This fic revolves around a single theory: a parallel universe. I wanted to try incorporating that into a fanfic, and it just kind of erupted into my mind until I had to write it.

A few things you should know before we dive into this acid trip of a fic.

A parallel universe is the idea that there are more existances than the one that we know and live in. There can be many different versions of yourself throughout these parallel universes…thus spawning this rather trippy idea for a story. I also wanted to try out some darker alter egos for our dear Death Note cast…including L, whom I'm very giddy to write. ::hearts::

I just hope I can pull it off.

The pairings are…um. Quite a few. LxMisa, RaitoxMisa, MelloxMatt, Nearx…someone.

The rating of this fic will change in time from T to M for lemony goodness. Hope you don't mind.

Ahem. So without further ado, here is Paramnesia.

I don't own Death Note.

…

Paramnesia: a distortion of memory in which fact and fancy are confused.

…

1

Rain. It is an indigo sheet over the village, washing away the grime from the rooves, the eroded siding of the rows of homes, the very soil that a young blonde child's feet sink into.

He wears no shirt, having disposed of the threadbare article by his toes in a pocket of mud, and his eyes are narrowed up at the angry sky, dark with the mounting storm. He once heard one of the townsfolk say that his eyes are like the rain; cold, heavy, just a few degrees above ice.

Something is wrong. Mihael Keehl knows this, perhaps better than anyone in the entire village. Deep within his mind, there is something curling, white-hot, the cogs of his brain twirling and rotating until he feels his knees give out from the strain. Skin hits soaked earth, yet his eyes remain fixed upwards.

The execution…

The rain falls harder. It is almost painful upon his bare flesh, but Mihael bites upon his bottom lip and stares it down, challenging it, prepared to fight. He is twelve-years-old; he is too old to feel pain in this village.

They can't…no, they wouldn't…

But the siren is sounded only three seconds following his thought. They can, and they will, and Mihael Keehl digs his nails into the soil beneath his knees, closes his eyes, stiffens his spine.

And screams.

…

"Damn…do you think we'll get a tornado or something?"

Matt has to shout over the noise of the storm swirling beyond the bedroom's open window. It is not entirely the rain that overpowers his voice; the radio is blaring atop the nightstand, spitting out a song neither Matt nor Mello have heard before. Nevertheless, Matt nods his head in time to the drums, his hair wet from the downfall crawling through the window.

Mello grunts in reponse, resting his chin on his fist. "You're an idiot," he mutters. "Tornadoes don't hit England, stupid."

"You sure?" Matt points out the window, up at the swelling sky, and looks at Mello with wide green eyes. "It sure as hell looks like it. Maybe it'll be a hurricane!"

Mello serves his friend a light wallop to the back of his auburn head. "It's just a storm. Now chill out, will you? Roger would have made an annoucement by now if it was anything ser-" He cuts his sentence off when he sees Matt hop up onto the windowsill, a silly grin on his face. "What the hell are you doing?" he orders.

"Come on!" Matt waves his arm to beckon Mello to join him before he peers his head outside, glances down at the crown of roof below, and steps out onto it, holding onto the windowpane. "You coming? Same way we sneak out all the time, you know? Out on the roof, down the little slope thingy-"

"I know what you're talking about, moron," Mello snaps before he grabs the hood of his jacket, pulling it over his blonde hair. "Let's go."

He is uncertain as to why Matt is so determined to greet this storm in particular, but he knows better than to chicken out on his best friend, of all people. Mello grimaces at the idea of the mockery he would be served if he chose to stay dry inside instead of trekking out, bending the rules, the things that he and his comrade have grown so skilled at, and he steps out onto the roof close behind the redhead.

The downpour sears upon his shoulders, the material of his jacket soaking through almost immediately, and the impact of the heavy droplets is on the verge of bringing pain, but Mello narrows his crystal eyes and walks along the roof carefully. Twelve-year-olds, especially those of Mello's caliber, know better than to admit weakness.

They orphans make their way to the generous slope in the roof that will bring them a safe distance from the ground, and Mello follows Matt in leaping down, landing roughly on his feet. He hears Matt curse beneath his breath when his ankle twists awkwardly upon his jump and furrows his fair brows. "You alright?"

Matt jerks his head up to look at him, chuckling oddly. He gives Mello a flamboyant thumbs-up and regains his footing, his hair dripping into his eyes. "You know better than to ask me that, Mel," the boy quips.

