Please excuse this little one-shot, as I'm working on touching up my second person narrative. Criticism, if you wouldn't mind?
Disclaimer: Don't own Death Note, thanks.
Title: Sometimes
Sometimes, you wonder why you do it.
It's amazing what you can accomplish when you don't think about your actions and simply do what you want; to not recognize right from wrong or purity from sin. You wish that it can be like this all the time, and your drive is incredible.
When you feel that rush of strength coming up from the ends of your toes all the way to the top of your head and the adrenaline is pumping into your system like turbo within a car, you relish in the taste of accomplishment and success.
These names written down on the paper…
They're your victory.
And you know this.
But it does not stop the small minutes in between all of that and now.
At the dead of night, when you can't sleep like the little angel you're sure you must look like to everyone else (though that façade of yours looks god-like no matter what, it is simply that sleep magnifies the radiance of your being… and you know this all too well), the question pounds against the back of your head as the excuses and lies fade off into the unfamiliar void you never knew was actually there and you are left with only the shell of the being you had been only a few short hours before.
You think that it's just a matter of self-doubt; everyone feels it eventually, especially within even the toughest of moments within our lives. You are only human still, after all, and soon (very soon…) you will shed the last vestiges of this thing still clinging within your chest and become transcendent to all this. You know this.
You know this.
Yet still…
Sometimes, you wonder why you do it.
Walking through the familiar park that housed your most sacred of childhood memories with no one to see the shattered mask you carry so brilliantly among others, the dark cloud over your head darkens as a bone-chilling sort of laughter carries over your shoulder, just as familiar as the park itself.
You know that this is just another test; your subconscious is testing your will and strength of mind, but you are stronger than this and no matter what anyone says, you are vindicated in each choice you make; it is everyone else who has sinned that will soon face the almighty wrath you have brought onto this world.
You did this.
You did.
And for a moment, you feel lighter, as if the world's burdens aren't on your shoulder and thousands of people haven't died by your hand and your hand alone.
You are redemption in its purest of forms, and your wings of flight will spread wide and far as others below you watch in wonderment.
You are human now…
But that is only a temporary thing.
But still…
Sometimes, you wonder why you do it.
As your father speaks about his day, giving your mother a small smile of satisfaction as he eats his meal, you feel the small bit of strength drain from your body as you realize that he is one of your enemies working against you, his son. The only person who you could've held some sort of admiration for...
Was one of the people trying to kill you.
Your mother simply nods as she hands your sister her plate and smiles delightfully as your sister digs right in, one of the people you both fight for, and yet are disgusted by. Living in her isolated little bubble of intricacies, you feel a strong sense of something you felt once before (you don't want to admit that it's an urge; an urge to both destroy and celebrate) overwhelm your dying senses as you realize that you hate these people, and that if you had to, you would eliminate them if you could.
And it's in those moments that you realize just how far you have come.
Yet you wonder just where it was you were going in the first place.
Excusing yourself from the table, you think back into earlier times and realize that nothing has changed…
Now, you just have the means to do what you want.
Is this justice?
In those minutes in between, (those minutes you can't lie to yourself, and realize just what a monster you've become)you really hope so, instead of believing with all your false dreams of fantastical illusions that are the farthest from the truth you continue to deny.
(have you ever known what it's like to not tell a lie... even towards yourself?)
Your blood stained hands (and so deliciously filled with blood they are) tremble as you open the door to your room and lock the door, your eyes burning with desolation for just a split-second before you shove it all away within the void you both despise and cherish.
(have you really fallen so far?)
Sometimes…
Sometimes, you wonder why you do it.
And that's when you pick up your pen…
And simply do it again.