Disclaimer: I don't own this.
Warnings: Mentions of murder scenes and MM sex, though I guess not much to rate it M.
AN: The original formatting of the text is different from what you'll read. So, I was hesitating to post it here, since the lack of the OF takes much from the surprise effect I intended for this story on BB's part. But then again, who cares? To see the original version look at the link below. Not Beta-ed as usual.
This fic was a present for KamichiroEris. And I am glad that she liked it.
A Plead For InSanity
Sleep... "Where I can be with you... Where I can taste your fear on my tongue..."
One thing he couldn't afford to indulge himself with, no matter how his body craved the languid oblivion that would wrap his mind, that would caress his torn thoughts, that would nurse his worn out soul.
"Sleep, my love... Sleep, so that I can hold your fears in my hands..."
Sleep meant to forget. "Forget yourself, so that I can be you..."
To dive into an unknown realm of vulnerability in which he would forget who he was, what he was doing, what he had to do upon waking up from it. Forgetfulness... "An escape route for the both of us..."
He couldn't sleep. He could not afford to sleep... In fact he was...
Afraid to fall asleep. "Afraid to give in to me..."
To fall into an abyss where he would no longer be himself, suspended in a state of having no sense of identity, not being able to grasp what he saw, what he felt, what he did in the planes of utter lack of control; so very aware of being just an observer of things he never did, said, felt.
He would find himself in a dark space. So dark that the sense of dimensions, boundaries are nonexistent. He would find himself suspended from his arms, on his knees, half naked... Fear... Raw, ruthless fear... Arousing in a twisted way, this helplessness...
He was frightened to his very bones.
The bed would be there, the comforters neatly laid, pillows soft with an addictive sweet smell.
The bed would just be there "Come, lay with me." and he would just sit in his crouched position never daring to lay on it, never imagining himself splayed all over its silky arms, never imagining himself hugging the pillows, his mind... would never allow picturing himself so open, so lost, so weak and helpless against his own mind... He was awake despite himself and he was longing sleep despite himself, again. "Just let that body of yours forget who he was..."
He couldn't afford to listen to his own heart beat.
His heart beat would reverberate the silent darkness, until he would hear soft chuckles. He would know to whom they belong even if he wouldn't be able to see past the thick veil of his dark surrender.
When everything came to the finality of the strength of his body's struggle to remain awake, he would give up. He would give up not only his right to remain awake, but also his right to preserve the thin threads of sanity that he mastered to keep connected to his present and to his goals.
Losing this battle against sleep just because his body was not as strong and iron willed as his mind made him feel him humiliated, feel all the more weak. He was weak, "You were always weak, L..." not only against the terrors that awaited him in a dark corner of his mind when sleep unleashed it, violated the barriers he carefully designed; but also he was weak against himself, his body.
Then an unearthly light would penetrate his dream's darkness. And he would see him right in front of him, at the exact same position he was in.
He could not afford the panic that gripped him when he realized -just before falling asleep- that all he could hear was the beating of his own heart, treacherously accelerating to fly away from his ribcage, and his breathing swallow, crawling in and out of his trembling lips. They were the tell tale signs of losing himself, losing what made him L.
"L, you never was... And you'll never be..."
"Just a little... Just a little indulgence... It wouldn't hurt, would it?" His mind would say every time he closed his eyes after his days long battles against these natural urges. Every time he would wake up, his dormant mind would quickly kick in, realizing that he lost another battle, another precious portion of its own time of living, feeling, being awake; thus, being himself.
Red, red treads... Criss-crossing, tangling and unwinding, appearing and disappearing...forever. Red treads holding them suspended in the void wounding around their limbs in a most sensual way covering them above and around their most sensitive flesh... Bounding them together, facing each other...
He would wake as if jumping out of his own skin... As if his body was not his, as if it would just get itself away from the heavily bolted, securely locked recesses of its own self, part of its own being, a part which he would give everything to just be rid of it for a while, and to be just L... No one else.
"I am you, you are me, I am here as long as you are here..."
It was out of possibility.
