Death Notes

Work

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The lights above his head go dark, ushering him into darkness that seems all too familiar. Every time he closes his eyes, he thinks about how much closer he is to his death. One day, he'll go to sleep, and the darkness will embrace him like a mother would embrace her dearly loved child. He thinks about how beautiful he'll be once he's dead: long, dark eyelashes resting against his pale skin, dark hair framing his thin face, his pale lips downturned in a neutral expression, and the faded scars getting covered by a layer of cheap makeup. He hopes they burn his body, simply because he wants the flames to consume him whole. It'll only be right for the fire to melt his skin, for the flames to lick away at his skin until they reach his muscles and nerves.

He curls up in a ball, shivering slightly. He should be used to the cold, but he is not. With each passing day, his reactions to his new circumstances are becoming stronger. He used to sit and stare at the ceiling, muttering brief prayers to a god he never really believed in. The prayers were a comfort thing, a series of repeated words that grounded him and gave him a pattern. He never believed in Heaven or Limbo or anything else that had to do with a higher power. If God is real, He left a long time ago and never looked back— and honestly, he doesn't blame Him. He no longer prayers. He stares at the ceiling, thinking of kisses exchanged in flower gardens and over case files. He thinks about dark hair and fluttering eyelashes and the way his name is spelled, everything tracing back to a single place so far away it feels like a fantasy. He isn't sure what country he's in anymore, knowing fully well that California is thousands of miles away. He misses the sunlight streaming into his room, and he wonders if that's why he can't stop shivering.

However, he knows the cold is purposeful. Someone, in a much warmer room, is adjusting the temperature to unsettle him. He hates to admit it, but between the cold, being the only person in a long row of cells, and having been blindfolded and dragged out of his former cell, he feels uneasy. He knows someone is watching his every move, calculating his every response— he is used to being monitored, but he knows that the person watching him isn't a regular warden. The person watching him is likely a Kira official, writing up a nondescript obituary that will be published as a warning to potential future criminals.

Kira's reign has completely changed the prison system. Food became more scarce, and he went from three meals a day to a meager bowl of oatmeal and toast whenever someone remembered to feed him. The guards were replaced by people who dressed in black uniforms and hid their faces behind masks. He could see their names, but he never saw their faces. They would bring him and the other inmates— back when he'd still been in California— to shower and back to their cells, only reappearing when food needed to be distributed. He'd see them about three times a day, and they looked at him with such hated in their eyes that their beatings couldn't manage to convey. The lights went out earlier, and the television were shut off and never turned back on, leaving everyone in a state of confusion. The quality of everything declined, as if to further punish them.

The sound of heels clicking against the floor snaps him out of his thoughts. Only a single light comes on. He slowly turns around from where he's perched on the bed, seeing three figures stand outside of his cell. One is a tall, thin individual dressed in a black shirt and matching black pants with mask covering half of his face— the name above his head reads Ren Ōta. He immediately knows that they are there on behalf of Kira, and a quick glance at the other twos' names reveal that they are of Japanese origins.

"Hello Ōta, Aoki, and Kaneko! I was expecting Kira would send someone soon." His voice is raw from disuse and a lack of water. He sees the short one— Kaneko— flinch at the sound of his raspy voice.