Those Forgotten Dreams
Summary: Light can't remember his dreams anymore, not even his worst nightmares; that does not mean he doesn't have them. In his dreaming Light searches his soul for what he has forgotten, and he finds more than he bargained for. Slash. Light/Kira.
Warning: Contains mild slash, blood, symbolism.
Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note or any of its characters, and I am not making a profit off of this story.
In case there is any confusion, "He" almost always refers to Light.
"Channels in the mind are blocked during the day. Lie down in blackness of night and forgotten remnants rush to the mind, or, creeping slowly, appear in the dreams."
-Nathaniel LeTonnerre, translated
Light can't remember his dreams anymore.
Then again, he can't remember a lot of things lately; important things, like exactly why he had volunteered himself to be put in solitary confinement, or why he had thought that he, of all people, might be Kira.
Him, a murderer?
Time and time again he wonders, sitting in his small, lonely cell, what had been running through his head at the time, but he can never quite recall his reasoning. His memory of the past few months is peppered with holes: blank periods, both large and small, for which he can find no explanation.
He knows it is natural to eventually forget the particulars of any one day, and to have the details of past events blur with age, but to forget the happenings of entire afternoons, or even days at a time? He is worried that these long weeks of relative isolation may be affecting his mind.
But he does not voice his concerns, not to anyone. They would only reinforce Ryuuzaki's suspicions, and he does not wish to prolong his confinement. So he swallows the words before they can be born, stones in his stomach, and the silence digs into his shoulder blades with the weight of restless wings. He has not heard music for weeks.
Here, alone in a tiny cell where his only companion is the black, beady lens of a camera, time loses its constancy, and gains a staggering weight. Freed from its confining measurement, it teases him, dragging at him, disorienting him. When he sleeps, he cannot tell for how long, or what time of day it is that he awakens to. The light never dims. The aches never fade. The glassy mechanical eye never blinks.
He is so bored. It eats him from the inside out, like an itchy rash that he cannot scratch. Even now the ennui is chewing up his brain and nibbling delicately along the edges of his sanity.
Soon it will consume his entire mind.
At first he had been able to escape into his dreams, in which he was lucid more often than not. He had been able to read, to play tennis, to fly wherever he wished inside the endless horizons of his dreaming.
But lately his slumber holds for him only a deep void of oblivion, from which he can recall nothing. Sometimes he wakes screaming and sticky with sweat, mouth sour with terror, and yet he cannot recall even his most horrible nightmares. Madness' great maw unfolds underneath him, and he is falling and falling and soon he shall be swallowed whole.
The lights above him are waning now, signaling the beginning of his artificial night. Pushing himself up onto the meager cot, Light arranges himself in the most comfortable position that he can.
As darkness blankets him and his dreaming begins to numb his thoughts and tug him down, Light silently wishes upon the stars he cannot see.
He wishes to remember.
_____________*______________
He is currently standing in a room, an atrium opening into a vast mansion. He knows it is a mansion, and knows its exterior, without having to look. He can even see it, in one corner of his comprehension, as if an immaterial third eye is floating in front of the house, watching it for him.
The mansion's façade is beautiful, its marble walls gleaming white as polished bone under the sun. Its countless windows are all veiled with curtains whose shimmering fabric reflects the sunlight and scatters it in sprays of diamonds across the landscape. The house rises statuesque over a stretch of gardens, neat orderly rows of rare, majestic blooms whose scent rises in the warm air and cradles the mind in a gentle haze of pleasure. The trees bow with their offerings of golden fruit, and everywhere there is light. There are even mirrors in the hedge maze, and ponds wreathed in yellow flowers.
The atrium inside the house, where he stands, is large as a ballroom. A chandelier dangles high above the polished floor, poised and lovely as a ballerina on tiptoe, wreathed in crystals that, like icicles, seem to be waiting to fall. The walls are peppered with doors of all sizes and makes, some open and some closed. Small flecks of light flit back and forth between the doors like fireflies or silverfish, weaving around each other so fire-bright and quick that their trails are burned into the eye. He watches the lights fly and spin for a moment, but soon tires of it, and begins to explore.
He navigates the winding halls with the guidance of some long-forgotten instinct, memory unfolding like an intricate map. He traverses corridors carpeted in golden thread and peers through the many doors. The rooms beyond them are all wondrous, all exciting.
