It's a gun.

(What is it?)

It's a contraption made of metal; there is a small lead object called a bullet in it, ready to be propelled from the barrel at a great speed due to the force of a small explosion inside the instrument.

(What does it do?)

He turns it over in his hands, inspecting it.

(What does it do?)

He knows exactly what it does. He's seen wounds many times. Never in person, always in pictures or descriptions in reports. The bullet oftentimes punctures a vital organ, resulting in death, sometimes instantly or sometimes after several long, agonizingly minutes of torturous pain. The exit wound is generally larger than the entrance wound; usually burns and evidence of gunpowder are present.

(What does it do?)

Death, his mind says, as he feels his heart beating madly within his chest. Death, it causes death.

A voice snakes into the back of his mind. It is a voice he has not heard in many years. It is not his voice. It is not the old man's voice, it is not a voice of police chiefs or politicians, it's the voice of a fourteen-year-old boy who has lost his best friend and who is whispering temptation into his ear.

(But what does it do?)

It expels a bullet that lodges in the flesh. The death is caused by the bullet. Not the gun itself. Is the hunk of metal really dangerous, without the small piece of metal inside? No. It's just a useless jumble of scrap metal if it's not loaded. There is nothing to be afraid of. He weighs it in his palm, balancing it in the centre of his hand, inspecting it, his gaze slowly caressing every inch of the thing as he tries to ignore the voice asking the next question.

(Is it loaded?)

He wraps his hand around the thing, shakes it gently. He should call the old man. He would know, he could load or unload the thing in his sleep.

(Is it loaded?)

He does nothing, only holds the gun in his hand as the voice in his head rushes, excitedly, to the next question.

(Where?)

The voice curls like tendrils of smoke around his mind, squeezing gently, depriving him of oxygen. His vision begins to fade in and out. There is a chorus of voices in his mind, what are they? Angels? Demons? Neither. They are human, and they are all his.

(Where?)

He slides a finger past the trigger, holding the thing like a police officer would. Like an expert would, he hopes. He lets his hand fall; the metal is heavy. The barrel points at his foot.

(Where?)

Slowly, his breath slow and heaving, he drags the barrel along his leg. His ankle. His shin. His knee, his thigh, his crotch, his hip, his belly button. He stops.

(Where?)

A bullet to the abdomen at point-blank range.

(Where? Where?)

Agony.

(Where?)

The barrel of the gun slides up, resting on his heart.

(Where?)

The voice is excited now.

(Where, where? Where?)

His throat.

(Where where where?)

The voice becomes loud, frantic, pounding in his ears.

(Where?Where?Where?Where?)

His chin. He drags the barrel past his cheek. He presses it hard against his temple. He closes his eyes, the screams in his mind overwhelming him.

(HERE!)

Images of a bullet wound to the head, photos of the blood, brain and bone matter sprayed across a wall, a short message explaining that there was no mystery

(HERE.)

There was no criminal to be caught

(HERE.)

There was agony even without a bullet in the stomach, he pressed the cold metal to his forehead and he felt the agony

(HEREHEREHEREHERE.)

His hand shook as the blame pounded through his body with the rhythm of his heart. How easy it would be to stop that heart from beating ever again. How easy it would be to gently push with a single finger, and then everything would be ended and then

"L?"

He drops the gun; he is trembling so hard, he falls out of his chair, and he crawls to the microphone and, his finger hovering above the small button, his eyes wide in the silence of the dark, solitary room, he listens. He listens for the voice inside his head.

There is nothing.

He closes his eyes in relief and presses the button.

"Mr. Wammy," he breathes. "Thank you."

"Do you need-"

"Thank you," repeats L, pulling the microphone close to his mouth, clutching it to his chest, sitting on the cold floor, the artificial lights of the computer the only illumination in the otherwise shadowy room. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

He repeats it again and again, and on the other end of the microphone Mr. Wammy, for the first time in his life, hears his charge begin to cry.

I think I briefly alluded to something like this in The City of Angels and that intrigued me.

L is, for lack of a better term, haunted. Ever since he was informed what happened to A, the possibility has existed. And the blame mounts and mounts and mounts and takes on the voice of a victim (a victim?) but that's not really L. He just needed to remember that he wasn't alone.