EDIT: This story was originally intended to be a one-shot, but I sort of, somehow, wrote a sequel to it. I'm going to do some slight editing to this chapter, but it's not going to be anything major. If there's any other errors I didn't catch, I just hope that you can read on to the next chapter, which is what I intend for you to critique. This chapter is like 2, 3 years old. So, yeah, I'm not a great editor, I'm just a producer.
Same creative licenses apply as the last time, with the taking liberty in ages, events, etc. Also there's a lot of graphic language. I don't intend for this to be canon, hence why it's a fan fiction. So, enjoy.
"Lacrimosa dies illa
Qua resurget ex favilla
Judicandus homo reus.
Huic ergo parce, Deus:
Pie Jesu Domine,
Dona eis requiem. Amen."
I have reason to believe that I have not truly cried since I was the tender age of seven; it was on the day of February the thirteenth, the year of Our Lord 1990. That day would prologue a series of most unfortunate events that would lead to the making of the man I claim to be today: my mother was to die in a gruesome train wreck.
It was not as though I had not seen it coming; hell, death and demise are some of the few things that cannot surprise me—I see it before it happens.
Which is why it was almost preternatural that I kill; I reckon myself a sort of harbinger, the omen that you do not want showing up at your doorstep.
I can do that to people. I can make them fear me, loathe me with every fiber of their being; but I can also make them obsessed and repulsed, to the point of morbid fascination.
I'm an amorphous, androgynous figure with no distinct facial pattern. I am the face-stealer of the old lore, I am able to shift and mutate my face into any one I deem useful. It has been so long since I have been myself, that I fear that there is nothing left of me.
But there is nothing to complain about, for I have taken the shape of the most prominent figure in all of modern society. He has become the brunt of all my extensive research, my (quite literal) back-breaking postural techniques. This creature I lust after is the most disgustingly angelic person that I have ever laid eyes on.
And I was quite fortunate to have been able to do so.
L Lawliet, how your numbers twinkle in the eerie, foggy crimson haze, repeatedly changing with every course of action you take. You are one of the few people with such spasmodic death dates. One moment you have twenty years on you, the next a month. It has utterly captivated me.
Though, I cannot be blamed for my morbid fascination. You are the one that made yourself so utterly interesting. I can cackle at the very idea of your eccentricities—you make it very hard to be copied, my pet. It had never been that hard to steal another's identity before I laid my eyes on you.
And I'll never forget the looks bestowed upon my person by you, my superior, though only by two years. The look of pure, unadulterated abhorrence whenever I graced you with my presence; the look of shock when I'd slither out from under your bed; the quiet gasp when I moved just a little too close for comfort.
Might I, perchance, be the only one who can make you squirm, make you feel oh-so uncomfortable in your own body?
I thought you would enjoy my admiration, Lawliet, but it seems that I was wrong. Whenever I touched your smooth, petal-soft and divine skin, I saw that look of repulsion pass through those dilated pupils. It's only going to be considered masturbation, my love, how terrible is it to fuck yourself?
And, for the record, I'm the only person in the known universe that can read every waking thought that passes through that brilliant mind. It took many years of devout watching to be able to do that, and I can proudly say that it has been accomplished by moi.
While I'm still oh-so proud of it, my love, it does not stop me from wanting to crush your skull. I lust for your blood, Lawliet, I want it splattered all over the posh, creamy carpets of that vile housing facility. I want to gut you, eat your entrails and trophy your writhing, stubborn heart on a scepter. I want to hang your brilliant brain by its medulla oblongata, use it like a mistletoe. Maybe it could then be put to some good use, eh, Lawliet?
Do you understand this innate, primitive need? I want to peel away your skin, layer by layer, digging though the dermis, puncturing your smooth muscle. I want the rip your tendons from their fatty layers, suck on them like egg noodles, and scream in delight from your moans of pain. This desire is non-stopping, and even I fear for your safety, my pet.
But, please do realize that I had meant no harm in the beginning. I can entirely blame you for your wrongdoing. Making Quillsh and Roger place you on a pedestal, make you an object of our soul obsession.
