This is the product of extreme boredom, too much Sam *drool*, and OTD (Obsessive Teru Disorder) So without further ado, enjoy and R&R!
(Oh ya, by the way I don't own Death Note, don't sue, blah blah blah! Let's just say, if I did own Death Note, it would receive some minor… adjustments.
A/N: Let's see, I'm gonna twist the plot in this a lot, and though this is just a one-shot, prepare for Epic-ness of epic proportions. So lemme see, beware, this fic contains: self-mutilation, ritual-y stuff, psycho!Mikami, over-use of the word "sakujo" and something else but you'll just have to wait and see.
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Every human being is borne with a gift, a gift of whether to pursue good or evil; for there is no existence in between those two. This gift is both the very thing that can breathe life into a person, or in turn, strip it away. –Abe
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Clink.
Mikami Teru winced at the offensive tinkle of porcelain on wood as he gently set his lukewarm cup of ginseng tea on his coffee table. He grazed a pale palm over the surface of his immaculate hardwood table, hissing as the fresh wounds on his palms met cool wood, blood smearing the once untouched cleanliness.
He cursed under his breath and stood abruptly, a pained groan escaping his lips as the coarse fabric of his dress shirt cut into the deep wounds in his back. He squeezed his eyes shut, standing completely still as he felt warm liquid trickle down his spine. Only for you, Kami.
He took in a deep inhale and lets his feet drag against the carpet as he continues a torturously slow pace towards the last door at the end of the hallway. He pauses, his bloody hand resting on the brass doorknob, the steady throb of newly opening wounds ringing through his very soul. He twists the knob, choking back a strangled gasp as the newly scabbing slits on his wrists pulled his skin painfully, "Kami!" He gasped as he all but tumbled through the door, landing on his knees on that familiar silk carpet, that putrid, heinous carpet.
He looked up tentatively at the large "K" painted on the wall in seamless calligraphy. He crawled forward, grasping the Death Note, which had been laid on a plush, satin pillow with a golden quill aligned neatly next to it. All day he had watched the news, reading and memorizing names of criminals he'd seen on television, for this special time of the day.
That's what Teru Mikami was; special.
Ever since that day Kami had chosen him to be his subordinate it was like Kami had spoken to him, and in a way he had. And when Lady Takada had him speak to Kira, god himself, his body had gone to lead, he could barely form a coherent sentence let alone have an intelligible conversation with Kami, the one he loved, the one he worshipped.
Worship.
He had long since decided that what he did here every day was worship, and yet he was certain it wouldn't be enough, he would never be enough. He took the quill and stood, stepping to the far corner of the room, standing in front of a large dusty mirror. He looked upon his reflection, I am beautiful, he thought, Kami loves me, so I am beautiful. He aligned the sharp tip of the quill on the crest of his right pectoral and slowly sunk the cold metal into his flesh, relishing the pain and feeding on the horror.
He dragged the tip of the quill through his flesh, whimpering and sobbing out in pain as he formed the mangled word, "Kira" on his body. Blood pooled around him, his whole body stained a brilliant crimson. He cried out as he bent down, dipping the quill in the pool of red and lined it on the pages of the Death Note, tears blurring his vision as he scribbled name after name, muttering his familiar mantra, "sakujo, sakujo, sakujo, sakujo."
Soon all the names looked the same and he couldn't distinguish what they said, all that he knew was he was doing Kami's work, and that was all that mattered.
He began to feel light-headed and just scrawled any name that came to mind, the bloody letters before him all a blur. "sakujo, sakujo, saku--" he was cut short as he hacked violently, blood and saliva dripping from his cracked lips. He wrote every name he'd ever known, writing and scrawling he was nearly at the end of the page when he wrote in miniscule writing, 'Mikami Teru.'
His hands shook violently as his legs gave way and he sunk to the ground, his head was spinning and his chest rose slowly. "K-Kami, K-Kira, a-am I worthy?"
He dropped his quill, the slow mantra of "sakujo", slowly halting as he head lulled dully onto the floor, blood dripping from his mouth and adding to the pool on the floor, creating a beautiful crimson halo around his head.
Everything grew black but he still managed to tug a smile onto his face, death was okay, he knew this was Kami's plan for him. Kami wanted him to die happy, doing the thing he loved, serving Kira. Teru Mikami was special, even in death. Because Kami loved him, so he thought, and that made him beautiful.
A/N: Wow, I really like it, it was a bit gorey but it really makes sense. Please R&R and thanks for reading!