Word count: 1,946
Prompt: "a husband mourns the death of the wife he didn't love"
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Relapse
Was it desperation?That must have been what prompted him to cling to his wife's shifty folds of clothing. She slid out of his grasp, as flighty as a butterfly in humid summer sky. Light shuddered, falling to the ground in a tousled mess of her limbs. He buried his face into her neck, smelled the musty perfume-- he had chosen this one, as opposed to some of the fruitier ones she owned-- and brushed his lips along the silky neck, white like soft cream.
Even in her middle age, she was beautiful. How sweet, Light thought, but he wasn't sure whether he was referring to the notebook or the scent of her immortal skin. He imagined pearls, gleaming along her collarbones, and Light dragged two fingers roughly down her breastbone, stopping just before the gap where shirt fell away from skin. She was dressed most elegantly of all, tearing away from the childish fashions at last, garbed in a fluffy, scarlet dress with petticoats underneath. Her eyes were powdery blue, and closed, and Light suddenly kissed them, certain that flimsy sparkles would rub onto his lips.
He was mourning the loss of his beloved wife; it reminded him so, so much of how his best friend Ryuuzaki had died. But Light smirked as soon as the thought came to mind: it was a lie, he knew it, everyone knew it. Except everyone didn't, because Light had kept his mouth shut, and so had Misa. What a faithful wife she'd been. She wanted children, begged him for a little 'Misa or Light of our own', but obediently swallowed more birth control when he shook his head. She made a point of eating the pills in front of him, as if to prove that she was listening. Or perhaps it was in defiance. But in any case, Light never did worry about it, and her efforts ended up futile.
He imagined her eyes peeking past the closed, periwinkle eyelids. They were dark, cocoa-coloured in disapproval and pain. How could you? they seemed to ask. But hadn't she known? Hadn't you known, Misa-chan?
Today was the anniversary of Ryuuzaki's death.
She set out flowers. Almost-black roses were arranged amid sunshine yellow ones. Light was shocked by her thoughtfulness. How appropriate-- the ebony colour to indicate a regretful death, and lemon to express the utopia that came after. He had stroked each petal, fingers dipping into the cold, glassy water, and rubbed the translucent beads piled up inside the vase. Light stirred, finding Misa leaning in the doorway of the kitchen, watching him, one black teardrop earring dangling. He was momentarily stunned by the colour of the very dress that he now buried his face in, the rosy essence restoring lost youth, and bringing a cherry flush to her sunken cheeks.
He half-expected her to run to him; engulf him in a hug, perhaps, but it never came. She simply stood there, and watched him. Light stared at her, not sure what he was seeing in her face: was it desire, or an emotion he was unfamiliar with? From her, that is. He thought he a saw a glimpse of Ryuuzaki's mischievous nature in her flickering suspicious eyes, and could have choked. It has to be today, he thought suddenly.
She opened her mouth. Light expected sharp words, but the question that came out was perfectly simple, and would be ordinary if everything about them was not so out of the ordinary.
"What do you want to eat?" She regarded him coldly, and Light wondered why she was dressed so grandly if all she was going to do was cook. Her lips quivered. Out of reflex, Light reached, ready to pull her into his arms, but she still stepped back, and his arms fell, one hand slipping itself into his pocket.
"I'm not hungry," he said. He considered kissing her, running his fingers through her hair; make her smile, make her his. But she didn't look like she wanted it. Misa, his middle-aged wife, still thought she was a teenager, and she was pouting at him. A Light in a brighter mood might have chuckled coldly.
She ruffled her dress a little, untangling the petticoats with long fingernails. They fluttered upwards and settled down again, floating lazily through thick, congested air. "You don't want to eat anything?" she asked.
Light shook his head.
Subdued, Misa drifted over to the vase of flowers, arranged them with deft fingertips, until they tilted in an artistic position, and leered at him like demons. She clicked her tongue, clearly displeased, then shuffled them around some more, one long red rose swaying in the centre, a king among the others.
Today was the anniversary of Ryuuzaki's death.
Light watched her, as if in slow motion, pull out a wooden chair from the table with a faint squeak, and sit down, like a goddess descending on an airy throne of lotus clouds. Billows of the scarlet dress rose up to her elbows but she pushed it down, slumping in her seat, no expression at all on her perfect nymphet face. A long, drowsy second passed.
"Kira." Abruptly, she spoke. "Do you think you might have forgotten something?"
Light awoke.
"What?"
"Kira," she repeated, quietly. She squirmed a little, bare knees rubbing together, fingers twining and untwining; but instead of looking unsure and cute, the movements seemed willful, as if everything could be traced to those glittering eyes looking to the floor. "Do you think you might have forgotten something?"
Why had he expected her to call him Light? Hadn't he said, once upon a happy beginning--
"What are you talking about?" he replied. His voice sounded deep and powerful.
-- in the silence after L's death, that he would forever be Kira, to his wife most of all?
"Today's Wednesday," she said. "We're supposed to go out."
So that explained the dress.