There is a massive library piled high with rare books, of all sizes and qualities, lined neatly on shelves that rise up for a hundred feet. Another room is a courthouse as large as a cathedral, which has a shrine at the judge's seat, rainbow-hued stained glass windows and stone gargoyles crouching in every corner. There is a vacant classroom that echoes with the chatter of invisible students, an office whose walls are lined with shining silver filing cabinets and white-rimmed calendars, and a small closet filled with shelves that display hundreds of elegant nōh masks. The doors open and unfurl like the petals of a magnificent flower, revealing marvels each more beautiful than the next.
But soon He is again bored, and begins to make his way deeper. Slowly, the hallways grow darker, and the lilies carved into the wall sconces are replaced by razor-edged daffodils, and the carpet runs like a great black river underfoot. From somewhere comes the sound of running water and the ticking of a clock; Echoing, echoing, echoing through the void…
The rooms here are just as neatly organized as before, but in contrast are cold and unwelcoming. He walks down these hallways and peers into the shadowed doorways, but does not enter them. For some reason, he knows better. His instincts steer him away, though his curiosity urges him to peek inside.
One room is a laboratory that smells strongly of disinfectant, in which a thousand caged mice, all albinos, squeal and chitter in distress. The only color within the chemical whiteness of the room comes from their red pinprick eyes. Some of the mice are covered with boils, or rashes, or their own bile, or are twitching in uncontrollable seizures. Some of them are dead, and their rotting corpses are slowly picked apart by their fellows.
The next room opens to a large theatre in which a single silver spotlight is the only illumination. The thin, shining beam rests on a statue, a little boy carved out of granite, that stands, unmoving, at center stage. The rest of the theatre is dark and silent, and the air in the shadows is cold enough to burn.
One door opens to a great black abyss, across which is spun an enormous spider's web, sticky and white and vast, stretching off into the darkness. He can smell the pungent, sickly-sweet odor of rotten fruit-- it could be apples, or maybe pomegranates. Simply inhaling it prompts salty, bitter bile to rise in his throat. From an unknown distance whispers the strains of some beguiling melody, sweet and lilting, that tempts, tantalizes; beckons the listener to travel to its source. The strains of this siren melody are equal parts warning and wonder; it is the wandering tune of a willow-the-wisp in the bog.
He shuts the door tight against the smell and the song, and moves on.
After a measure of time, he realizes that he is searching for something. He does not know what he is searching for, only that something is missing; a terribly big, important something. There should be more rooms, maybe more hallways; but all he sees are abnormally blank stretches of wall. Time passes fluidly as he wanders, searching, sometimes heavy and slow, and sometimes a quick and inescapable current on which he floats, as insignificant and helpless as a lone dandelion seed.
And at the end of the darkest hallway, pitched in shadow as deep and consuming as ocean-bottom is a final door, which would be otherwise unobtrusive if it were not barred in six different places and locked with a great iron padlock that hangs as heavy as regret.
He is intrigued by this door the most, even more so than those filled with marvels and curtained in sunshine. For, out of all the doors he had seen, some had been open and some closed, but none of them had been barred. He wants to go beyond this door the most. After all, that which is forbidden has always been the most fascinating, all the more with the potential of danger.
No, he cannot back down now, not when the ripe, pungent scent of truth fills his nose.
He approaches the portal to examine the padlock, but stumbles back when--upon contact--a jolt of energy runs up his arm, sharp as lighting and fizzing, like champagne up the nose. Bells of warning ring in his head, but he will not allow himself to swim back to the safety of the shoreline, not when there is mystery deep at the ocean's floor. He wants to dive into those dark waters, he needs that knowledge; he craves it. He pries at the bars, he rattles the chains of the lock, he searches for a key in the darkness, but nothing works.
He stands and ponders the challenge for an immeasurable period of time, and in that while develops a slow feeling of lucidity, and of power. His instincts guide his will with gentle fingers. In his third eye, now floating invisibly behind him, he conjures up the image of another door, unbarred and open, standing next to the first. He concentrates on this, and nothing else.
Though at first blurred and unclear, his imagined-door begins to cement itself in his mind, and with a push of his will it comes into existence. At first the change is abrupt, like a stone thrown into a still pond, but slowly the ripples die away and reality becomes smooth again. His door is there. He gives a quiet smile at his own cleverness. He hears a slow, shallow chuckle that oozes like oil or silk, but cannot tell if it echoes from through the lipless portal, or from his own throat.
He enters.
The corridor is bright, painfully bright. He blinks a little to adjust his eyes, and glances around.
