The kitchen is black with the darkness of the night; a dim, wavering mist of moonlight outlines the objects of the room: The round kitchen table with five chairs, all set up by the wall nearest to the window; the sink with a dripping faucet, each drop glistening with temporary brightness before slipping off into the depths of the drain pipe. The softly humming refrigerator and the unlit stove- both seeming more like cardboard boxes, bearing no detail aside from the fridge's small, red light. The granite island in the middle of the kitchen- on it's surface, the knives in the knife-box, the bowl of metal spoons and rubber spatulas, a used dish-rag, an un-used candle, papertowels, and a single stirring spoon with remnits of coffee drying up inside it,as if the spoon itself forgot to swallow.
All of this is consumed by the night.
(A lazy drift of the finger, inching up the wall)-flick.
Light- as sudden as tripping over the unseen top-step- makes its appearance with a vivid, hellish splender; the darkness vanishes, and theobjects of the kitchen seem to scream in silent agony as they are awoken by their slumber.
He stands blinded for a moment in the doorway, his eyes crunching up as his eyes dialate to adjust to the new lighting. Once his eyes obey, his eyes feel much more heavier; he can even picture them as the bags underneath sag even more, leaving black bruises like halos around his eyes. With a slow, patient roll of his head, he looks towards the refrigerator, and begins to walk.
The humming gets louder as he nears the fridge; anticipation begins to burn within his veins; his heart-beat quickens as he reaches towards the hard, solid handle. He jerks it open and is greeted by the cold sneeze of the refrigerator. Dispite that, a hot chill scrapes up his spine: Inisde lay several unopenedjars of strawberry and cherry jams, all lined in a perfect row facing him, like chicks waiting to be taught how to fly.
His fingers twitch; a nervous tension builds in his sinuses, causes a line of warm snot to leak out of his nose. He ignores it and snatches a jar of stawberry jam. He turns away abruptly, knocking the refrigerator door shut with his eblow, and slames the jam agaisnt the island while he twists open the lid.
A satifsfying pop of released pressure- more satisfying than the bubbling fizz of coke pouring over a glass of ice- and he has the lid discarded in the floor,his fingers digging into the jar with a mind of their own.
Bits of strawberries and dots of black seeds are in this specific jam: His fingers scissoring through the cold wetness to grab as much as he can,he wonders if this is how humans guts would feel once the body has died; he felt the sudden urge to place the jar in the microwave to find out how hot the blood would feel, but he decided against it.
His hand covered in red, he withdraws to slide his fingers into his mouth, the cool, rich taste of strawberries taking over his sense of taste.
Dark, shadowy eyes roll back, the lids closing to force himself to only think of what was in his mouth: His tongue explores the magical gift ofthe sweet, blood-colored fruit, his mouth nearly drooling. He removes his hand to return it back into the jar, and he grins a pleased grin, feeling the heavy stickiness run down the side of his face. His heart-beat slowing to a calm, he continues to suckle on the jam on his fingers, under his fingernails, and on his face.
And again...he wonders how hot the jam would have to be in order to be exact to blood. His eyes open and he recalls the murder cases he createdin order to test the limits of the human body: How much can a body take before it stops moving? How much blood must it lose in order to turn cold?
Upstairs in his bedroom, the woman.
He looks out from the kitchen and in the direction of the stairs. He has been working with her for quite some time. It started when he had mimicked that other one- the one known as L. But before that, he had conducted a series of murders that were supposed to be too hard for even L to solve. He had done so in order to destroy his reputation- so that he could be the greatest detective alive!- not to show how much he adored him; he hated his...his guts.
His red...strawberry...guts.
A hardness masks his face; the jar of jam is placed in the trash, and he fnds himself standing at the bottom step, gazing up with an unsteady heartbeat.
L isnt here.
But she is.
He begins walking up the stairs, slowly, slowly...His red eyes gleam underneath gray contact lens.
His special eyes reveal the date and true-name of anyone they gaze upon; he uses this information to base his next victoms on, but the way they die is entirely up to him...
A blink of the eye, and he stands with a hand of the doorknob of her room. But what is he doing...?
Wont killing her leave another flashing arrow pointing in his direction? Wouldn't L immediately suspect him?
Even if he does go through with it, would that make him a better detective?
No. It wouldn't.
But he needs to kill something; and a jar of warm jam isn't going to get rid of the nagging inch in his brain. The door is opened, and he steps into the room.
She lays on her side, her body still and quiet underneath the soft light of the moon, which shimmers as the trees outside the window are bullied and broken by the wind.
According to his eyes, Naomi Misora isn't supposed to die until the first of January, in the year 2007, at 1:25pm.
He has never killed anyone before their time of death...What would the results be if he killed her a few years sooner?
His lips lick the dried-on jam, and his hands twitch at his sides with a dark desire.
She sleeps on, unknowing, lost in her dreams.
His teeth part and his mouth gaps open; a low, cough-like laughter sounds from his throat as he pictures her guts covering the bedsheets, her heartbeating in his hands, the feel of her skin peeling away from her body... How will it feel to her? Will her skin feel just a warm as if it were on her body?
Could she survive by taking small breaths, or deep ones?
How warm will the guts be - the liver, the lungs, the intestants- when they spew out against him like a puppy wanting love, the hot wetness like a kiss from a tongue?
He stands by her side.
He always had before...
They solved his own cases- her and Rue Ryuzaki.
But Rue isnt here anymore.
With nimble hands, he removes the blankets from her body, careful not to wake her. He goes into the bathroom, tipping through the dark, and returns with twizzers anda razor-blade.
He places them gently on the nightstand, next to her cell phone.
Her eyes dart under her relaxed lids, dreaming...dreaming...
Of him, maybe?
He smiles at the thought.
Or of BB, the serial killer they've been tracking?
He smile widens.
Sensing someone watching, she opens her eyes and meets the detective's soft, gray ones.
But Beyond smiling down at her.