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26 September 2007 @ 06:50 pm
[Recycle] Searching  
Working title: Searching
Author: artemisgoddess
Fandom: Death Note
Genre: Angst, Romance, Tragedy (?)
Warnings: Erm. Bad words, maybe BL?
Pairings: Intended Mello/Near
General plotline/storyline: A view of everything that happened to Mello in his life told in 2nd person. Only there was going to be some change or something, where Mello was going to see Near before he died I think, and it was going to be brilliant and angsty and so good, but I can't remember now ;;;
Author's notes: These are the notes I left for myself at the end of what I'd written so far:
Mello's return after fire w/ scar
Matt first introduced
Barges in on Near

So. Take it and adopt it? Make it into something more?

There are times in life when you cannot go on.

When things are just too much, the pressure's just too much to bear. When everyone around you is expecting things of you, when you're expecting things on you, but you always seem to fall short, just shy of your goal, your arm a little too short to reach.

When nothing makes you happy anymore. When your previous games with your friends of soccer and catch become meaningless, pointless, in comparison to the pain you feel. When your friends just leave you alone, figuring you'll get over it, not bothering to try to help.

When you think you're all alone, isolated, locked away in the dark corner of your mind, the darkness slicing though every single hope, every sing positive thought, leaving you with nothing, all hope decayed. When shapes loom out of the darkness at night; hallucinations, stemming from repressed desires and fears, resulting from the agony and indecision you feel within. When there's no point in living, anymore, really, as you get nothing from it anymore; you're just an empty shell, walking, waiting, wilting under the harsh sun.

And you know you can't go on. You just can't.

But you can hear your friends laughing outside in the halls, smiling and grinning as they go about their lives, and you put on a smile and go along with them, pretending their unseeing eyes don't pierce your heart. You do your best to keep up, but you can't falsify happiness with a burden like yours, and eventually, you fall behind. And they leave you there to rot.

You take to staying in your room for long periods at a time. You don black clothes, nothing extreme, with chains or eyeliner, but just enough to make you feel better, to give you a physcial sign that someone else could recognize as a cry for help. You study late into the night, wearing yourself out, making you waft through the days even more. It's all for naught, though, as you come in second place again and again, no matter how hard you try. It'll all for naught. All of it.

No one seems to realize how this eats you away inside. How your existance is meaningless, with you being number two, and how you have no point, no purpose for living, until you're number one. How you're fighting for it with your life; have fought for it, as, in truth, on the inside, you're already dead. But it's for nothing; no one looks at you, only telling you lightly to try harder, as if you're not already giving it your all. The one you want to become won't look at you, not like he looks at the other one, and the other one only looks at you with cold eyes, as if trying to freeze your efforts, his silence telling you that they are meaningless, that you will never reach his level.

You do your best, anyway. You hate being weak, you hate giving up on what you want. You keep trying, keep feeling, keep caring, even though you know it's all useless, anyway. Your friends raise their eyebrows, wondering at your change in attitude, but don't press you further on the matter. You struggle, fighting with yourself, wanting to become the best, wanting recognition, wanting anything, wanting nothing more to be seen by those above you.

You're invisible, though. Completely invisible, hidden in the night of this world of black.

One person sees you, though. One person, in a world of tons. He sees you and recognizes you, and understands where you are. He, too, is below the top, but close to it, and he, too, cannot be seen. He, however, is content with his place, having adjusted to it and having never expected to be anyone worth anything at all. His apathy astounds you, and you feel a trickle of jealousy at him, for with his apathetic shield around him, isolating him from the rest of the world, surrounded in his uncaring, he cannot be touched, and he cannot be hurt. And you envy that.

He becomes your best friend. He tries to help you, helping you review when you want to come in top on a test, proofreading your essays, going over facts with you, though he couldn't care less about his own marks. It doesn't help at all, of course, as you're still stuck in second, always in second, but at least, it shows you that someone cares, and to someone, at least, you're first in their heart.