And, never once did I find it odd that I was the only one to take this obsession to a psychical level. I could see it in Mello's eyes once, but it faded away with friendship. You were lucky to have found that Jeevas boy, L, for yet another protégé could have ended up like myself.
Maybe that was the key to sanity: Friendship. I was unlucky enough to have a best friend who hung himself silently beside me as I slept, leaving a note imprinted on his wrist that read "I quit."
A was your first shortcoming, was he not? I could see it in the way you deterred from Wammy's for the six months following his death, and how you refused to look me in the eye the moment you returned.
Sometimes, L, I wonder if you're as smart as people make you out to be.
Me, a young child whose best friend had committed suicide in your name and in my face, being so carelessly tossed to the side by the one object that faceted my sole obsession, my livelihood. I know you've studied into psychology, so you know the side effects of continuous neglect. Pretty stupid and inane for a genius.
But, then again, I was never able to stay angry at you for too long. Do you remember our visit in your chambers the following evening? The way I made you gasp and tremble, the piteous moans and cries for salvation?
"Tearful that day on which will rise from ashes, guilty man for judgment."
It hadn't taken you too long to understand where that had come from, the moment I whispered it into your ears. Lacrimosa, from Mozart's Requiem. The song I have set for you, thus shall it blatantly mark your end.
But I could not kill you, for it was not yet your time. I had left my presence imprinted onto your flawless, creamy skin, however. I left my mark—two large "B"s on each side of your hip, carved and cauterized by yours truly.
And, truly, the pleas for release were enough to end me off the edge, and I wanted nothing more than to lick the blood from your skin, if only to spit it in your face and gloat as I had officially made you mine.
And while I may have left that day, leaving you with a blank look and a single, trembling tear, that lust had never dissipated.
So I transformed it, in a metaphor to myself. I transcended this lustful desire into a game of cat and mouse, knowing that the intricate details of my crime would have you running to solve it. The innate desire you possess to solve the unsolvable.
And I knew that you knew, and I had so hoped that you would show up personally.
But, you left me with that wench, though I must give credit where credit is due.
You have not won yet, Lawliet. I know you far too well. I shall remain imprinted onto your psyche, the fly that shall buzz and tick away at your conscience day after day until you can no longer think clearly. You will feel compelled to look over your shoulder at the slightest movement; whenever someone lays a hand upon your person in any intimate gesture, you shall be reminded of me, my body colliding with yours in an entirely dominating position.
And lastly, I shall remind you of your failures, and how even the Greatest Detective in the World is fallable.
Do keep in mind, my pet, that even if my body shall perish from the Earth, my presence is everlong. And know that, even if I could never see my time of death, I never said that I could not feel it.
Yes, Lawliet, I am to die, it comes of no surprise, your newest case shall discover my name sooner or later. But, before I go, I just want you to know that-
At that exact moment, the pen froze in Beyond Birthday's charred hand, the ink creating a thick, dark line down the otherwise pristine white paper. The prisoner felt himself keeling over, and he threw his head back in true, righteous laughter.
"So this is what it's like to die!" He gave one last wheeze and collapsed to the floor, soundless and unmoving.
He was found within moments of his demise, and his letter was sent to his capturer, L, who had been adamant in his refusal to read it in the presence of any human being. His team had been quite irate by his action, and L had to repeatedly assure them that this was an entirely deviated matter that had nothing to do with their "Kira."
But that night, alone in his own solitary confinement, the brilliant man read the letter, word-for-word, backwards to forwards, actively and passively. He felt as though he could hear his doppelganger writing him this unintentional farewell, cackling and crooning with delight. It sent a shiver up his spine.
"May you, for once, be in peace, B." L turned his head away and placed the letter on his bedpost, curling reflexively upon himself in a meditative state. He dwelt alone in his thoughts, piecing together memories of Beyond in a sort of requiem for the man's quietus, all the while unconsciously tracing the thick, jarring scars that adorned his hips.
That night, if anyone had bothered to check up on the man, they would have heard the faint, ghost-like chants of the chorus as Mozart's "Lacrimosa" played on a repetitive note, and the silent prayer for the departed.
"Tearful that day,
on which will rise from ashes
guilty man for judgment.
So have mercy, O God, on this person.
Compassionate Lord Jesus,
grant them rest. Amen."
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