Light Yagami always had many things on his mind, but tonight, the one thing preoccupying it was how he would be able to get away from Misa Amane, the apparent love of his life and a thorn in his side as well. He wasn't even sure if that was metaphorical.
He sighed as he walked into the apartment, certain of the fact that she would try to coax him into bed with her for the nth time. As he approached the living room, he cringed, waiting for the barrage of prying questions and shrill declarations of love.
To his immense relief, she seemed to be asleep, sprawled on the couch without a blanket or a pillow. Knowing her, and he unfortunately did, she had most likely tried to wait up for him, dozing off when she couldn't hold out any longer.
Asleep, she looked completely different from her normal bubbly self, her face completely emotionless and devoid of all expression, save for a slight crease in her forehead. If it had not been for her rising and falling chest and the soft, almost inaudible breaths that escaped through her nose, one might've thought her dead. In Light's opinion, she looked better this way; not so made up or over-personified as in reality. She was easier to ignore when she was unconscious.
He looked down at her. She looked so tiny and delicate, the couch easily swallowing up her small frame. She looked as if a mere breath of wind could break her. She was so pathetic.
As Light scrutinized Misa, he felt an emotion he had never felt before: pity. He knew that he was using her for his own gain, knew inwardly that he was leading her on and that what he was doing was wrong, so, so wrong, but in his calculating mind, all of that didn't matter as long as he achieved his goal of cleansing society of all crime. As long as the end justified the means, he would use any and everything that was useful to him, no matter who or what it was. In his black and white world, he cared for no one, nothing, except himself and the power he wielded. It was too bad for her that she was useful. At least, for now. Until she stopped being useful, he would supply her with anything she wanted. If she wanted his love, then he would give it to her, regardless of the fact that he meant none of it and his words sounded hollow to even his own ears. She would just have to be content with sweet nothings.
He wondered if she was aware of his disdain for her. He hoped not, for then she might not have been as willing to be his eyes. Then again, the girl was so foolish and infatuated with him that he could've bitten her and she would've taken that as a profession of his love for her.
Impulsively, he moved toward her and placed his hand on her forehead. She was so cold, her skin exceedingly cool to the touch. He hadn't thought she would be that cold, hadn't thought her capable. How curious it was that her personality was bright and perky and warm while her bodily temperature was quite the opposite. How funny.
It wasn't really that funny.
She was blinded by her love for him, Light mused. While it was advantageous to him, he couldn't help thinking that she could've done so much better, that she was destined for greater things.
He felt a twinge of remorse. It really was quite pitiful the way she threw herself at his feet, offering herself to him as a dog would for a treat, never minding the way he would always turn his head when she tried to kiss him or would tense up when she gave him a hug.
He shook his head. What was he thinking? Eliminating crime was his only focus; thinking about her would only distract him. Quite frankly, he didn't want to dwell on her, or how he might've ruined her life.
It wasn't even his fault, really. In his defense, she had known what she was getting herself into. It was every bit her fault as it was his that she would do anything for him, even die for him if need be, which he was planning on. He didn't encourage her devotion to him. He just didn't discourage it, either. Oh, well. Sacrifices had to be made.
He withdrew his hand. At least for one night, he could get some decent sleep without being pestered for hugs and kisses. He could finally get through to the next day without hearing her grating voice or, God forbid, being touched by her. Heaven knew that he'd had more than enough of her already.
He turned off the lamp on the stand and walked to his room, not hearing, or perhaps not caring about, the tiny, strangled sob that escaped from the girl, the accursed, dressed-up doll, on the couch.
After she was certain that he had gone in, Misa rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. In the darkness, she smiled ruefully, tears beading her eyelashes.
In the morning, she covered the dried tear tracks on her cheeks with concealer, meticulously applied eyeliner ringing the edges of her bloodshot eyes.
Not that anyone noticed.