Broken and Bleeding
B's POV. His thoughts before his little killing spree. One sided BBxL. Maybe OOC. Set before Another Note. Rated T. Oneshot.
Disclaimer: Characters owned by Tsugumi Ohba, Takeshi Obata and Nisiosin
Eyes the colour of hot coals looked back at him, boring into his soul. Or whatever B possessed in place of a soul. The mirror was cracked in several places from one to many violent rages, so rare before, now such a common occurrence, distorting his reflection into something far more horrifying than the original could ever hope to be. If it weren't for his eyes, he would look just like any other teenager. B was not just any other teenager. If what was on the inside reflected that on the outside, he would look like a murderer. Like the evil geniuses he saw in comics, or even the psychos in maximum security prisons. No one was going to freeze in terror at the sight of a gangly youth with too pale skin and messy black hair. Only his eyes told of his mentality, his obsession with death and all the things leading up to it.
He could find many other inadequacies in his appearance, his skinniness from eating nothing but jam was just one of them, but now was not the time. His gaze trailed up to a few inches above his head, to where his name hung tauntingly in bold gothic script. Beyond Birthday. A stupid name, but not one that was easily guessable. Or forgettable. Only his mother knew his true name, and she wasn't likely to spill anytime soon. At all in fact. B liked to think he had caused his mother's death, but in truth the most he could claim to was speeding up her end. A farther that got himself killed in a gang fight when he was two, and a crack addict mother who overdosed when he was seven.
His mother knew what he was. In some way had encouraged it - She could get her revenge on the world that had fucked her so badly through him. She had told him many times that the world was cruel and to survive you too had to be cruel. And cruelty was one of the few things B excelled in. This brutality, total disregard for human life and an obsession with cleanliness made him the perfect killer. He would never tire of the torture, the destruction. Of listening to their threats, their pleas, and their screams. Cleaning up after himself was tedious, but reading the police reports the next day, everyone of them empty of evidence, made the effort worth it. B would never be caught. He made sure of that.
For a short time after his mother's death he'd been shoved from one orphanage to another, all pitying glances and whispered words behind his back. As he grew up, watching the other children play make believe games full of princesses and dragons and superheroes, Beyond came to realize that everyone he met would die in one way or another, and it really didn't matter if it was now or later, agonizing or painless. Those walking lumps of meat were too far below him in the food chain to even bother thinking about.
Eventually even the witless adults began to see that B was different from the other kids and the whispers of "the poor kid, to have such an awful family" changed to "no wonder the mother killed herself, to have a son like that". A specialist was called in, and it was concluded after many hours of tests that B was smart. As in genius smart.B of course already knew this and scorned the adults at taking so long to realize his capability.
Upon transfer to a more fitting orphanage, named Whammy's, of all things, he became more and more withdrawn. Never a social child to begin with, he refused to go to classes (which were not even worth his time anyway) and ate only jam, which he had realised was the nicest food available that resembled blood. B loved blood. Not his own, he was no masochist, where's the fun in that? No, B loved the blood of others; loved to see them bleed, to make them bleed. Death was just an amusing end result. To see the life in someone's eyes fade the exact same time their numbers ran out. The real entertainment came from the blood, and the pain. The fat bitch that called herself a social worker would have had a heart attack knowing only half the things B did in his spare time.
The screams of his victims echoed in his head, young and old, male or female, it didn't matter to B, as long as they died slow painful deaths. With lots of blood. Those screams were a lullaby, and whenever he was feeling angry, or lonely, or just plain bored, he would replay some of his more gruesome killings, his near photographic memory providing all the details time and time again. Dismemberment was one of his favourite methods to end a person's life. Tearing them apart limb by limb as they screamed for mercy. He left all his victims broken and bleeding on the floor, never to think or move again. But memories soon got old, and he began to think of new ways to destroy more boring little lives. Only once had he ever met anyone he didn't instantly want to kill. He wanted L alright, but not dead. The precious detective was far more valuable to him alive. In some strange twisted kind of way, B needed L Lawliet. He was like a shadow, following L's every move, unable to exist without him.
Before he met L, he needed no one, and now the man was the only one B could turn to when he needed the company of another human being, which he did frequently. Of course, L didn't know who B was. To L, he was just another genius kid in an orphanage full of genius kids. L humoured B, agreed to see him on occasion, but that was all. B meant nothing at all to the great detective L. But B saw L Lawliet as a life line. L was everything B wasn't. Admired by many and feared by all, L was like a God. He was beautiful. This warped obsession B had felt since first setting eyes on the detective was his only link to sanity in the madness that clouded his thoughts, which made him see everything though a red tinged haze. If he let go of L he let go of any compassion and humanity he had left.
B had had enough of sanity. It was time to let the madness rule, to take over his mind completely, leaving nothing but cool, calm vengeance. B's one and only weakness was that he couldn't kill L, so instead he would destroy him. Rip his reputation to shreds, and rip himself to shreds in the process. L deserved everything he got for doing this to him. Making him feel when he had fought for so long to kill his emotions. Making him weak. L deserved to be ruined, but Beyond deserved to die. He was the one who had failed, after all. He'd failed L and he'd failed himself. There was no room for humanity in a perfect killer, and the world could do without someone like Beyond Birthday.
Just below those curving letters above his head was a blank space where his death date should have been. If he concentrated hard enough on that space, he could almost see the numbers counting down the seconds. Almost. He looked away from himself and gazed at the room that had been his home for the past four years. B felt nothing for the white walls and plain furniture that didn't even belong to him, but to L of all people. His eyes fell on the door, or more specifically the lock on the door, and an idea slowly formed in the more aware part of his brain. It was not a new idea, it had slipped away and reappeared several times throughout the day and night, but now he had it in his grasp and he wasn't about to let go.
He was going to show L that he wouldn't let these stupid feelings get in the way of the bloody game he had made of killing. When his plan was finished, L would know exactly who he was, and he would be kicking himself for not working it out sooner. B would finally give in to the monster that had been with him since he was a child, to the sweet feeling of oblivion, and he wouldn't be alive long enough to face the consequences. Perfect. B laughed for the first time in his short life, a sound that would have chilled the bones of the most fearless of people. The laugh of a Shinigami.
A/N my first fic! AND I FAILED. things can only get better, ne? please review .