Strange Bedfellows
Afternoon found Light in his usual pose, stretched out atop his bunk with a mediocre book propped against his knee. In the early days of his incarceration, he'd dreamed up daring ways to pass his sentence--writing novels, pursuing higher degrees, trying for the Millennium Prize--but prison bureaucracy had quashed nearly all of them, and futility the rest. Now, eight years in, he spent most of his time asleep or reading, leaving his bed only to retrieve his meals, use the toilet, or laugh out loud at his chirpy social worker's periodic reassurances that, if his behavior remained exemplary and his notoriety continued to wane, he might be able to leave protective solitary in ten to fifteen years.
In ten to fifteen years, there won't be a me left to leave. In ten to fifteen years, I'll be insane.
Distinctive, shuffling footsteps echoed down the hall, and Light's head snapped up instantly. Near? Though the young detective visited him periodically, it always surprised Light when he came. Rousing himself, he sat up straight and smoothed down his mussed hair before bending over his book anew, his face a mask of disdain.