I open my eyes, black turns to a harsh white.
White is all I ever see.
White walls, white people, white clothes, white floors, white halls, white food, white dreams. I am a victim of the neverending whiteness. With my hands bound tightly to my sides, there is no way to escape it.
Except death.
But death is also white, and therefore, I shy away from it. Not wanting to be near another white object. Because white is what put me in this situation, the need to crush white is what finally drove me over the edge.
I think he still follows me.
A shadow. Black, tainting the perfect whiteness that I have come to accept. He whispers to me, following me, watching me with his deep, black holes. He smiles, a possessed twisting of the mouth, too long, too high.
Always watching me, always whispering telling me to kill, to attack, to stop living. To let him take me over, and I don't want to, because then I know I'd be friendless.
While I sit here, my arms bound tightly to my sides, I watch, my red eyes following every familiar crack in the floor. I know none of this is real, I know I'll wake up from this dream eventually, and it will all be over.
Unfortunately, I am certain that this is all real, and the only way to wake up is to die. Which I am attempting to avoid at all costs, I don't want to die.
I just want to go home. I want to see him, the man that drove me insane. We'd be the same age, still, always have been. Would he still wear that baggy white shirt? Did we still look alike? So much alike that people would mistake us for twins?
Someone enters my cell, I stare blankly at their white shoes. I have lost my will to fight, I know it will only get me the red card, which I tend to also avoid. As soon as the person with white shoes enters, my shadow appears.
He crouches next to me, slowly, I turn my head to look at him, bored, tired, and emotionally fried. He smiles, the corners of his mouth twisting up his cheeks like ugly scars, he's holding a knife, repeatedly digging it into his wrists, letting blood lap out over his black arms.
"How are you, B?" He whispers, lapping the blood from his arm. The person with the white shoes is attempting to talk to me, but I completely ignore them. Just like always. They don't care, no one does, no one will. Except for the shadow. He cared.
And L.
L had been my childhood friend, the first man I loved, the one who drove me insane-literally and metaphorically. But I knew he cared, even as he grew and began to wipe all emotion from his face, from his body, from him. I knew he cared, I knew he never expected anything like this to happen to me.
And, as far as he was concerned, it hadn't.
Or did he know? I looked at my shadow for an answer, but he just shrugged back at me, his possessed, terrifying smile beginning to dance, slowly, lethargically across his face. He leaned forward and kissed me, then sat back with a pout.
"Who cares? You have me, now." His voice was like a hiss, not coming to me, but seeming to dance throughout my body, creeping coldly up my spine, and eerily pummeling my brain.
I watched the white shoes walk across the white floor, heard the white door open and slam shut with a metallic bang. And then the room was silent, empty,. As usual, I was alone, my arms bound tightly to my sides, tears falling from my eyes.
I'd forgotten what the outside world was like, I'd forgotten the taste of jam, the scent of an early spring day, the feel of walking barefoot in the grass. All these senses had become dulled by white. White overrode every thought, every touch, every taste.
I want out.
Inside my head, I screamed, banging against a steel-barred cage until I was bruised and bloodied, laying in fetal position on the cold, metal floor.
A victim of schizophrenia.
No, I'm not, it's all real. My shadow, he always holds real objects, if I could move my arms, I would show you. I would take the knife from him, just to show you. I wouldn't hurt a soul, I promise. Those days of temper tantrums are behind me.
"The only way out is to die," he whispers, the voice making me shudder gently. It was so grotesque, so delicious, I loved it. Just as I had once loved L...
The man with white shoes reappears, I ignore him as I always do. This time, my shadow doesn't appear, I don't understand why. Though, such trivial matters no longer affect me.
He looks at me, in horror, I stare blankly back at him, not able to move. He crouches beside me looking intently at my neck.
"How did you manage to slit your throat in a straight jacket?"
I want to tell him that it wasn't me, that it was my shadow.
But I'm already escaping the white hell.
Where I don't see White walls, white people, white clothes, white floors, white halls, white food, white dreams.
The End.
I don't own Death Note.
Lawlz, I bet you thought it was Mello when you first read about "crushing white" but if you think about it, L is white, B is black, get it? Yeah, B's totally insane. Oh, well.
Only White
6/30/10
Picasso