Author's notes: I dislike drabbles, and I wish I would stop writing them. Logic dictates that I should flesh this out, fatten it up, give it a little more sustenance... but logic and I are not really on speaking terms, so there we are.
The title is from the Malice Mizer song of the same name.
I do not own Death Note. Death Note owns me.
I enjoy humans infinitely more than Shinigami. A human will never let me go hungry.
A Shinigami has other ways to kill—none so easy as the methos I provide them, but some that are variably more pleasurable. If they live on without me, I starve… not so much from the human names and lives, but from the lack of emotion the act provokes in the Shinigami, for whatever that's worth.
I am a function; it is theoretically the names that feed me and keep me from wear. But the names are not what I crave.
And oh, how I am fed to gluttony by this human, Yagami Light. Never has any being, human or otherwise, poured so much of themselves into my bloodied pages; he's a proverbial delicatessen, willingly surrendering almost all of himself to me. I crave the touch of his ink-blackened fingertips and the way his eyes linger on me… because the more of himself he loses, the stronger I become.
Every Death Note is a mere extension, a go-between for thousands of hands to submit the mighty Book of the Dead. I ponder Light's potential reaction to learning of the existence of this gargantuan tome, located here, of all places, in the human realm—would his mind shatter even further, upon touching it? Could a mind, as impressive as his, but still a human mind, have the capability to even look upon the book containing the name of every single human that has ever died?
The thought excites me. Though I'd prefer he lose himself in my pages, as he most surely will—the process will my far, satisfyingly, slower.
I suspect no human will ever realize how utterly blind they are: how much sits before them as they sleep unawares. A human cannot even truly see me, or feel my texture. Light cannot see the veins pulsing quietly in the blackened skin that is my cover; cannot feel my pulse quicken with delight as his pen touches my page. He hasn't noticed how much more robust I've become, how satisfyingly well-fed he has made me. Every name makes me stronger, and every name draws him a little deeper inside of me.
And I can see his mind and his soul, and see that there is not much left inside of him to drink. It's a little disappointing—for I know the chances are slim I will ever be this powerful again—but it excites me to think that soon I will taste his very core.
So continue playing your games, Yagami Light: kill human after human in the belief that you do it for your gain. I will make them die for you, in exchange for the melding of you to me until the loss of your Death Note causes you to visibly tear apart. Feed me well, and know that it pales in comparison to the day that I destroy you utterly.
Fill me up until I'm heavy with the weight of your black-red saturation of ink and blood. There's really only one name that I crave to sink into my pages.