Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note.
Warnings/Notes: Eh…none really…
The beating heart inside me screams for me to rip it out. My mind is lost in uncertainty since Kira's come and gone; some emotions I run from, and others I flock to. However, all are foreign and I especially hate the warm ones.
The feeling of paranoia, the sense of knowing that someone is right there at your bedside in the middle of the night, trying to speak to you with inadequate lips. It's a feeling that interests me, one, which makes me think of Kira and his motives and his fears. It reminds me the man had some humanity left, as he crumbled in the face of this emotion, which now plagues at me sometimes. It's as if he wants me to feel he's come for me from beyond the dead, as if to say it's not over and this shall be his moment of triumph. But simple-minded, one-track emotions cannot shake me.
The only thing now that I often find myself annoyed with, is the simple innocence of a man of human nature. To have become intact with the things normal people feel instead of just being overcome by boredom is interesting…unless…it comes to this. The innocent thoughts of how my organization changed the world, am I a hero or an accomplice to murder? Has this place changed for better or worse since my adversary disappeared, these are the thoughts which annoy me. The ones I wish at times would elude me. Because Kira is gone, and he will never return. Cheap imitations will be attempted but Yagami Light was the first and last of his kind.
And then there are the reactions I've never known from others…those which come when they see that I feel, and think, and hope for what a normal person does…when I am not working, of course. They see my movements stop, the domino in my hand raised in the air as I ponder where to place it, and they ask, are you all right? Always the question is the same, and in response to such monotony I use the same answer until it's so common place that hearing someone ask brings on a feeling of nostalgia.
"Are you all right, Nate-sama?" My eyes travel to Giovanni's face, the smirk gracing my features reveals the irony of the breech of my thoughts by reality.
"Just thinking."
"Did you…want to talk about it?" He is nervous and uneasy, I can sense it in his voice for the first time in many months.
"No."
"Doesn't it bother you to keep all of those thoughts kept inside for no one to hear?" He asks, and I abandon the tile in my hand and rise to my feet, not breaking eye contact with him.
"I'm merely thinking, not remembering, Giovanni." I walk passed him, being sure to watch the expression that registers on his face at the little glimpse I've given him into my mind. The insight I'm not sure if he wanted or not.
A note of what's to resemble laughter escapes my lips in a betrayal of mind over will.
Nate isn't hurting. I say to myself, Nate isn't remembering, he is merely thinking, and thinking cannot hurt you.
No, not at all.