I do not own Death Note.
This particular drabble is a reupload of a oneshot by the same name; sorry to inconvenience anyone.
Beyond had always hated the letter A.
Well, he mused, not always.
Some days he liked the letter A. He wanted to put it with lots of other letters, so it wouldn't ever be lonely. On the days he liked the letter A, he especially liked putting A with B. He thought the two letters were good for each other; they made something good together, like C2, or the hypotenuse of a triangle. B liked triangles, he decided. Three points: black, white, and grey-a monochromatic triad.
Some days he hated it; wanted to rip the little legs off the character and stab them through the epicenter of the triangle it made. B wanted to see it bleed ink. He wanted to see it stain the paper, infect the naïve little letters it stood by. On the days he hated A, he would isolate the letter, a tiny indefinite article floating in a sea of white. When he hated the letter A, he never, ever put it with B. That little A would only make the letter B unhappy.
He hated the letter A because it would change its sound, saying one thing one word, another thing the next. A could be unreliable; unpredictable; fluctuating. Whatever A was, it was not constant. It wasn't like B; B stayed true, B never changed. That was the letter's task, its obligation. Each had a job to do, and to each it's own-not an option.
Letter A was destined to be first, in the beginning. A was vital; A was important; A was needed. At times, B envied the letter A; wished he could be the letter A.
Then, though, he remembered how the rest of the alphabet would take advantage of the letter A, and he would be happy he wasn't. A was gone; A was forgotten. And that would lead to the inevitable:
A was dead.
B began to think that he was jealous after all.