First submitted fanfic ever. Wooo.
And yes, I've read the conclusion of Death Note, and I know it says that Kira's death was not publicized (or was it just not highly publicized? I didn't read a particularly great translation). So, I know this is a slight plot-deviation, but. Uhm. Yeah.
If anyone enjoys this...I have more mindless angst on the subject of both Sayu and her mother. I don't know why I find them so terribly intriguing...
Anyway. Tell me what you think. Please?
S t r e t c h e d W i d e.
Yagami Sayu remembers when she was small. She was tiny, even. She was bite-sized and was nice to look at, but was not enough to satisfy anyone's taste. She was something to be endured, and she wanted nothing more than to grow and become big so that her voice would be loud enough for someone to hear. Anyone.
Now she looks at herself and notes that she's wider in a way that has nothing to do with weight: she's her thinner than she's ever been and the doctor warns her mother that this isn't healthy. That she isn't healthy. The planes of her face have pulled; not enough skin stretched over too much bone.
She remembers when she was just the right size, when the porridge was just the right temperature, when she was dainty but mature and every man wanted her. She remembers believing that she was invincible, that she'd be that way forever, and that someone, anyone, everyone, would always see her and love her and want her to love them.
Now she knows that she can't be stretched much further before she breaks. Because she's not really broken, not yet. If her voice had not been drawn out so far, she would tell them this. She would yell at them and tell them to stop trying to fix her.
Because Sayu isn't bite-size anymore, and no one is willing to take on this much. She's stretched too far, pulled too thin, and she will never suit anyone's taste ever again.
And then the news broadcast comes on and something inside her falls away. She feels the seams tear away and the walls fall out and then suddenly she doesn't feel anything anymore. It's all delicious relief. Somewhere far away she hears her mother turn off the television, but she doesn't protest. She hasn't done that in a while, and now she doesn't even feel like she should.
She recognizes the wear and tear on her mother's face and distantly marvels that it's taken her this long to break. Her mother fusses over her and fills the wide space between them with frivolous words. Before, she would have been annoyed, would have wanted to tell her that her goddamn son was dead, his broken body splayed across the world's television screens, his hands smeared with his blood and the blood of innumerable others. But now, she smiles. Wide.