Not the man with insanity behind his eyes, nor the one who skittered across the floor like an animal -- That man would have awful penmanship & anyone who received a letter from Rue Ryuzaki would expect illegibility. But this was not a letter from the unprivate detective. These words belonged to Beyond Birthday; a distinction with more declarative boundaries than the faint, thin blue notebook lines.
You must think yourself incredibly clever for your testimony. I hope it was satisfying at least, getting to call Ryuzaki all those horrific names, getting to explore the vastness of your derogatory lexicon to call forth exactly what feelings he elicited in you; yet among none of them did you name fear. I found that incredibly interesting ... Didn’t you, as well? Looking back on it all, were you not very afraid to have realized who had been working aside you all that time?
No, of course not -- & I assure you, you shouldn’t have if you did. In truth I’m not a very violent man which may have you surprised. I never did intend to harm you, the least unjustly. Yet about that time you attacked me in the alleyway, I can hear you counter. Yes, well, for reasons I can’t divulge this early in my narrative, I knew no harm would come to you & as I said, I never intended it to.
But I’ve forgotten -- A year has passed now, just about, & you most likely do not dwell on these details as I do. You, along with my predecessor, have most likely forgotten the key-points, the justification, the meaning, the action, the brazen ardor of it all. It eats at me, I’ll have you know. I’ve been consumed by many things in this relatively short life of mine -- Fire being the least painful of it all.
But you don’t care about any of it, of course; why would you? I’m just another criminal you’ve put away, yes? So, why is it I write to you ...
Well, mostly because my dear friend, L, hasn’t returned any of my calls to his private line which leaves only you as the remaining attestor to my most recent ruination. Though even if that brilliant detective did indulge me with a response, his knowledge would not compare to yours, I think. You were there &, as with many things in life, there is only so much frequent monotonous check-ins & a clinical FBI report can convey. You would agree, I’d imagine, with the fact that there exists something between us that lacks definition -- yet most importantly it lacks witness.
What shall we call this, Naomi? Even if you are so predictably unwilling to admit its presence, especially in the quiet ambiance of your own mind, you are aware of it in a way I wish I had been aware of you.
You had undone me, which is quite the victory. You & I have succeeded where our darling detective did not. That is something to revel in, isn’t it? But you’re too kindhearted of a soul to imagine a world where you could be proud of something that involved the harm of others, isn’t that true? You put the world’s best criminal away when the world’s best detective could not & yet you haven’t celebrated that fact because three people died -- & to you, that is failure.
Do you see what I mean, Naomi, when I say there exists something between us? Aside from all those ghastly words you used to describe me, there are other, more pleasant things you could say which would have been inadmissible in a court of law.
Even though their blood was on my hands, as you see it, you enjoyed it -- The case. You had fun, Naomi, with me; solving the clues I left behind, catching such a crafty killer. I will celebrate it all enough for the both of us, this intangible thing, your victory. I am not a sore loser, as you can see. At least not when I have justly lost to someone I can stand.
But enough scene setting for this part, yes? You see, I’m privy to the fact that your eyes will glaze over while reading this. My words will be discarded in a junk drawer somewhere -- You won’t throw these papers in the trash, but they’ll lack significance. I’m counting on that, in a way; your lack of response, your lack of reply. Despite the thing between us you will remain distant & uncaring, as is your way & valid right. I won’t strive for more than perhaps the chance at self justification -- If that is what I’m truly after here. A priest could ask me to confess why I’ve channeled my energy into this pursuit & even if I did fear God I’d have no answer for him. So let’s go with the pretty statement; I only wish to explain myself to someone who will read these words without attachment.
If I start at the beginning, however, none of this will make sense. A funny fact but I can imagine you understand why someone like me cannot tell stories linearly. Instead I’ll tell you first about someone you most likely, & justifiably, have a library of questions for.
I won’t feign intimacy where there isn’t -- You can trust every word on these papers & each page that follows. Only in my young adulthood can I now look back on my childhood & adolescence with the realization that my delusions created intimacy where there could never have been. To be intimate on any level with a soul like his was a privilege I only came so close to. I’m sure in the same way you will never admit to such a thing, neither would he; but all the same, something more intense did exist between him & I.
L had been just a boy at one time; a concept you’ll have difficulty grasping, I’m sure. He had always been brilliant, of course, but a boy nonetheless.
He was nine years old when I first met him. He’s two years my senior -- Does that surprise you, as well? Did you expect him to be older? He’s only twenty-three right now. His birthday is at the end of this month.
I’m sure your mind is reeling with the details you’ve just learned -- Or perhaps the realization that I know these details. I knew him, once. What feels like an eternity ago, though that sounds a bit too dramatic for my taste. We grew up together, so to say, in that house I keep blathering on about. No one believes such a place exists, where gifted children are everything but kidnapped into a lifestyle so dreadful, it drove the first boy taken into this home to suicide & the second to kill others. But again, you don’t care about that yet.
L likes his coffee strong -- Brewed with an extra scoop if he’s having instant. He never counts the sugar cubes he places in the brew but he always takes a sip once beforehand; the immediate regret is always visible yet he does it anyway. Every time. The highest number of cubes I ever observed him dropping in was eighteen. He often sits with his knees clung to his chest; only when he’s in private company do his arms actually wrap around the frail bones. When he is intrigued or thinking, he will lean forward in such a way that lifts his bottom from the chair; his toes will clutch the edge of whatever he is sitting on & his thumb will compulsively migrate between his lips. The nails on every other hand are neglected & often overgrown, but his right thumbnail is cracked & abused; even when he tastes blood, he will not stop.
The sugar in his coffee isn’t the only sweet he craves. His -- Our adoptive father prepares & orders a vast amount of treats to curb his cravings. Despite it, he’s never gained a pound of fat in his life. He boasts frequently that it is because he uses his brain so much, but he & I both know it is because we play tennis together regularly on the makeshift court in the parking lot outside the home. Briefly, he played competitively. If you search thoroughly his alias, Hideki Ryuga, you will see that he was the UK national champion at one point.
I’ve deviated from what I aimed to convey in my nostalgia, however I’ll leave those last words in. I wanted you to conclude something -- Did you see what I was leading you towards, Naomi? Any similarities to someone, perhaps?
I will write again soon, though I’m sure that is negligible to you.
——— B.
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