Title: Reflection Or Not
Summary: Their lives were nothing. He was Justice. He was Kira. He was god of the new world. And none could stop him. Creepy little trip-shot.
Warnings: Run on sentences. Slightly disturbing Light/Kira insanity. ...Interesting ideology? Is that the word?
Rating: T. Most definitely T.
Disclaimer: Insert suitably witty disclaimer that can't really be thought of at three in the morning here.
Notes: Well. That was odd. Oh, yes, you might not want to read this if you're offended by run on sentences or very long paragraphs. Light tends to ramble, see, and it's hard to conjure the correct mindset to write this in. I have no clue why Light likes butterflies. Why don't you ask?
Would you think me crazy if I said this was fun to write?
Their lives were nothing. He was Justice. He was Kira. He was god of the new world.
And none could stop him.
He judged again, and watched his thoughts as they twisted and curled, and envisioned their deaths with a rapturous glee that scared the person he used to be. The names lay there, broken, like they were delicate, exotic birds with their necks snapped and wings shredded into pieces. And his reflection laughed, and he laughed, and he couldn't tell the difference anymore, but didn't know why there should be a difference. The days passed so quickly, in a flurry of butterflies without wings, and the names and deaths grew more and the pile of bones beneath his feet grew larger. And his reflection laughed, with that red light of blood and killing, and blood-soaked hands and hair and clothes that scared the person he used to be, no, it was the person he was, because he still was that person, somewhere, lost in a sea of mad tumbling ink and sharp pricks of pens and thin stings of paper cuts, and black lines on white death-paper. It was his reflection, who was him, who was Kira. The person killing wasn't him, he was the top student in his college, he was a good person, a justice, a... god. Kira was justice and Kira was god and Kira was him, but wasn't, and was just in the mirror, and wasn't real, but was, because how else were these people — no, not people, criminals, because criminals weren't people, not if they harmed others — dying, dropping like flies, lies, falsities, like Kira, or the person he used to be, masks breaking and shattering on the floor like glass, jars of red tea smashed on stone and paper.
Their lives were nothing. He was Justice. He was Kira. He was god of the new world.
And none could stop him.
He looked in the mirror and saw Kira, and the person he used to be, or still was, or wasn't, hated him — no, it, it was more easy, it was easier to hate its than it was to hate hims — and broke the mirror, and the lies, and stabbed it through with his pen of justice, the red one, the one that was so beautiful, like the bodies of things hitting the floor, their faces twisted in deserved agony, and he wanted to watch the face — or faces — of his enemies — or enemy — as he killed them/him/her/it/devil, for that was what opposed the gods of Western culture, the devil, Satan, or Beelzebub, or L, the thing with black hair and too-seeing, too-knowing eyes, shining like black sapphires in that calm mask of porcelain, the one he will break soon, and he will see him collapse from that horrible, irritatingly incorrect posture that the person he wasn't or was or still hated or used to be found like the curve of a bird's wing, and Kira would break that wing, and watch him die with that expression of horror that he had imagined many times in his dreams and fantasies, or he would fall forwards or sideways or backwards from that crouched, bird-like, again, sit that he sat, breaking his forehead on the table or tipping backwards, letting the red, red, red blood spill out and soak his hair and turn that rumpled white shirt into something more beautiful than anything.
Their lives were nothing. He was Justice. He was Kira. He was god of the new world.
And none could stop him. Not even L.
And then there was Near, the small, white little waif, so delicate, like a paper crane, and so easy to break or melt, just throw him — no, it, it was more easy, it was easier to hate its than it was to hate hims — into water, or write down a name, in a flash of cold steel and splashed ink, ink like frozen butterflies without wings, pinned to a corkboard with spears of blood and paper, chained to distant broken computer screens with death-lines and strips of paper that forever cut into skin. And red, red, bloodred apples eaten whole without sugar or pathetic sweetness of any kind or place or thing or time. And there were no chains on him, no chains of glass and reflections, and Kira was laughing, and the person he used to be or still was or wasn't but could be or had been was scared. But Kira wasn't, and Kira knew that L would lose. Kira would win, because Kira was good was god was justice, and justice always triumphs/ed over evil, and L was evil, as evil as a raven, and that was what he was, a raven, sitting perched on his chair with disgusting posture and constantly eating sweets, trying to bring sweetness to his fake little world full of lies of him living more than a few more weeks, like a mayfly, living two days before dying instantaneously.
Their lives were nothing. He was Justice. He was Kira. He was god of the new world.
And none could stop him. Not even Near.