Chapter 2: Laughter
Light had started the day like any other, big plans on his mind, and humming with apprehension over L, classes, his social life, and his greater purpose. A black-winged spectre hovered from time to time over his head, or behind his back, coming and going as it pleased. On his wrist was his watch, with a fresh piece of Death Note inside. But he hadn't expected to see her again, behind the recycling bins in the alley shortcut home that only he knew about. 'Why wasn't she dead?' he wondered, surprised, as he felt something sharp jab his skin. Waking up in the dark and finding himself tied and helpless, Light began to panic before calming himself to think. He concluded that, according to the rules, even if he could get to his watch, he wouldn't be able to use the powers of death on the same person twice.
Naomi drove right into the damaged part of the building. It was perfect for hiding vehicles. Pushing Light into the trunk was easier than pulling him out, but there was no reason to be gentle or to attempt to look graceful, she didn't care if she hurt him and out here no one could see...
"If someone were to die here they might never be found…" Naomi either thought or said out loud. Light chose that moment to strike a particularly harsh and angry scream through his gag, so it was probably the latter. Naomi felt that she was forgetting something because her observation didn't stir any particular feeling within her and she had learned to expect horrible answers from The Voice, like a dog learns to anticipate being hit with a newspaper. But there was only manic laughter in her mind. She didn't think about it long enough to find it unsettling because it was better than before. She was beginning to like The Voice while he laughed. When he was laughing, he wasn't making her feel bad about herself, so she was free to feel satisfaction, anticipation, and the feeling of rightness you get when everything goes exactly as planned. She was able to feel good about her choices again.
Unfortunately, she was no longer able to make good choices.
As he was dragged, Light could feel his skin scratch and bleed on the gravely floor on his arms and where his shirt was beginning to ride up. His yelling behind the gag began to fade into muffled, pitiful whining. It sounded so pathetic; Naomi found it highly amusing. She began to anticipate him breaking down into tears. She wanted to take something from him that he could never get back, like he had taken so much from her. She wasn't content to just kill him, she wanted him to die inside, like she had.
She stopped her slow and clumsy dragging to look down at him in the dirt, "Revenge will be so sweet, won't it, Light?" she smiled.
When Light didn't make any sound in reply she kicked him sharply in the ribs, connecting her boot to his midsection as he doubled over in pain with wet, meaty thunk-sounds five or six times until he wailed. She kept her foot on his chest and turned him to lie on his back and put her weight on his sternum. There was quiet for a moment while he just looked back up at her, silent but sweating. He began to struggle again, to get her foot off of his chest, and she obliged by moving it upwards slowly, dragging it up the left side of his chest, over his heart, and up to his neck, pausing to push down again on his throat. A wicked smile painted Naomi's wan, tired face and Light's eyes widened like saucers, his nose was beginning to run, but didn't make a sound. Naomi stepped down until he choked, then booted him in the ribs again until he rolled over, curled up in a little ball. It was so funny.
She turned him back over so that she could see his face again and bent down, kneeling on the floor uncomfortably close, and took out a nasty looking switchblade.
"You little, murdering, waste," she spat, smiling into the harsh words, running the dull edge of her blade along the material of his gag, "You horrible, sick piece of shit. How many good people got caught in your game?" Her eyes began to burn brightly, staring deep into him as she leaned down closer, sliding the steel edge deliberately along his cheek, "You killed my husband, a good man, and so many others. You did… something to me."
Light flinched every time his eye caught the flash of the blade, watching the small movements of her hand. Naomi brought her face closer to his, as he watched the blade, bidding him to look in her eyes. When they met, she began to slide the knife under the strap holding the gag.
"What do you have to say for yourself?" she asked, and cut with a quick careless motion, unleashing a clear scream.
"You bitch!" Light rattled out, earning a knee to the stomach. Naomi moved to crouch, and placed all of her weight there.
"NO!" She shouted, "YOU are the bitch," nearly spitting on his face, "You're a little punk, and you're going to die like a remorseless bitch," she grunted, slapping his face with each insult.
Light suddenly looked to the side, as if surprised by something and fixed his stare at a certain point, a broken stained glass window. Naomi looked in the direction he sought, but saw nothing.
"No one's coming to save you," she taunted, and smiled at how his agitation appeared to increase.
"Please, help me," he said dryly, apparently to no one. "Why won't you -?"
Who was he looking to for help? Naomi wondered. The saints on the windows? That thought struck her as amazingly funny, and she screeched with laughter.
"Light Yagami," she whispered in a saccharine, mocking tone, running the knife along the buttons of his shirt, slicing them gracelessly off his body, "Are you praying to God in this church? I didn't think you were the type," she scoffed.
"Stop it…" Light said, with admirable composure, through gritted teeth. She only laughed and waved the knife under his nose, while he squeezed his eyes shut.
With his shirt now open, she used the knife to open the sleeves so that what was once a nice garment was shredded to useless rags. There was no need to administer the same treatment to the pants, as she hadn't tied his legs, and could pull them off without hindrance, but she was amused by the zipper sound of the knife shredding fabric.
"Don't kick," She ordered like a schoolteacher, as she opened his belt and jerked it away with a smooth motion.
"NO!" Light yelled in response, kicking wildly.
Naomi pressed the side of the knife into his cheek, dull edge out so as to not cut him by accident, and looked him harshly in the eye.
"If you kick your legs, you are going to get cut," she said, with a menacing red glint in her eye that froze him.
After struggling with the tough seam at the waist of the khaki pants, she sliced quickly down the left leg, with an upward motion down to the hem, and then nipped the blade point into the thigh on the right, doing the same. With her knee still digging into Light's stomach, she sliced a few more times to tear the waist off the right side and discarded the mess of torn cloth that she had left. Long strips of cloth that had come apart with zipper sounds and flashes of light off a silver blade in the dark, dim, quiet sanctuary. It had all passed much too quickly for her.
She moved to straddle his legs in order to keep them in place to be tied, while Light lay still in fear, wanting to shout and break free more than anything. He could now feel an incredible heat radiating from between Naoimi's legs, through her black jeans against his bare skin, as she squeezed his legs tightly with her thighs. It was only then, there in nothing but his boxers, that he noticed the hard sexual tension of the situation, and it scared him when he realized that he was undeniably attracted to this monster. She tied his feet with his own belt, and secured it with a few knots of rags from his ruined clothes.
When she was done, he began to kick again, or attempt it. "HELP!" he shouted at some wall or alcove, again to Naomi's delight.
Light's shinigami shadow kept to the dark corners without speaking or interfering, just observing and chuckling mildly, the way he did at everything.
"Say it again, Light," she cooed, crawling up beside him and tracing the point of her knife in light patterns on his shoulder, as naturally as if it were her own finger.
"Help!" He repeated, weaker.
Naomi just laughed and let her knife flip over to the sharp side, and slid it painfully along an inch of his creamy white skin. He gasped, and so did she. It was the first cut, and she knew there would be many more.
"Why?" he entreated, not looking at her, and repeated, "why?"
No one answered him. Naomi just stood up and began to drag his body by the armpits, she wanted to bring him up to the alter, where the light streamed in through the broken windows and dusty chairs and cobwebbed crosses made a little diorama of sin and sacrifice. He seemed lighter than before, and she along with the voice, now so friendly and familiar, laughed together like old friends. They laughed at Light, at the church, the silence, the laughter, at themselves, at her impending death, and everything else. It all just seemed so damned funny.