Nothing was intentional. Nothing was ever intentional within the confines of the building. Discoveries that were never meant to be discovered, mysteries never meant to be solved, identities never meant to be revealed. These things were unintentional.
The house, not a home, did not care. Discoveries were discovered, unsolvable mysteries were solved, hidden identities were revealed. The house wanted these things for those within the walls were to be the best. Those hidden behind the iron gate needed to be the best. Their ambition: to be come the world's most iconic letter by beating and eliminating those who were too weak, too fragile, and too sweet to make it. It was a harsh life to live, constantly striving to be the best. The only attention they got was handed out as a reward to those who did well, to those who had pushed forward enough to knock another out of the race.
Behind stone walls and iron gates, behind dark walls and closed doors, the unintentional happened. The children and teenagers, ages ranging from a mere thirteen months to a ripe seventeen, were far past the intelligence levels of the brightest scientists and the most accomplished mathematicians of the age, of any age, actually. The talents that had allowed them access to the private building ranged greatly, like the ages, but each talent contributed to the race. It gave them challenges to overcome which made the game the icon played all the more entertaining.
Some contestants, players, children, became unintentional failures. The pressure builds and affects the minds, twisting and contorting their sanity into something unrecognizably unintentional, for that's what they are. Unintentional mishaps in the game. The mishaps were not cast out of the game, no, they continued playing. They grew and either thrived or crumbled under the constant pressure. Those who thrived lived and continued to do great things such as brutally murdering three people and almost the killer himself to become the intentionally unsolvable case. The unsolvable case was intentionally solved.
If those who live grow to kill, what do those that crumble do? They kill as well but not for others to see. No, they kill in the stream of rushing water from the showerhead with a knife to their wrists. Sometimes they are scared, sometimes they are sad. Sometimes they even have Backup plans to complete the suicide mission. Intentional murder of oneself. Suicide.
The mishaps come in two forms. You either live pressured to kill or kill to live peacefully. There is no other option.
Behind closed doors, the intentionals prepare for war, a war of the minds. They battle fiercely without uttering a single word. The clashing of swords become the scratching of pencils on paper. Tests determine the outcome of the game.
Intentional beings do unintentional things. Locked doors can make or break enemies. Books can hide the actions, unintentional actions for intentional beings.
The walls had seen much. Death, pain, suffering, breaking, falling. They've seen rising, shining, light, success, friendship. But this, this unintentional action… This they've never seen.
Hands caressing, eyes searching, brows sweating, lips locking, hearts blooming.. These things the walls have never seen before. Tanned pressed to pale, black pressed to white. Opposites, truly, unintentional opposites.
My name is Mail Jeevas and I believe my unintentional best friend, Mello, Mihael, just found intentional love within the most unintentional of lovers, Near, Nate.
The author of the essay set his pencil down on the wooden top of the desk.
"I cannot believe how freaking sappy I can get when my DS dies."
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Random thoughts on Wammy's House and all that goes on inside.
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