Categories > Anime/Manga > Death Note
WARNING: This does contain spoilers for the whole series (inclusive of book 13)
Disclaimer: I don't own DN
Rating: PG-13 for murder, suicide and all else Deathnote
please, please review :D!
__________________________________________________________________________________
I. Telepathy
No one suspects, like she does, the possibility of extra-sensory perception. In all respects, she is perfectly normal. Blonde hair (natural or not, it doesn't matter), thin limbs, tiny frame. Dreams of fame, almost there. Kills in cold blood, dreams in color. Dreams with Raito, although he doesn't know it.
The snow was falling heavily when she first realised the color was wrong. Sepia, she thought, naming the hue immediately. Faded, drowned, and lovely. The color of old photographs framed in wood and left on dusty mantelpieces. Beautiful as it was, it was an undeniable fact that the color was not hers at all. Her dreams were in vibrant, flowing hues. Lush reds and blues and greens that filled every corner of her consciousness.
These were his dreams and Misa remembered, above all else, Raito's presence in them. He was unmistakable, more a force of nature than anything else; a heavy, black aura emanating from him like the corona of some brilliant star. God, she had thought, turning towards a flickering fire and bowing her head. Tendrils of dark hair veiled her vision.
She closed her eyes tightly, ignoring.
II. Aquarium Steps
Outside of turbulent dreams wooden frames are nothing more than wooden frames. And yet within them she sees the deep whorls that stand testament to the years of life endured by the very tree from which it was carved. The changes in the picture. Ages and ages; old, old time and the scars it leaves. Ages and ages, even though it has only been a handful of years.
The color is rich here, vibrant, flowing. /Her dream/. She feels the presence of it awaken her dulling senses. The dual edge of the redness, simultaneously taking away and restoring her life.
She had gazed at the photo intently moments before dying. It was a haphazard shot, taken from before this whole ordeal. A fountain in a park watched over the children playing near. A couple sat on its stone rim, their distance from each other rather chaste. Somewhere, a violin had been playing. Her face had a slight downward tilt to it, a surprised widening of the eyes that came only from an unexpected shot. Her sister had approached her and taken it, and she recalled punching her lightly in a manner of feigned annoyance. Ages and ages ago.
She had been admiring the redness of it all when she saw him again. So much red, more than such a tiny body should have been able to hold, surrounding her, cradling her to sleep. He had been there then. Not so much a guardian angel as a spectre of when he still needed something from her.
His feigned kindness and lovely words. False, but nice. These are all things she doesn't accept anyways.
For a moment, her mind acknowledges that he doesn't look the same. The dark, hulking form that replaced his old one is hard to mistaken.
/Neither heaven nor hell/, the words resurface, unbidden. But no matter.
"Come with me," he said, turning away and wading through the shallow water without waiting for her reply. She thinks about when he avenged her parents' murder, his original invitation. She never asked for any of this, but she never had any other choice.
Of course, she thinks, standing up and following. One month had already been too long.
III. I am known to his shadow
Near the end, Raito had looked different than she recalled. He was thinner, his features slightly more gaunt. It made him look so lovely, those light shadows draped under his cheekbones like tiny little wings. While sleeping, while dreaming, she had taken his hand and lightly traced a finger along the delicate pattern of veins below his palm and above the metal cuff. He jerked away from her grasp, head already turned towards the infinite horizon, the long metal chain of his shackles leading towards another figure, whose hunched silhouette was stark against the brilliant, setting sun. His steps are slow, inexorable; aquarium steps. Determined, deterred.
The daylight is diminishing, as well as the slack on her own chain towards Raito. She decidedly loops it around her arm three times and pulls. Raito's arm jerks backwards, but he keeps moving forward, his movement pulling the loops off of her arm: one... two... But her action had some effect. In the distance, the stooped figure overhead felt the pull of his own chain in response to Raito's. In the dying sunlight, he turned to glance at her briefly, his pace not faltering by one step.
There was no way she could make Raito stay with her. There never had been.
IV. Telepathy (redux)
She closed her eyes tightly, ignoring. But instances of this dream and those before lingered heavily in the tinted fog. Her lips/her lips?/rimmed in sugar and pressed up against Raito's. Hooking her long, pale fingers through the loopholes of Raito's impeccably pressed slacks, or running down the length of his straight back. The movement of hands--directed by her, though not her own--through his hair, suddenly undeniably close to her own face, and at a height rivaling Raito's. Undeniable, really.
The color was sepia here. Not her dream, she realized, looking at Raito.
She supposes she had known then, after all.
