Disclaimer: I do NOT own DeathNote. Only this story.
Death. The word had no effect on him any more. Elimination. Termination. Murder. None of those words mattered. Not any more. Not since they had become him. Not since they were who he was. He was elimination. He was termination. He was murder. He was an assassin, covered in the blood of hundreds of people; stained brown with the lives of those now dead. Had he chosen this? No. But in a way... he had. He had felt the pull of what he did, and couldn't turn away. He was like a helpless heroin addict; he was trapped in its unfaltering grip. And it watched him and laughed.
Had it taken its toll? Yes. And it was a costly toll. For who would not consider sanity costly? At night he would toss and turn, sleep not accepting him. Only the visions, the nightmares of what he did, would take him in. He would feel the pain of death. The pain of himself. His doing. He would writher and writhe in his bed with unbearable pain, he would moan and whimper with agony, and the tears would tear down his face like scalding trails of fire. And it watched him and laughed.
During the day though, the pain was masked, nonexistent. Because there was supposed to be nothing to pain him. 'Nothing could possibly hurt him,' the others thought. 'He is great. Too great to stoop to the level of Kira.' And he let them think that way. The suspicion would turn away. Because they would whisper, 'If it is him, he must hurt.' And as they thought, the pain was not gone. It merely subsided to a dull throb. He masked it as he masked everything. Who he was. What he did. Everything. But there was a glint in his eye. Most would call it off as confidence. Cocky, unadulterated pride. Only the trained eye would see it as something else. Something entirely different. And it saw it and laughed.
He still continued on. With dogged determination he would pick up his weapon and pull the trigger, so to speak. He let no inhibitions conquer what he knew he must do. He must rid the world of evil. A perfect world.
'Perfect doesn't exist. It is impossible,' he argued to himself.
'It can exist. It's possible. It must be,' he said back.
Because he couldn't bear to face what it would mean if he was wrong. All those people dead for nothing. That would mean he lost. He couldn't lose. Not this game. This game was bigger than a game of checkers, or a game of battle, or a game of life and death. This was a game of the best. Who was the best? The new God of the world, or detectives intent on interfering with his path of righteousness. Good or bad. And it heard this and laughed.
But he lost. The man who thought himself so great lost. The man who was dying on the inside, but pretended not to notice lost. The righteous man lost.
And it saw this and laughed.
It took his life.
And it flew away, ready to begin the fun anew.
Thus the game of the Shinigami.