Author's Note:The inspiration to write a fic about 13 came solely from a friend of mine. This chapter is a bit short, but I think it's perfect considering the context and the plot-line. The next chapter will be longer, I promise. Review? Oh, and please share as to whether or not it was OC enough. ENJOY!
Nope, I still don't own Death Note. Nor do I own Death Note: Another Note. Although I wish I did... :3
Fetch Thirteen Some Paper
Nami Child
It was the middle of the night. The security guards could hear the deranged sobbing coming from the cell they were watching over. They have been warned that the criminal residing in the cell was particularly dangerous and highly knowledgeable, yet they couldn't imagine anyone of greater intellect producing the noises of a mere madman. The criminal was caught only a day ago- brought in hurt, as one could tell from the bandages covering his entire body, face included. One of the younger guards, a smart fellow himself, wondered whether bandaging his face was necessary. He wondered if such an act was done on purpose, simply to shield the face of the murderer from the wardens and the like. But of course, that thought was dismissed, as a particularly old man called him for further instructions. The sobbing grew louder, the shaky releases of breath replaced by illegible screams and unreadable words.
Inside his cell, Beyond Birthday was clawing at his scars.
"Skin grows…" He whispered while rocking back and forth.
"Skin grows…. Skin grows, skin grows… Skin… Grows… Back…" He dug his nails into the healed scar tissue, not feeling any pain. Not feeling anything in particular, except the rage; the hot, liquid hatred of his own self. He hated himself. He loathed every intake of breath he took; he could not stand his ability to think so sharply. He giggled at his deranged thoughts…
"Really, really, really?" He laughed his unbalanced and unhealthy laugh and asked the emptiness in a singsong voice "Dear, dear, dear A, are you watching me up there? Are you proud of me?" Beyond's voice suddenly dropped to an inaudible whisper "It's fine, A… You can tell me. No? I'm not proud of myself, either. Ha… How did he know? He shouldn't have known… Oh, cruel, cruel, cruel. I'd like to drink his blood."
He smiled at the thought. It would be like eating jam, except it won't be as sweet… Suddenly, he threw his head back and howled. He howled from within his throat, producing a frightening and a lonely sound. It lasted for about a minute or so, with tears running from his accursed eyes. But it hurt him to cry; he brought his hands up so he could wipe his eyes, and as soon as he done so, he noticed his tears were trimmed with blood. A pretty, pretty pink hue. Lovely, lovely, just like diluted jam he used to drink. Beyond got on all fours and looked around the floor… He noticed a few cracks, but nothing major that would allow him to escape. Not that he would want to, obviously. He knew he wouldn't be able to stand himself outside of the prison, for the very foundation of the world was based on vanity. Everything could reflect. Everything. And he, Beyond Birthday, could not stand to look at his own face, because it filled him with immense hatred. It made him sick to the point where his hands would itch with the desire to claw out his own face.
As he was crawling on the harsh, cold ground, he noticed a rock. He mouth pulled back in a delirious grin. "No more scars, Beyond. No scars, no scars." He picked the rock, fighting hard with himself as to not resemble L. L… His face contorted in fury. He allowed himself to growl as loud as possible, whilst he sharpened the tiny rock against the wall.
"All alone in a tiny cell… Bad idea, bad idea…" As the dust from the rock filled the room, Beyond decided that it would perhaps be a good idea to request some paper. Whether his request was granted or not, it didn't matter; he would still write… He would still write L a letter, even if it meant writing on the walls of his cell with his own blood.
With the last bits of energy, he managed to get up. He heard his back crack from the prolonged neglect; perhaps from sitting down on the cold, hard ground for an entire day. With his shoulders still arched, he noticed he was under surveillance. Nonetheless, it was fine with Beyond, as he was rather passive at the moment. He finally found the strength to bring his arms up and grip the bars that covered the tiny window at the metal door. Sounding surprisingly sophisticated he asked for paper and any safe and permitted writing utensil. He did not necessarily expect an answer, so as soon as he made his request, he put his back against the wall once more, and slid down onto the ground.
Giggling madly he whispered the prayers he heard a guard recite the time he was being transferred from the hospital to his cell. Religion is so foolish… But so delicious… I think I might just go to church on Sundays along with other mates, just so I could hear the olden words recited.Laughing at such a ridiculous thought, he took note of the absence of the guard. Went to fetch Thirteen paper, good boy, good boy. And he was, indeed, correct. He knew very well that the guard had to contact to World's Greatest detective, to see if he would approve. The synthetic voice agreed that it would be best to present him with writing material, simply so he could express the rage of his loss onto the paper instead of his already scarred body.