______________________________________________________________________________
Sepia: an olive brown, orange-like hue, usually associated with old photos and portraits
Trivium: the place where three roads meet
Disclaimer: I don't own DN
Rating: PG-13 for murder, suicide and all else Deathnote
please, please review :D!
__________________________________________________________________________________
I. Telepathy
No one suspects, like she does, the possibility of extra-sensory perception. In all respects, she is perfectly normal. Blonde hair (natural or not, it doesn't matter), thin limbs, tiny frame. Dreams of fame, almost there. Kills in cold blood, dreams in color. Dreams with Raito, although he doesn't know it.
The snow was falling heavily when she first realised the color was wrong. Sepia, she thought, naming the hue immediately. Faded, drowned, and lovely. The color of old photographs framed in wood and left on dusty mantelpieces. Beautiful as it was, it was an undeniable fact that the color was not hers at all. Her dreams were in vibrant, flowing hues. Lush reds and blues and greens that filled every corner of her consciousness.
These were his dreams and Misa remembered, above all else, Raito's presence in them. He was unmistakable, more a force of nature than anything else; a heavy, black aura emanating from him like the corona of some brilliant star. God, she had thought, turning towards a flickering fire and bowing her head. Tendrils of dark hair veiled her vision.
She closed her eyes tightly, ignoring.
II. Aquarium Steps
Outside of turbulent dreams wooden frames are nothing more than wooden frames. And yet within them she sees the deep whorls that stand testament to the years of life endured by the very tree from which it was carved. The changes in the picture. Ages and ages; old, old time and the scars it leaves. Ages and ages, even though it has only been a handful of years.
The color is rich here, vibrant, flowing. /Her dream/. She feels the presence of it awaken her dulling senses. The dual edge of the redness, simultaneously taking away and restoring her life.
She had gazed at the photo intently moments before dying. It was a haphazard shot, taken from before this whole ordeal. A fountain in a park watched over the children playing near. A couple sat on its stone rim, their distance from each other rather chaste. Somewhere, a violin had been playing. Her face had a slight downward tilt to it, a surprised widening of the eyes that came only from an unexpected shot. Her sister had approached her and taken it, and she recalled punching her lightly in a manner of feigned annoyance. Ages and ages ago.
She had been admiring the redness of it all when she saw him again. So much red, more than such a tiny body should have been able to hold, surrounding her, cradling her to sleep. He had been there then. Not so much a guardian angel as a spectre of when he still needed something from her.
His feigned kindness and lovely words. False, but nice. These are all things she doesn't accept anyways.
For a moment, her mind acknowledges that he doesn't look the same. The dark, hulking form that replaced his old one is hard to mistaken.
/Neither heaven nor hell/, the words resurface, unbidden. But no matter.
"Come with me," he said, turning away and wading through the shallow water without waiting for her reply. She thinks about when he avenged her parents' murder, his original invitation. She never asked for any of this, but she never had any other choice.
Of course, she thinks, standing up and following. One month had already been too long.
III. I am known to his shadow
Near the end, Raito had looked different than she recalled. He was thinner, his features slightly more gaunt. It made him look so lovely, those light shadows draped under his cheekbones like tiny little wings. While sleeping, while dreaming, she had taken his hand and lightly traced a finger along the delicate pattern of veins below his palm and above the metal cuff. He jerked away from her grasp, head already turned towards the infinite horizon, the long metal chain of his shackles leading towards another figure, whose hunched silhouette was stark against the brilliant, setting sun. His steps are slow, inexorable; aquarium steps. Determined, deterred.
The daylight is diminishing, as well as the slack on her own chain towards Raito. She decidedly loops it around her arm three times and pulls. Raito's arm jerks backwards, but he keeps moving forward, his movement pulling the loops off of her arm: one... two... But her action had some effect. In the distance, the stooped figure overhead felt the pull of his own chain in response to Raito's. In the dying sunlight, he turned to glance at her briefly, his pace not faltering by one step.
There was no way she could make Raito stay with her. There never had been.
IV. Telepathy (redux)
She closed her eyes tightly, ignoring. But instances of this dream and those before lingered heavily in the tinted fog. Her lips/her lips?/rimmed in sugar and pressed up against Raito's. Hooking her long, pale fingers through the loopholes of Raito's impeccably pressed slacks, or running down the length of his straight back. The movement of hands--directed by her, though not her own--through his hair, suddenly undeniably close to her own face, and at a height rivaling Raito's. Undeniable, really.
The color was sepia here. Not her dream, she realized, looking at Raito.
She supposes she had known then, after all.
______________________________________________________________________________
Sepia: an olive brown, orange-like hue, usually associated with old photos and portraits
Trivium: the place where three roads meet
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