The hall is carpeted in a deep sanguine red, with the walls arching up over it like a ribcage. The walls and ceiling are black as a midnight grave, and so polished that they function as mirrors. He can see himself reflected in a thousand identical hallways on either side. The dusky scent of incense and the thick perfume of wine waft from down the corridor, and when He listens closely he can catch the faintest hush of voices drifting in the air. He is curious that there may be others here, when the rest of the house has been completely devoid of life.
At the far end of the corridor is a great archway curtained with a swathe of rich velvet, shining as liquid and soft as butter. As he approaches the archway, the faint hum of prayer grows in its intensity. He pushes aside the curtain, and the sound, the smell and the view crashes into him with the ripping, shattering impact of a tsunami. He stands, stunned, staring.
He is in a great church, a vast cathedral with ceilings so high they cannot be seen. The atmosphere is quiet, solemn and warm. The walls are painted intricately with depictions of the saints, praying and dying, praying and dying. On the farthest wall lies a great golden cross, opulent in make yet humble in design. Underneath it lies a great altar made of smooth marble, which bears on its surface a silver cup, an knife whose blade seems to be made of glass, a vast metal bowl and an assortment of flickering candles. All around the room there are candles set in golden candlesticks; they lay nestled in small hollows within the walls, they rest the stone floor, in the corners, cupped within reverent hands. Their tiny flames bob and undulate listlessly, filling the room with their expectant light.
The pews of the church, facing away from Him and toward the altar, are all filled with people. All of them are dressed in robes of a simple, uniform white; they are so pure, so untainted in that color that they glow like the moon, reflecting the rays of some unseen sun. He cannot distinguish their faces, for the hoods of their robes are all drawn up. All he can see of any of them are white peaks rising above straight shoulders. Each of them cradles a candle between their palms, and all of them are chanting.
At first He can't make out their words, which drone on in a monotonous hush. Now that he is closer He learns that the chant is not a mantra, not one repeated phrase, but is instead is a list. The hooded crowd is murmuring names, thousands of names in a hundred different languages, in a verbal procession that stretches farther than the horizon. Each syllable falls on His ears with the weight of a tombstone; every name that slithers out into the silence causes a pang of aching familiarity to blossom within his chest. He does not understand how, or why he recognizes them, or how he knows, instinctually, that those the names belonged to are all dead. He just knows, and it is this paradox that frightens him more than anything: that he has this knowledge, but is ignorant as to why.
A fiery cold constricts his lungs despite the warmth of room. He suddenly has the urge to leave, to run away from the heat and the majesty of this chamber, back down the mirrored darkness of the hall and out and never once look back. But his feet have other plans, and instead draw him inwards, and he walks with the doomed, uncontrollable reverence of a moth approaching a flame, yearning for the light despite the danger of the heat.
If he gets any closer, he may burn.
He approaches.
His instincts pull him towards the pew that is furthest back from the altar, where he finds a small, unoccupied seat nearest to the central aisle, from which he can see all the way up to the front. He slips into the space without disturbing any of the cloaked congregation, feeling a little out of place, but also disturbingly at home, like he has met an old friend, though he does not remember their name.
Several moments after he has taken his seat, the chanting stops. Then he hears footsteps echoing in the silence, and looks up.
Someone new has entered the room; it is a man wearing garments like that of a priest: a hooded cassock in a shade of black as bottomless and cold as the spaces between the stars. His dark robes stand out in stark contrast against the white counterparts worn by his congregation.
The priest makes his way up to the front and positions himself behind the altar. His movements hold the powerful grace of a panther. Though the face of the priest is hidden in shadow, his voice is clear, and it drips out of his shrouded lips like warm honey, languid and slow.
"My faithful, we are all assembled here today for a very special occasion. But before we begin, we will offer the prayer to our saviour."
The priest raises his hands, spreading them to either side, palms open. The material of his sleeves hangs down from his arms like great black wings. Underneath it, he is wearing red gloves.
Now he speaks, and the assembled audience speaks with him, voices echoing up through the expansive chamber.
"Oh almighty Messiah, please bestow your blessings upon us who are faithful, and to those sinners who stray from your law, may you stopper their hearts and deliver them unto death. May you cleanse the world of its impurities, and deliver unto us, your faithful, a world of divine peace. May your justice be swift and without mercy."
The congregation repeats his words with the communal reverence of a well-worn ritual, and He can feel the priest's satisfied, razor-edged smile as continues his announcements.
"We are gathered here to witness a very important ritual today, my faithful. As you can see, we have a guest with us."