"Until this body of us shatters..."
That same mind of his would spend hours after hours in front of documents, computers, evidences that would tell the secrets of others' minds, their well wrought plans of devastation, satisfaction, revenge, greed, or just the simple pleasure of knowing to be powerful enough to hurt others in some way or another.
"Mind is the ultimate crime device, don't you agree, L?"
That same mind would not look at the events, evidences, information from a humanistic point of view. That mind would not feel sorry, would not feel sympathy, would not feel disgusted, would not feel awe or fear. That mind, "Our mind..." through his dull eyes, only would see the challenge. The challenge to solve this one, too... The need to uncover that one, too... The urge to surpass that criminal mind, too... For that mind, there was no crime perfect enough to be remain unsolvable. It was just an insult made to the infinite range what human mind can do and what human psyche was capable to imagine and practice.
Not because he saw himself on a pedestal, not because he was heartless, not because he was not capable of understanding human mind and emotions...
But because he knew himself very well...
He would chuckle merrily, he would watch him with his mirror-like face, he would imitate him with his carbon-copy like body. L would struggle... In this delirious past-time activity created by the locked side of his mind- whilst it was occupied with creating material for L's nightmares- he would feel pain every time he moved a limb, he would cut himself every time he tried to untangle himself from his own well-devised prison. And his mirror image just laugh when his mirth cannot be conveyed by mere chuckles.
He knew how a dying man's eyes would look at his killer. He knew how the soft flesh of a breast would give under a blade. He knew the taste of a scream, he knew the warmth of the struggling flesh under his fingers. He just knew how a bound, broken neck would look, how tears would fall, how salt would burn the open wounds, how inartistic a butchered body would look, how it would smell and worst of all, how all these would induce a sick arousal which he would enjoy every moment of it whilst laughing and crying in a despicable manner and even feel pleasure from his own state.
Not because he did all these, not because he ever licked a bloodied knife, not because he meticulously cleaned his own semen from a crime site...
Not... "A lie, isn't it, L?"
But he knew... Oh, all too well... But how, he didn't know... And this was driving him crazy, this was killing him inside, this was causing his panic attacks during which he would have involuntary ejaculation even before he realized he was aroused with his own delirium.
Every cut would bleed, but with every cut he would moan...a heady, involuntary moan would escape his lips every time the red treads would scrape his skin, his conscious. The other would laugh maniacally. He would taunt him with words, make snide marks about his arousal, about how even he himself can smell it even through the smell of blood. Degradation would whip the excitement. And his self loathing... He would scream he other's name, the name he chosen for himself...
There were some evidences... Which weren't anything Beyond! nothing to the untrained eyes of others, even some brilliant minds close to his couldn't make sense of them. They were stashed in one corner of his room, not even his personal assistant was allowed to touch them.
There were his dreams... "In which I violate you..." Which he would write down like the professional he was. His hand would shake, his mouth would dry, he would feel sick Beyond! belief. It was like trying to crawl out from his own brain, from his own veins, from his own bodily existence. It was like feeling trapped with no room to breathe, with no light to hold onto...
"I violate what is mine..."
He would write. He would memorize every single syllable and then burn the paper, mixing the ashes with water... He would recite the lines to himself like a man possessed. "Thus you feel me inside you." There was a folder in his mind that would categorize the dates, the other variables of how he fell asleep, under which conditions he slept... He knew everything... He knew himself so well... "You know me Oh so disturbingly well..."
He knew his addiction to the challenge, how he sought the cases to champion... How firm his belief on the claim that there wasn't a perfect crime... He knew his life's ultimate goal... To find the perfect crime and master it. "A crime only I can manage to pull for you to solve, my addiction..."
It was out of possibility.
It was out of option for him to announce the results of his investigation on those evidences...
He would writhe every time as if the treads were his hands, his hands touching him...his hands claiming him, branding him with blood, declaring him that L was his... L belonged to Beyond... This body was his to bend, break, ravish, use, adore, hate, to create his own master pieces only to be solved by his hated beloved... Even when L would stop struggling...
