June 8, 2004. Day eight of confinement. Aizawa steps inside. Locks the door behind him and leaves the keys there, by the exit. You want to dash toward them. Grab them in your hands, feel even the metal bite into your skin. Your ticket to freedom. You can't. You're hobbled, anyway. And you stand, uncomfortably, as Aizawa sets down a bucket of soapy water, a rag, a comb, safety razor and shaving cream. He gestures for you to tilt your head, without speaking. Looks pointedly only at his work, tension lining his hands; this, too, has nearly become habit. With one rough palm he holds onto your chin. The other takes the razor, gliding a smooth line through the soap, flicking it down and toward the open toilet. He has not spoken a word to you for three days. Another pull of the razor; wetness and the sheathed edge of a blade. There's no hesitation now. All throughout the night, you'd been disturbed, an unaccountable terror knotted in your gut, stringing its way along every limb and waking you in odd hours to the same view: those bare blank walls; the camera in its place; seven days.
Now eight.
I let myself be put in here to prove my innocence, you think, but all it's proving is my guilt.
You don't immediately notice the wetness sliding across your face. The burning of your eyes barely registers. It's not until you notice Aizawa's uncareful, efficient movements falter that you realize you're crying; and then, even when you realize it, you can't stop.
Still he doesn't say a word. He finishes shaving you and then moves on to wiping down the rest of your body; your shoulders, arms, the sleeves of your shirt getting dampened from the wet cloth, and you're shaking. As he draws the towel across your back you're shaking. As though caught in a blast of cold. Some kind of physical reaction you can't control. Until yesterday, you'd been so sure this was all temporary. Something to push through. But Kira hasn't killed for eight days, now, and even Aizawa thinks you're Kira. He cleans you with precise and dutiful movements, his touch unlingering, his gaze turned down. On his face, the flat line of his lips. In his eyes, something hard and sharp.
Why can't you stop shaking?
When Aizawa finally steps away, bringing the bucket with him, and leaves the cell, locking it back behind him, the dull echoes of his footsteps fading against the concrete ground, you sink down to your knees, resting your head against them; you do not want L to see you crying. You don't know why you can't stop.
"It's starting to hit you, isn't it?" L's voice says through the cold speakers. Matter-of-fact, and of course he would take advantage of this weakness. It's nothing more than you expect, and yet where is this weakness coming from? You're shuddering, chest heaving, your body prickled with gooseflesh. Salty tears are leaving tracks against your nose; they are splattering against the dry ground. I feel like I'm losing my mind. "What confinement really means. And that…" L sighs, thoughtful, almost flippant; "you'll never get out."
You can't answer. If you opened your mouth, you think all that would come out is a scream; the sound of it coiling inside your throat, a building pressure.
"Think about it, Light-kun. If you don't confess, well… yours could be a very long life. I'm sure you're aware some people spend years on death row. However, I don't really see a need to put you through unnecessary pain. If you confess, we can finish this quickly." He pauses, and then adds in sudden seriousness, "I promise you that."
.
.
.