And behind the priest, there suddenly appears the large stone figure of a gargoyle, the shape of which is strangely familiar to Him, though he can't recall when or where he had last seen it. He examines it with a critical eye, looking for any other signs of recognition, but from this distance, all he can see is the vaguest outline of its crouched, grotesque and decrepit form and its folded wings.
As he watches, the priest selects from the table the glassy knife, its translucent blade glimmering ominously in the candlelight, before turning to face the gargoyle. The priest raises the knife up so that its tip rests on the very center of the statue's forehead, between its horns, and then draws it sharply downwards.
With a terrible screeching sound and a fountain of sparks the knife descends down the middle of the gargoyle's body, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. The fire begins to spread outward at once, working its way all the way from the clawed toes to the tips of the granite wings, and soon the statue is enveloped entirely in flame. It is so hot that He feels as if he has been plunged into a furnace--even from his seat near the back of the room--though the priest, who stands so close, body silhouetted against the flame, does not seem to mind. The tongues of flame rise high into the air for one sharp instant, and then suddenly subside, like a star collapsing in upon itself, and are no more. Not even the merest puff of smoke is left behind.
Now, the priest bends down and lifts something up from behind the altar, where the gargoyle had been. Where it had burned.
It is a man, who is either unconscious or asleep, judging by his limp, unresisting state. All that He can otherwise discern, over such a great distance, are the most obvious details. He can make out coal-black hair and an expanse of pale, ashen skin; the man is naked.
The priest deposits the man's body onto the altar, laying him across it so that his head rests at one edge, and his feet on the other. The priest gestures triumphantly over the altar, and his voice reverberates throughout the room like a battle cry.
"We have achieved a great victory today, my faithful! Here before you lies the one true enemy to our cause, the Defiant, the one who dares to oppose the Messiah. Today, at last, we shall finally ascertain his demise, and offer his blood as an offering to our Saviour."
The white-robed congregation speaks in unison. "May his Justice be done."
The priest speaks again. "May the one who will perform this most holy duty, step forward now."
And then, suddenly He is no longer in his seat at the farthest bench, but he is there, behind the altar, facing outwards. The priest is standing just behind him, his breath hot on His neck. One black-swathed arm is reaching out from behind him, its gloved hand holding the knife. Feeling an odd fascination stir inside him, He takes the knife from the priest's outstretched hand, examining it. The hilt is made of gold, and the blade is clear and straight and gleams wickedly sharp in the candlelight.
"Now, dispose of the Defiant, and be victorious."
The priest whispers the command into his ear in a low, seductive purr. The heat from the many candles seeps into his limbs, weighing them down, leaving them weak. The wafting scent of incense is thick and heady, and every breath makes him dizzy. As the priest leans in close behind him He feels the fabric of that black robe press on his back, surprisingly cold and slippery.
Then the priest's arms curl around him from behind, guiding His own hands to clasp the knife's golden hilt, and ever so gently urging his arms forward, until the blade of the knife is positioned above the alter, hovering over the pale chest of the dark-haired man, the Defiant. The tiny knife seems to grow heavier and heavier with each second, as if it pushing him along, commanding him to let it fall.
But doubt is weighing at the pit of his stomach, restraint is now warring with a dark fascination, that temptation that coils around his heart and whispers honeyed tales depicting the joys of carnage, the thrill of power, the sweetness of revenge. A part of him struggles to maintain control, just as another part struggles to loosen it. The hilt of the knife burns hot as a brand between his palms, but he can not, must not move.
"Why do you hesitate?" The priest's mouth is mere centimeters away from His ear. "Let it fall; let him die. You wish for it as much as I. Kill him."
His hands are trembling, cold washes down his spine and it would be so easy, so easy to give in…
"No--I can't!"
"You want this. It is your fate." The priest's voice is even lower, even more seductive, oozing like thick, saccharine syrup into his ear. "Do it."
It is not a request.
But when He continues to hesitate, that charismatic voice falls away, replaced by a cold and bitter snarl.
"So Useless!!"
And then the red-gloved hands clamp over His in an iron grip, forcefully drawing them up, and then plunging downward in one fast and fatal arc. With a sickening squelching noise the blade embeds itself into pale flesh, about half of the way up to the hilt. He watches, paralyzed with horror and shock, as blood begins to well up from the wound and trickle down the furrows between his ribs in little rivulets.