Even though his companion looks like a fool standing beneath the violent rainfall, his darkened hair completely shielding his forehead and eyes, thumb still pinned up in the air, Mello cracks a smile and gives him a shove on the arm. "Yeah, don't get too bigheaded about it. Now why the hell did you bring me out here?"

Matt looks momentarily outraged. "What do you mean 'why'?" He throws his hands up to the scowling sky with majesty. "Look at it! Do you know how often the sky looks like that?" He looks to Mello expectantly, whom stands nearby, bored. "This isn't a normal storm, Mel! This is…this is-"

"What, Matt?" Mello jeers. "Magic?"

Matt's eyes brighten, as if Mello has struck the correct note in their debate, but Mello cackles and shakes his head. "It's a storm. Big deal. The weather channel said we were going to get one today anyway." He turns his back to Matt, crossing his arms bitterly. "And the sky only looks like that because of the-"

His words are cut off as swiftly as the air shifts around his person. He freezes, rooted to the ground, the oxygen in his lungs stopping short as he tries to inhale.

Wh-what's happening…?

Knees giving out beneath him, Mello falls to the sopping ground, his eyes wired straight ahead, outwards to the endless fields stretching out beyond Wammy's gates.

All he sees is rain. Rain so heavy and so threatening that it could be lethal.

He faintly hears Matt frantically speaking to him through the rushing in his ears, but he cannot respond. Mello reaches down to the soil to support himself from falling, his nails digging into the mud.

I…

What is happening to him? Vertigo, déjà vu, sheer insanity, he does not know…this all feels too familiar, but it spans out past his understanding to a much more distant place, one that he finds himself both terrified and breathless at.

Mello cannot recall feeling fear in such a raw, stripped form in all of his twelve years. There is anger laced somewhere in the rush, but the fear overrides all cognizant thought. He buries his nails deeper into the soil, squeezing his eyes shut, battling against the overwhelming surge in his bloodstream.

And just like that, it is all over.

Mello's eyes snap open, surveying his surroundings in a panicked flurry. He sees that Matt is gaping down at him, the rain fanning out around his form in a white mist. "What the hell was…?" he breathes out, reaching down to help Mello up. Mello, however, irritably smacks his hand away, humiliated at his own loss of control. "I'm fine," he barks, getting back upon his feet. "And I'm going back inside, whether you like it or not."

"But, Mel-"

Mello whips around violently, fists trembling. "You tell anyone about that and I swear I'll-"

"Ok," Matt says quickly. "I won't."

His voice is tight, shaky, but Mello ignores it and turns sharply on his heel in search of the nearest door. He clenched his waterlogged fists, his mind desperately trying to settle itself from the tide it had been swept under, but he stopped in his tracks and took a slow look over his shoulder at where he had been struck by seemingly nothing.

What just happened back there…?

…

The execution had been scheduled for a week later before the evidence was collected in a swift rush.

The prisoner, a young woman with golden hair falling like satin down her shoulders, is led to the front of the execution ceremony. Her crime is kept entirely secret from the common folk of the village, but in the front of the audience, arms crossed over his chest, Yagami Raito knows.

Fiona Keehl, the filthiest prostitute in the entire town. Raito looks upon the woman with disgust as she clears her throat, raises shaking fingers to the ribbon around her neck. She unties it, gently floating to the ground of the platform.

The audience is growing impatient by now. They squirm around in the confined space, an excited buzz suspended over their heads, as the striking young woman bows her head, preparing to speak. "M-my fellow p-people…I wish to atone for the s-sins that have corrupt our village, as well as m-my own body and-"

"Just off her already!" someone shouts from within the quivering crowd. Raito turns his head slightly to look at the townsfolk around him, observing the manner in which the others rally the woman on to speed up her final speech. He looks back up at Fiona Keehl, soon to be lifeless upon the ground with a smooth glide of the blade held by the Master of Ceremonies, standing stiffly by her right.

Fiona squeezes her eyes shut and opens her mouth to speak again. "A-as well as my own body and spirit. I wish to apologize to those I have offended, as well as to the god I have b-betrayed, and I-"

The execution is carried out so suddenly that even Raito is taken back. The blade has been swung, the woman's head lobbed off effortlessly, and the wobbling body collapses to the ground, a grand finale to its worthless life.

Even still, Raito cannot help but feel a twitch of a smile as the village erupts in cheers.

…

So I hope you get what I'm aiming for. Lol.

All feedback is appreciated! It really keeps me going.