Every attempt I made, he was there to stop me. Every time I cut deep into my flesh, he was there to stop the bleeding. Every time I dropped too many pills into my mouth, he was there to make me spit them out. Every time I shoved myself under the water of the bathtub, he was there to pull me up. Every time I cried, he was there to hold me. Every time I woke up screaming, he was there to hold me. Every time I needed him, he was there. Every time I didn't need him, he was there.
He wouldn't yell at me. He would whisper softly to me. He would tell me how I can't take my own life. He would tell me that I needed to stay strong. He would tell me that I needed to think about all the good in my life. He would tell me that it would pain him too much if I were to die. He would tell me… he would tell me that he loved me.
Even now, in the fucking nut house, I think about him. I hear his voice in my ear. I feel his hand on my skin. I see his smile as I cry. I taste his lips on mine. I smell the sweet, musky scent that is his alone.
After the death of… Light… he was there for me. He wasn't necessarily there for me in the sense as to cheer me up, but in the sense that he wanted to prove me guilty for murders. So what if I was guilty? He didn't need to know that. He could never find the evidence to prove my guilt. As time grew, and we were both sharing the same bed, we became friends. Then… I found myself falling for him. I was infatuated with his stupid, quirky, always certain ways. I was infatuated with his god-like complexion. I was infatuated with his deep, sultry voice. I was infatuated with his lean yet toned body. I was infatuated with him. Period. He started to learn all my secrets, you know. All my dirty, dark secrets. Secrets like my past that I was trying to forget. Secrets like where I worked. Secrets like what I fantasized about. Secrets like my talents. Everything. He learned everything. Well… almost everything. He didn't know the real reasons as to why I was so unstable. Why I would cry every night. Why I wanted to die. Why I had nightmares. Why I wanted to kill every fucking person who pissed me off. I didn't tell him these things for one reason and one reason only. That reason? I loved him. I couldn't tell him because it would scare him off. Not literally, but he would see just how fucked up I am.
I remember the day clearly that I was brought here. It was the day that I had told him that I loved him. It was also the day that I told him that I was a murder. That I killed those men. The men that had violated me. The men that had cornered me and beat me and raped me. I killed them, and I didn't regret it in the slightest bit. I'm glad they're dead. They deserved to die. Along with the others I killed. Well, since I got off the topic, I'll get back on it. The day I came here, I had told him that I was the murderer and why I killed four men who weren't criminals in Light's eyes. He told me that he didn't care that I killed those men. He didn't care what I've done and what I do, as long as I was his. I gave myself to him. I loved him. He loved me. So, why am I here in this asylum, you might ask? Word got out about my various suicide attempts and my unstable state of my mind. Now, I'm taking two showers a fucking week, with someone right in there with me. I'm having pills shoved down my throat at designated times. I'm sitting on a bed that feels like a thousand soda cans all smashed together.
It's funny. I could call whoever I wanted. I called my best friend and him. After the first week, nobody would talk to me. He just stopped answering the calls. That made me feel even shittier. I just sat in my room after the first week. I just sat there. Only leaving to use the bathroom or shower. I didn't eat. I didn't sleep, really. I just sat there, on that fucking bed. I would stare at all the scars lining my body. My arms, wrists, legs, and even my chest. The people in white outfits thought I would be safe in my little cell room, but I was still a 'hazard to myself' since I was able to find things to cut myself with. I was so close, once. I cut pretty deep and fainted, but those fucking nurses had to come in. I overdosed quite a few times. I feel accomplished.
Just eight months ago I was told that I would only be there for four more months. It's been eight fucking months, four more months than I was suppose to stay here. I still wasn't ready to leave, they had said. Maybe if you would let me out of this fucking place I'd be okay, because things became a whole lot fucking worse when I came here, was my reply. I scare them. Good.
I was still trying to think of why someone came to talk to me. Why would someone come talk to a raving lunatic? Was it my boss who was displeased in me? Was it my friends who were embarrassed by me? Was it someone who I fucking hated? Was it my best friend since we were three who could be my long lost twin? Who the fuck could it be? I hated waiting to find things out. Either tell me that moment or don't even bother bringing the thing up.