The deed done, the priest lets His hands free from the hilt and pushes him aside, grabbing hold of the knife himself. He pulls the hilt --which no longer shines translucent and icy but red as a cut ruby-- from the body, and places it to the side. The he lowers one red-gloved hand down to the bleeding wound, with an unnerving solemnity, and reaches down inside it, burying his hand up to the wrist. For a few moments the priest's hand around moves inside the abdomen, and then, with a terrible ripping sound, he tears it away.
Clutched in his palm is a bloody, fleshy, pulsating organ; a heart. With his other hand, the priest grasps the great metal bowl, and lowers the heart inside it. With horror, He watches as the bowl begins to fill with blood, the red liquid rising higher and higher, finally stopping its climb upon reaching the very top of the bowl. Not a drop spills over. Then the priest draws up the silver chalice, lifting it high before dipping it into the shimmering blood. When he lifts the goblet out, now filled to brimming, there is not even a single stain on its metallic surface. The priest speaks now to the seated congregation.
"We offer up this victory to the Messiah."
The crowd responds. "May his Justice be done."
"Now, come forward to partake of his triumph." The priest raises the chalice.
The mass of white-robed worshippers make their way forward to the altar, ascending the steps in single file. As each one steps before the priest they bow their head, before raising it and allowing the priest to tip goblet to their lips. Then they murmur a prayer and return to their seat. With a surprising swiftness, the line dwindles and clears. Now the priest turns back to Him, and extends the chalice.
"Drink. This victory is also yours."
He stares down into the scarlet liquid, revulsion rising up his throat like bile. His words are spat acidic off his tongue.
"I can't! I'm not one you! How could you drink --that man's--Oh god!" His eyes are burning. His throat chokes on his words.
The priest's voice drops again into a growl. The edges of his command are serrated. "Drink."
"I will not obey you, murderer! You killed him!"
"No." The priest sets down the chalice. Then he reaches up and lets fall his hood, drawing his face out from its obscuring covering of darkness. "You did."
Unveiled at last, He watches his own face smiles cruelly back at him.
"We are one," the priest breathes, and that breath echoes heavy in the silence. For the first time, He recognizes that honeyed, razor-edged voice as being his own.
The priest is him.
Time has frozen, foot caught in the door. His breath is caged, unable to leave his lungs. He feels as if he looks into a distorted mirror, staring in horror at an imperfect reflection; the hair is too dark, the skin too pale, the angles of the face are a bit too sharp, and those eyes...
Those eyes are red; as red and bright as warning lights in the darkness. They glitter with the cold, hard beauty of cut diamonds, drilling into him with their gaze.
There is nothing human, nothing good in those eyes.
But yet they are His eyes!
The priest glides toward Him, and he, paralyzed, does not move away. One scarlet-gloved hand reaches up to caress His cheek, and too late he feels the sticky wetness of the fingers, and too late he discovers that the hand is not covered with velvet, but with blood. He can feel it being smeared across his skin. The fingers are inhumanly cold, enough so to burn, and their grip is like steel. The hand is a branding iron, marking him.
The Other leans in close, eyes never leaving His, and his smirk expands into a smile that reveal his teeth.
There is another difference: his teeth are sharp.
"After all," those hard eyes never leave his, and never blink. "You cannot have light without also having darkness."
Light; the word washes over him like a bucket of water to the face.
Light? The word is familiar, but he cannot quite place it…
Light! He almost has it, the answer balances on the tip of his tongue, just another moment---
--It's His name! He is Light-- Light Yagami! Consciousness floods him, thought returns. But as he realizes his own name, he also realizes what the name of the Other, his twin and opposite, must be.
"Kira."
That horrible smile grows even wider in response, glee curling under the flashing red eyes.
"I thought you'd never get it, my dear Raito-chan," Kira chucks his bloody fingers under Light's chin in a gesture typically used by aged aunties on little children. "I can't believe how slow you've been. It's as if I was left with all of our brains as well as all our memories," his smile drops into a thoughtful line for a moment. "Though dreaming does dampen the logical thought process quite a bit. I really ought to have snapped you out of it sooner, instead of playing with you for so long…"
Suddenly, Kira disappears. Light looks around him frantically, but can see nothing in the darkness. Then, shivers run up his spine in an electric pulse as cold hands grip his shoulders and a low, purring whisper emerges from just behind his left ear.
"…Though I do so love to play." Though his skin is glacier-cold, Kira's breath ghosting over his ear is hot as a furnace.
