Ventricular Bigeminy
(A plot I wrote following these drawings, think the timeline would be sometime in February, 2010.)
Near’s sudden cardiac episode was diagnosed as ventricular bigeminy. With no congenital history, the doctors proposed it was a sudden crisis brought on by extreme overwork or emotional distress. When an episode hit, the heart stole an extra beat, followed immediately by a sudden, hollow pause. As if two people's heartbeats were forced into the same cramped room, pumping frantically until they both collapsed from exhaustion. His chest was simply too narrow to contain the crushing weight of it.
Another palpitation.
Near was lying in the hospital bed, the room tilted into a dizzy haze. Yet, drifting through the pain, his mind began to spin with strange thoughts—he found a twisted comfort in the ache. A punitive reward. The price he, as a survivor, ought to bear.
Near did not believe in God. He wasn’t an atheist initially—having looked a Shinigami in the eye, the supernatural was no longer a matter of surprise. Nonetheless, he refused the concept of a saviour. If one existed, the mechanics of this world would be far too grotesque to justify. “Perhaps these gods actually want a blood-soaked world of betrayal and false accusations.” Mello had written something to that effect in the Los Angeles BB Murder Cases. After everything, did Mello still look upward? Near knew Mello had possessed a kind of faith. But the end happened absurdly soon; he was left no time to make peace, never a chance to ask what, exactly, Mello was whispering to in the dark.
Till this very moment. As Near lay there, knowing Mello would forever be more still than him, and it was finally clear where Mello was located, a wish arose. Near wished for a God. An Almighty to reach down, retrieve Mello’s soul, and grant him true, quiet rest.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Another violent stutter in his chest. Near furrowed his brows, sensing a sudden, involuntary wetness gathering at the edges of his eyes. The pain was no longer a concept to be understood. It was real, and it was happening to him.
“What matters to me is L.” He could hear Mello reciting that line from his book. The phantom voice dragged Near violently awake.
He wasn't just Near. He was L. He had been L all along. The original L had meant the world to Mello, and Near was the one who had snatched that lifelong dream right out of his hands. So, he had to fulfil the duty. He had to be an L who wouldn't disappoint Mello, an L who wouldn't disgrace the ghost of the first. It didn't matter how apathetic he used to be about the title. Even the idea of inheritance was the least of his interests. He never asked for any of this, but he needs to carry on. He could not afford to fail now. He absolutely would not fail.
The private ward was drenched in blue. Blue to keep you calm, to enforce a fictional peace. The sunlight outside the window was glaring, yet all he could think of was the grey, rainy days in England. In a few days, a memorial for the Kira victims would happen in Wammy’s private chapel. As L, for the sake of privacy and safety, it would be cautious to show no presence, to stay as a ghost.
Near wouldn’t be there.
So he only hoped it would rain.
Quietness, nothing and nobody around the ward. Near pulled himself upright. He gathered the scattered handful of pills from the bedside table, shoved them into his mouth, and took a heavy gulp of water to force them down. The water dragged the jagged, chalky shapes tumbling down his throat. They scratched and clogged his oesophagus on the descent. A brutal, choking swallow. But it didn't matter. They needed to reach his stomach. They needed to dissolve and work.
It is Near’s vocation to recover, to continue, to take on L’s next case.