You talk of the future with him. You discuss it endlessly, for hours. Neither of you have any idea where you're going; it's impossible, really, to know, as neither of you are number one. You still strive for that goal, that recognition, that certainty, though the other has given up. He discusses joining intellegence agencies, becoming a private hacker, or leading a criminal life, and you airly toss out options of joining the mafia, going back to Russia, or becoming dictator of the world. As he expands on his theory that he'd make a rotten mafia man, you wonder to yourself if he ever considers a future with you in it, the two of you, together, against the world. You bite your lip, though, thinking it'd be more than a little weird to ask that, to seem so dependent, so you make a sarcastic remark and proceed to tell him how he'd make a great Sicilian.

Your life gets somewhat better. You manage to accept, to a degree, your failure at your goal. You keep striving, of course, and manage to delude yourself that you'll get there in the end, when it really matters. You begin to spend more time with your friend, your only true friend, ignoring the one who always ignored you, always ignored everyone but Him, preferring his puzzles to anyone else. He, the only He, doesn't contact you or look at you, but you know He's busy, and he hasn't contact the other one either, so, for the time being, you're okay with it. Your subtle sort of existance is trying, at times, but for a while, with you and your friend, you are content.

Until you get the news.

At first, you can't believe it. It couldn't have happened. It's simply not possible. Mortality wasn't supposed to have been a concern. How could this have occurred? Your first reaction is raw and pure, venegeful and hurt, raw, stricken grief, and it comes from your core as you scream and curse.

The other one with you says nothing, merely turning his puzzle over and starting anew. A dim part of your mind realizes the sick symbolism of that action, but you're too stricken to care. He makes some generic remark about losing, and you're too astonished by his emotionless reaction to register his words.

And then it hits you.

There is no more waiting time.

There is no more time to strive.

There are no more chances to become number one.

There is nothing left to strive for.

You have failed.

And He is gone.

Meaningless words about Him not having chosen echo in your ears, and a futile suggestion of the two of you working together hangs in the air, but despite the other's affirmative reply, you know this can never be. You have failed, you have been found unworthy, and you would never truly be his equal, his partner, his friend. You cannot work like that, you cannot let yourself; you have to win, you have to become stronger, better, more than him, and your words are angry as you shout that you'll leave, that you don't care, that you'll find your own place, that you don't need any of them. They're nothing to you, nothing, and that very night, without so much as a second thought, you leave, taking your precious few belongings with you as you depart.

As you stand on the street, cold, in cotton clothes, not yet fifteen yet, you begin to wish you had thought this through.

You spend your time making a name for yourself over the next few years. You never succeeded at being one of the good guys, ridding the world of crime and whatnot, so you turn to the other end of the spectrum, determine to become a success in some respect. You immerse yourself in crime and cunning, in organized plans and tactical pursuits in the worst ways. With no one to watch you, to criticize who you are, you indulge in your darker side, wearing leather, tight clothes, boots, chains, and crosses. The dark image with the religious overtones intimidates people, and you get a thrill from being seen for once.

You work your way to the American Mafia. The capitalistic trait continues even to the underworld, and you soon rise to the top. Commanding the entire organization, your age still far too young than the norm for such a job, you decide on your first target, your first goal. It's instinctual to you, impulsive, though logical, and it's only later, after you've failed, that you realize why you did it in the first place: that you were still striving to be number one.
Your plan fails, as have all your previous efforts, and you run, unable to redeem yourself from these ruins, looking to start afresh.
Azayellow_spatula on September 27th, 2007 06:50 am (UTC)
I'm glad to see you've joined and posted! I'm glad there's Death Note finally in this community. Hope some more Death Note writers join.

It's quite an interesting idea you've got going on so far. I like Mello's narrative, it's very dark and pessimistic. I hope someone decides to take up the challenge to continue this.

Thanks for posting!