1429 | Death Note OC

On Mice and Women

TESTIMONY

I quite like mice.

That said, I prefer them alive.

(Not that I think this will be relevant. I figure it's easier to write it all down and then remove than to remove parts in my head and then write it all down. I'd forget things. Also while I am here: note to self: censor names. Rip out the paper. Burn it. Alright, I think that is all.)

It was a nice, golden kind of sunny morning, spilling over the horizon bit by bit to light up the rooftops before the streets. I might not have seen the poor mouse lying dead in the frost in the grass had it not been higher up than me, catching that golden sunlight on its poor stiff tail. I suppose that part really is irrelevant - but then again it is certainly more irrelevant for me to keep commenting on relevancy.

Does anybody know what to do when they see a dead animal? See it while you're driving, you just try not to run over it again, try not to get blood on your wheels. So I hear. But see it on the side of the road and that isn't really the issue. I expect that most people would just leave it and walk on; I tried that but felt guilty two steps away and walked right back.

Mice are actually rather ugly when they are dead.

I picked a flower to leave beside the thing and after that I did walk on, lit a cigarette and stuck it between my teeth. The smoke curled up into the air, grey like dead mouse.

I found Virginia rather unpleasant. America is an ugly beast with odd anatomy, and this state, I was sure, its stomach. Flat waves hit rocky beaches, the dismal crash audible even from that distance. Buildings hunkered over the land, looming sentries on the empty streets. My suitcase hit a rock and I swore, dropped my cigarette on my boot and sat down before I could fall.

Virginia was America's stomach and if I wasn't careful I'd be digested.

My arms felt fine. I fixed my hair and stood, crushed my cigarette out and dragged the suitcase behind me until I reached the stairs of 18/7 VIEW STREET, name stated formally on a wall encircling a garden of rocks. I pushed my sunglasses up, flicked hair out of my eyes and hoisted the suitcase above my head, lowering the thing to the floor once I'd made it inside. It thunked quite nicely against the white tile and I busied my hands fishing out my ID to stop myself from lifting it and setting it down again. "Hello," I greeted the receptionist.

"Hello," the man returned listlessly, clicking at his computer. "Ms. Descôteaux—" he lingered on the S — "you are in room 114. Please enjoy your stay," he intoned, pushing a key towards me.

"Smoking?" I picked up the key and stuffed it, along with my passport, into my turtleneck.

He just stared at me. I shrugged - there were balconies, I'd seen them from outside - and pulled my suitcase over the floor to the elevators; every few feet the wheels caught the gap between tiles. A very nice thunk sound indeed. A tall blond man was already standing where I was headed, as well as-

"Mena?"

"Q!" She came to meet me halfway and clapped me far too firmly on the back. I grunted and used my baggage as an excuse for distance. Not that I disliked Mena, just being touched.

"Rehn's alright," I told her.

"Shouldn't you have been R, then?"

"I wasn't really at Wammy's much." The blond man made room for my suitcase and I bared my teeth in what I hoped would pass for a smile. "You know that."

She puffed out her cheeks. "No kidding. Never really caught onto how exactly your enrollment worked." I opened my mouth to tell her, but Mena steamrolled on. She was ever curious, and tended to think of new questions to ask and stories to share before one could respond. Sometimes I liked listening. "Hey, how you doing in Virginia? Come straight from France? I've been living in America for a year now."