"And you still haven't judged anyone." There was a strange undertone to her words. Light's heart recoiled in annoyance, mistaking her sulkiness for poutiness.
Light grunted.
She didn't answer. One hand was propped on its elbow, and her cheek was squished against it, as she stared dreamily out the window.
"The newspapers are in the living room, if you're using them today," she sighed.
He nodded, and slipped away, silent, calm like the eye of a hurricane that ripped mountains from the earth.
Glancing into the kitchen, he saw Misa hold up a ripe green apple, which was quickly nabbed by a set of dark claws and tossed in a graceful arc into the shinigami's throat.
---
His fingers were gentle. And loving, also, against the slippery-smooth black cover, as they ran over familiar creases and curves, over a tender spot where silly Misa once dripped coke. Yagami Light's head tilted as he watched his wife, fingers becoming numb, numb, numb, gripping a blue pen so tightly his blood trickled to a stop.
AMANE
M
I
S
A.
He stood up as soon as he was finished, the instrument of God falling from his lap and onto the ground, folding and contorting. He was at her side, and waited. Agony. Light glanced at her fingers, bare except for her engagement and marriage rings, and he didn't like that shade of nail polish on her hands. When she finally reacted, the first thing she did was look at Light, lips half parted in fear. He looked steadily back at her. He could imagine his own eyes, gleaming darkly from a handsome face, observing the violet-grey blood vessel in Misa's forehead convulse. Goodbye, dear, faithful wife. Goodbye, Kira the second. You truly loved me; I am sorry I did not love you back.
Hopefully, she'd go somewhere nicer than this place. Light blew a kiss at her with two fingers. She reached at him with one thin arm, skin flushed, a tendons tensed in her creamy white neck. He saw silver powder dusting her shoulders, making them gleam. His cheek ached; then he realized he was smiling.
Today was the anniversary of Ryuuzaki's death.
Light felt one tear-- a tear of excitement-- slip from his eyes, which slithered down his smooth face and landed onto her still-warm flesh. It quivered, briefly, before sliding where gravity willed. It stayed precariously still on her sculpted nose, until Light smeared it off with a crude finger. His finger left a blue mark.
It would become the anniversary of Misa's death. Light made a note to buy red roses, and put them in the vase.
Another ghost to haunt him until his own lifespan came to an end. Or so Ryuk might say, if he was in the correct mood. Light wanted to laugh out loud at the idea. He could feel Ryuk watching over his shoulder, crumpled in corner where wall-met-ceiling-met-wall, but the Shinigami was not laughing. But that made sense, thought Light, for Ryuk had grown to like Misa, hadn't he? Or perhaps he merely felt the apple still in his hollow, inhuman stomach, and could remember the movements of Misa's wrist as she sought for the right fruit.
Now Kira really was God. He was shaking; and was that laughter which fled his lips? He hadn't felt so excited, since, since-- no, even before Ryuuzaki's death. For that had been planned down to the finest detail. He hadn't felt this excited since the day he truly realized what he could become, Death Note clutched tight in his claws. It was much more fulfilling and intoxicating than an orgasm, or the satisfaction he gained from reading Kira news reports. He keeled and fell to the ground in a mess of weak limbs. He was God. God. Kira.
He stroked her wrist, and pulled her dead body upwards, cradling his wife in his chest. He whispered something unintelligible in her ear. He kissed her softly on the mouth, then cruelly, pressing his lips into her rouge ones. She didn't look so beautiful close up, and Light had a suddenly odd thought that he wouldn't mind giving his wife away to his workmates. The men in the police office so liked to admire her-- admire them, the beautiful couple that had worked so hard with the world's greatest detective in an attempt to find Kira. Once he said, delectably charmingly, a week after a promotion, "If Misa had not supported me, I do not know if I would have gotten this far." Her eyes lit up, and she squealed and jumped into his arm, knocking him just off-balance.
But there was a sour taste in his mouth as he thought of her shining face, and he closed the memory.
Light held Misa tight. His exhales reached her earlobe, and the earring swung.
It suddenly felt very silent. Empty.
It was like a vacant show. The seats were darkened appropriately and the theatre echoed with any slight sound. Light sighed, very softly, but the nearly imperceptible noise seemed to ripple the wings and bring them roaring to life, like curtains possessed. He stood out onto the stage but the spotlight didn't show. Kira could feel himself getting upset, jealousy and rage fuming in his chest. Yet he stood still, respiring heavily on the centre X of a grand stage, covered in shadow.
Light straightened, suddenly sickened with the thought that he held a cadaver in his arms. Briefly, she swayed, as he let go-- then he grabbed her again, and held her with renewed fervour. Light's eyes fell upon her naturally pouted lips, and noted the faint sheen of scented oil on them.
Did I need to kill her?
Light's face grew more and more deformed as he couldn't answer.
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A/N: I'd like to thank the person that invited me to be a staff member of the "Kira Worship: Light and Misa Collection" C2; seeing its existence both reminded me about the fic, and inspired me to finish it. Concrit welcome! I wish I had more time to edit it in detail.