Because the results were improbable. The reasons can't be explained to the others. Not because they wouldn't understand them like he did, but also he wouldn't explain them like he understood. They were his nightmares that came true, "We made them come to true..." they were the proverbial noose hanging from his neck, they were somehow his sick brain children he conceived from his mind's sickly copulation with itself. "My incestuous desires' offsprings..."
They were not true. They were not there. "Fertilized by my mind, conceived by your hands, body..."
He would hold onto suspecting himself of overlooking a piece of information, of interpretation, of a different perspective, of a trick of his mind, of a possibility of his degrading sense of connecting to reality...
"Deny it all you want, L..."
He would not give up the delusional hope of everything being a coincidence; the glistening of blood, the taste of torn flesh, the unholy satisfaction of laying traps, puzzles, tricks -that only he can see-, the inhuman feeling derived from knowing what you do, knowing how to stab, where to make it bleed, how to turn torture into satisfaction, how to toy with every nerve endings to make them sing in pleasure whilst screaming in agony, and watching every detail greedily...
"Deny how much pleasure we felt together..."
All these were because he knew how they felt, because he knew how to enter the mind of a criminal, because he had to know what spurs the criminal to commit a crime... Not "My sweet liar..." because he felt them with his own hands, own skin, and saw them with his own eyes... He had to know, because it was his job to solve them...
"Whilst your body held the knife as my will made it fall..."
That's why his mind couldn't afford to feel sympathy to the victim, but had to feel what the criminal felt to analyze the evidence left behind of those feelings, of those deeds. "Of our feelings..."
And he knew that was his short coming, that was why his mind played tricks on him about those evidences he dared not to announce the results of their analysis.
Even L would stop struggling-not to free himself anymore but to feel the pleasure of giving in- His mirror image, his Beyond, oh HIS Beyond, wouldn't let him feel a moment of peace between the sickening pleasure of self-degradation, he would start to pull the red strings-even if it meant cutting himself- like a puppeteer who forcefully made his puppet kill itself to reach the peak of completion .
He was not maintaining his own fragile existence, his own reputation, his own life. But he was conserving his own mind from deteriorating further.
"As if there is anything left to lose, L..."
He knew the sole entity who was capable of creating the perfect crime was his own self. "Me..." The irony of it all was, no matter how sickly pleasant, sadistically filling, masochistically degrading, criminally the utmost perfection, that there wouldn't be anyone left who could solve and master it...
"You want to know how a perfect crime is plotted, L? Oh, but you already know... You already know me..."
Because then L would be gone.
"Because I am you, you are me..."
Because then he would no longer need sleep, because then he would forever be the slave of his own mind.
"Because when I kill you, there would be no criminal to catch, would be?"
And the utterly devastating, and bizarrely sexual satisfaction of all was that a crime which would never be solved by him, by L, would never be the perfect crime.
"Since both the criminal and the investigator would be dead..."
L would not be there...
"And I would not be there, too, L... Are you willing to die to get rid of me?"
But the crime scene, never had a chance to be burned in his memory, never had a chance to be seen in his horrible dreams to be woken up from and remembered to filed away in this brain, would forever remain as an unappreciated master piece of art.
"Since we are two minds in one body, are you willing to catch this master of criminals even when you know that it is not possible unless you are dead, too..."
Since there wouldn't be an L to understand it, that meant there wouldn't be a chance for it to be made understood by lesser minds. A perfect crime should never fall to the humiliation of being simplified to be understood other than L.
"But, L... My obsession... My love... Can't you see the irony? You'll never feel the satisfaction of solving this case... Because the victim will be you, because both the detective and the criminal will die when the criminal kills the detective, kills his own self..."
He would not be there. "I am here, L..."
"When I kill you along with myself... And no one will know how master of a detective you were whilst being the master of all criminals..."
And thus, he never wanted to sleep.
In fear of solving this perfect crime.
"Maybe I never was..."
Fin.
The link for the Original formatting:http: / e-eleniel. livejournal. com/30892.html