Scourge's Note: The drabble-story continued. Poems at the top are parts of Judith, by Adah Isaacs Menken.
See ye not what is written on my forehead?
She didn't belong; her reflection didn't look like theirs. Her skin was softer about the edges, not so defined; there was no ink to her, no sharp features. She seemed blurred in comparison her blue eyes, like watercolor spilled upon a blank canvas. Her voice would never match theirs—it was only a voice, where theirs were an extension of their souls.
And they could see that, when they looked at her. They could see her alien features, and they repressed a shudder. Few spoke of it; it was Light himself who first bothered to mention anything of it.
"There's something wrong with your skin." His clear voice had been soft and yet authoritative; he had not even bothered to turn. He merely continued to write, continued to condemn in spite of her presence. She valued her life far too much to throw it away so casually. "There aren't any definitive lines on your face—to be frank, you look a bit out of focus."
He always managed a grin at that fact, and his golden eyes gleamed, because he knew he was right. In this world, this two-dimensional world of bleak colors and empty skylines, she would always look like an angel. Shrouded in heavenly light, all she lacked were the wings—the thought always made her cringe. She was never supposed to be the artificial goddess, and she hated him for twisting her thoughts to weave with his own.
But she would rather hear his comments on angels and demons than be exposed to the revulsion in his family's eyes. To see Soichiro Yagami's avoidance of her gaze, to see them skirt around her as if she were a disease—too polite to throw her to the wolves, too human not to treat her like a leper's shadow. Yes, in the end she preferred the challenge in Light Yagami's eyes.