"What the fuck?!" I shouted as I shoved my head onto my arms that were folded on the table in front of me.
"Still using foul language, I see." I heard footsteps coming my way, and that deep, sultry voice made my eyes water.
I lifted my head, showing no sign of the emotions I was feeling, and plastered a smirk onto my lips. "Well, well, after eight months of not calling me or answering my calls you show your ugly ass in here. Did you come here to gloat about some new girls you've been fucking, or a new case that you've cracked?" I crossed my arms across my chest and leaned back in the chair.
He laughed as he sat down in front of me. "You haven't changed."
"To hell with that. You think I was unstable before, I've become a fucking lunatic when they shut me up in here." I took a second to take in his appearance. A crisp, white shirt tucked into black slacks. His black hair was unkempt. His always dull eyes seemed duller. And his skin, it seemed paler then I was use to seeing. Then again, it's been eight months. I sighed as I thought about what I wanted from him. I wanted him to hold me and tell me everything was going to be okay. I wanted him to take me out of this place. I wanted him. "You clean up nice." I said with a hint of disgust.
I noticed that he was sitting up straight, his feet on the floor. "And you look like hell." His lips curved upwards and let out a laugh.
As soon as the laugh left my mouth, I stopped. "What?" He asked.
I shook my head, "I haven't laughed in eight months, I guess I forgot what my own laugh sounded like." I shrugged my shoulder, making the oversized shirt fall off one shoulder, "Why are you here?" My mood got very somber. "You abandoned me when I needed you the most. You let them bring me here, knowing that I didn't need to be here. You didn't answer my calls. You never called me back. You left me alone. You promised you would never leave me alone. You fucking lied to me, and you broke a promise." I was forcing myself to not cry. I dug my short nails into the skin of my palms.
"You think I wanted to let you leave?" He lowered his voice and leaned on his elbows so that he was closer to me. I leaned forward as well. "I wanted to tell them no. I wanted to make things okay. I wanted to call you. I wanted to come and visit. They would not let me, though. They said it would be a hazard if you were to keep contact with your life outside these walls."
"Because life inside these walls is fucking better?" I ran my hands down my face then slammed them on the table. "Dammit! Look at me, Lawliet! I haven't worn clothes in eight months. I haven't had any makeup on in eight months. I haven't been outside in eight months. You know what the worse part is? I haven't been with you in eight months. I haven't touched you, nor held you in eight months. " I quickly wiped my eyes of evidence of tears. "I tell you that I love you, and then I'm taken away to a fucking psycho ward! Look at me! They may think they are helping me, but they are only fucking up my life even worse! I have barely eaten in the past eight months. I was admitted into the hospital ward at least twenty time for starvation. I've cut myself while I've been here. I've overdosed. I've even tried drowning myself in the shower. Nothing works! I can't deal with being here anymore. Before I came here, I hadn't attempted suicide in three months, and now that I'm here I try to kill myself every chance I get! That tells you something. I need to get out of here, or I will end up dead." I exhaled deeply and lowered my voice so that he could only hear me, "I may as well admit I killed those men, and more, just so I can get the fucking needle." I shoved the table away from me and stood up.
The workers in white outfits started to walk over, but he shook his head and shooed them away with his hands. I walked over to the barred window and stared outside. It was spring. The sky was blue with white clouds. The sun was shinning, dull, but still shinning. His hands wrapped around my waist and his nose nuzzled into my neck. I closed my eyes and thought back to the happy days when we were together.
He took a deep breath in and whispered, "You don't smell the same."
"I smell like fucking old people." I mumbled. I turned around in his arms and smiled up at him. It was a real smile. Not a fake, sadistic smile I gave everyone for the past eight months. "I love you." I whispered.
His lips fell onto mine, sweetly, and when he pulled away he whispered into my ear. I closed my eyes as his breath caressed my ear and neck. "I'm taking you home today. No one can stop me, and no one will. I'm taking you home with me today. When I get you there, I will give you a bath and pamper you with everything you want. I will do whatever you want me to do. I will kiss you, hold you, make love to you, whatever you want. I will be with you. I love you, Misa, and I will make up for the eight months we have lost. I am taking you home."