Light wriggles like a fly caught in a spider's web, but he cannot escape that iron grip. "Get away from me!"
"You don't really mean that, Raito-chan." Kira is back in front of him again, gripping his face. "After all, you were the one who created me, nurtured me, became me."
"No."
"You are me, Raito. You are Kira."
"No! I could never--"
"You could and you did. You gave up your petty fears, your doubts, in order to make the world a better place. Besides," He leans forward, so close now, too close. "You could never give up this."
And then Kira leans in and cover's Light's mouth with his, and breathes into him. Light chokes struggles as the hot breath begins to fill his mouth and streams down his throat, but his head is held immobile. When he closes his mouth against the invasion, he feels a horribly warm, slimy tongue push its way through the gap between his lips and pry them open, crowbar-like, and he does not try to close them again. All he can do is stand and try not to inhale the hot breath that is being forced into his lungs.
The breath tastes like blood and fire, smoke and ink, and as it slowly pools into his belly he can feel it affecting him. His whole body is heated from within, adrenalin pumps through his veins and elation spills bright fireworks inside his head; disgust and resistance melt away as it spreads. With molten power boiling in his veins, Light feels truly alive for the first time, it seems, in his entire life. His nerve ends tingle and fizz, sensation multiplies, and all he knows is that he never wants this feeling to end. He is addicted, and this fact excites him just as much as it disgusts him. Inside him two forces are warring, and the part that embraces this feeling is steadily gaining strength over that other part, that empathetic, innocent conscience, which screams on and on in silent horror as it is pushed aside.
So when Kira pulls away, a smirk playing on his mouth, and the hot, bursting emotion begins to fade away, the dark coil of hunger inside Light takes control and moves his arms up to twine around that pale neck, and to press his lips once again to those of his twin; ravenous, he runs his tongue over those cold lips, searching, begging for that taste again. He must have it, he needs it.
Kira opens his mouth again, laughter rumbling in his throat, and breathes into him once again. He stares down at his counterpart with the amusement of a mother for the child that so insistently demands to suckle at her breast. Light cannot bring himself to care if he is being mocked, or for anything at all: he is lost.
He is so enraptured by the feeling that he barely registers the cold hands that trace over the fevered flesh of his abdomen and stomach, raising goosebumps in their wake. As the hands trace lower the fire follows them, pooling in his belly and trickling lower. He is drowning in pleasure and burning in the deepest fires of Hades, and as those bloody hands lock around him and squeeze, he screams in ecstasy and misery, in horror and desire; and for one bright moment in the infinite darkness of the void, He cannot tell where Kira ends, and Light Yagami begins.
_____________*______________
Light wakes with a howling scream, sticky with sweat and other such... fluids. He looks down, blushing, infinitely glad that he slept facing the wall, for though it is dark, the ever-present camera has night vision. He does his best to slow his erratic breathing and rubs his sweaty limbs to dry them, and soon he has calmed down enough to think again. This is the first time he has awoken in such an embarrassing state. He frantically searches his mind for anything, any sign of emotion or memory left over from what surely must have been a most unique sort of night terror, but finds nothing.
"Is Raito-kun alright? Did he have a nightmare?"
An already monotone, lifeless voice is made even more robotic as it is filtered and projected into his cell through the speaker system. Ryuuzaki must be spending another evening in front of the monitors again, watching him sleep. This is the third night in a row now. Light can almost see him there, crouching on his swivel chair under the glow of the monitors, drinking his disgusting coffee and getting cake icing on the sleeves of his shirt.
For some reason, imagining Ryuuzaki's hunched form and pallid skin makes him uneasy. Light files it away as his natural reaction to the detective's horrible posture and unhealthy lifestyle.
He wishes he were up there too, sitting on a swivel chair, drinking hot, dark coffee and looking over a stack of reports, and chatting with his father every once in while. Not lying here, handcuffed and uncomfortable on a lonely cot, wearing the same old clothes, eating the same tasteless food, and every day is filled with nothing. Dry, empty shells scattered just out of reach of the sea.
If Hell is anything, he thinks, it is boredom. He licks his dry, sandpaper lips, but finds no flavor there.
"I don't know, Ryuuzaki," he replies, loud enough for the camera to pick up. He has to focus hard in order to keep his voice from betraying any emotion, to keep the words from catching in his throat. "I can't remember it."
Then he forces his burning eyes shut and surrenders himself to the void.
Fin.
"The struggle of man against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting."
-Milen Kundera
Any and all feedback is welcome and appreciated.