My Porcelain Tears

He ducked his head, avoiding the eyes of the demons to hide his tears. He could hear chanting. Kira! Kira! KIRA! A frown marred his disfigured face at the noise.

Kira should be—is-was-will be— dead, yet these mocking voices continued their mantra. He tried to focus on something else. Anything else would have done, but the shinigami continued on and he couldn't force himself the ignore it. It drilled into his head where it knocked his brain around, making him crazy with anger and fear.

I'm not Kira anymore! I don't want to be! LEAVE ME ALONE!

Raito started to run, found the movement to be odd in his new, stretched out body, and stretched his wings to fly instead. Fuck you, I'm not Kira! Controlling the reddish wings that sprouted from his back came almost naturally, and in seconds the chanting had faded to only a dull buzz somewhere far behind him. He was just thankful that they weren't following.

Slowly, he touched down next to a dead tree, folding his wings back into his body in the process. There he dropped to his knees, digging sharp nails into the sandy wasteland of the shinigami realm as he clenched them. He punched the ground, frustrated at everything and nothing. He wasn't Kira, damn it! He used to be, but no longer! He was dead, and now he just didn't care. Let the earth rot! The thrill of becoming a god had died with L.

L.

Growling, he threw a fistful of black sand into the air. "I hate you." he mumbled to nothing, leaning over and pressing his head to the sad excuse that was called the ground here. "I hate you." He reiterated, just in case the landscape—what little there was to look at—wanted to hear. "I hate you." Again, this time to himself, and without much conviction. "If you hadn't fuckin died, I wouldn't be here."

He laid there, forehead pressed into the black sand, thinking of the detective who had thought so far ahead that his victory had been assured the moment they had started to work on the case together. How fucking infuriating, and how appropriate.

"Stupid raccoon."

In his mind, L said, with amusement in his eyes and words, "I am not of the Procyonidae family, nor am I stupid, Raito-kun."

Tears—or whatever substituted for them when one is a shinigami—fell from blood red eyes, pure white in color. They solidified to porcelain, then shattered against the ground.

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You know, for a drabble I'm posting on Valentine's Day, this sure is depressing. Whatever. Happy Valentine's Day. I don't really like VD much. I hope my uncle doesn't visit.