chilichoc | Violence, religion, injustice, and death

*The fact that she could smell the rain before she opened the door should've tipped her off that this wasn't really the room with the Wammy's House grounds, but she's already taken the first step in.*

No, no, fuck no.

*She's done this before, more times than she's admitted to anyone, mostly in that awful more-than-a-week when Mail was missing.

She's in the truck; she knows the Nagano street sign by heart. She can't keep herself from feeling desperately lost and alone, can't keep her eyes from flicking to the television screen in the cab, where the car is just a red blur, and she can't make sense of the broadcaster's voice. She could count it down, almost, from the time the wheels leave the pavement. Ten, nine, eight. It's not real, Mihaela, it's just a room. Seven, six, five. You still have your ring, nothing can really break the spell. Four, three, two. The vise about to clamp down on her heart, and the part of her that's in the moment wants it. One. One hand on her rosary, one curled tight around the ring; everything goes black, and she doesn't feel her head hit the steering wheel.*

[[private to

curtainwizard]]

Threaded | Flat

[Stepping back into his bedroom, sketchbook in hand, Light sees Mel, for just a second, and he begins to stare, to step back - except then he's a lot healthier and saner-looking, immaculately dressed, and somehow, a lot more loathsome to look upon. Light has lost, and it shows: it's killing him, bleaching him out of existence. What the room's turned him back into is Kira at the height of his power, and a hair from losing it all, and prepared to do anything, anything at all, to win.

* * *

http://curtainwizard.livejournal.com/15031.html

Light's eyes are so wide, now, that they might just fall out of his head. They're swollen, red: they'd sting, if he was paying attention. His thoughts aren't tangled, tangled doesn't begin to describe it: they're crashing into each other, leaking, incontinent like the holes shredded through his stomach and shoulder, like the ruin of his writing hand. Frenzied. Somewhere he registers them watching him, as if his writhing is his last performance, an entertainment - Matsuda clambering to his feet, broken and grieving, Near inscrutable as always - but it doesn't signify. There's only one thing that matters—

—and it's about to be gone. Forever. I'm going to die in a few more seconds! No, I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't want to die—

It's all he can think: his one desire. Nothing else matters. He doesn't care if he spends his life in jail, any longer - whether he wins or loses - just as long as he lives. And he remembers Ryuk's veiled threat - don't think that any human who's used the notebook can go to heaven or hell - how he'd seen the truth, countered the threat. How he'd been so pleased with himself for being the only one who knew that little secret, the one so many would die to know. That he'd spotted the clumsy attempts at flattery. Death is equal.

Feeling his life tick down, second by second, long beyond control, beyond arguments or rationality, beyond madness, now - it all bursts out into a scream, piercing, echoing off the ceiling, as Light pleads for the one thing anyone truly wants. "I don't want to die! I don't want to go!"

Then something else hits him - it's like a fist hitting his breastbone, or a sledgehammer. He falls to the floor: his skull cracks sharply against the concrete, but he doesn't notice. His whole body rocks and shakes. Crushing, paralysing pressure, now, all through his chest, down his left arm: things bouncing against each other inside him, things that shouldn't be moving that way at all. The thready pulse in his bullet wounds trails off to a flicker: the burning, starved pain spreading right through his body as what blood is left sloshes to a halt...

... and it's all so clear, suddenly: all of it spread out behind him. All of it pointless.

Worthless. Wasted.

For nothing.

He whispers to himself, shivering, shaking, trembling. "S-shit."

Then he's gone.

The illusion shimmers away from him, leaving him himself again, thin and faded and broken - but still dead on the floor, staring with dark-eyed horror at something only he can see.]

no subject