Yesterday I did lots more role-playing, and I... Oh, right, in the morning I actually typed up some stuff for when I make Gateaux de Lacet into a role-play. Which will be maybe in a year or something. Ahaha.
I'm sure I did more than that yesterday, but I don't remember what.
Today I played with Cody and read OotP in the morning. In fact I spent almost all day reading Harry Potter. Then I felt angsty once I finished Half-Blood Prince so I wrote something angsty. You want? It's a Death Note fanfiction. With spoilers for page.99. Severe spoilers. Extreme angst. All that good stuff. Will probably not be published anywhere because I'm doubting the characterization, but it was fun to write. So there.
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Halle felt very strange.
She was lying wrong-way on her bed, staring glassily up at the ceiling with her feet among her pillows and her hands dangling listlessly off the foot of the bed. She didn’t see the ceiling; she saw Mello’s face, still visible through the sheen on his motorcycle helmet. Stupid, stupid… Oh, God, Mello, what were you thinking…
She felt as if a thin layer of glass had taken the place of her skin; she felt smooth and emotionless on the outside, yes, but surely everyone could see straight to her core, could witness the two demon-like personas battling in her chest?
The glass, she reasoned, must have been terribly heavy, because she was quite sure it was the only thing keeping her from springing out of bed and throwing everything she could lift. Hatred clawed at the inside of her ribcage, leaving grazes that burned when she breathed and would certainly be alleviated if she would only show an outward sign of their existence. She hated Takada, Kira, Near—everything and everyone. No thought could scuttle through her head without arousing more hatred, but that was all right because some of the glass seemed to have closed off her brain, letting no thoughts in anyway.
That, however, didn’t keep out the laughter.
Cold, sarcastic, mocking laughter lay in her throat like some unholy sludge, bubbling and oozing of its own accord and threatening to squeeze its way out of the glass. It was directed at herself; it was his laughter. Mello’s. You should have known laughter. You should have listened.
He’d warned her.
He’d said, in no uncertain terms, that if she trusted him he would use her, but she had shrugged that off, assuming it was merely a brazen attempt to appear dominant of the situation—and part of her, admittedly, hoping that he would care enough not to treat her as a tool. Hahaha. Stupid. She had been part of his not-careful-enough plan; he had played her trust to get Takada and then gone riding off to his death. And she had trusted him. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She felt that someone ought to be having a good laugh at her idiocy and since there was no one around to do so, it festered in her own throat.
And there it remained; nor did she show any sign of the furious hatred she felt. The glass kept her motionless, apparently serene. With a toneless sigh, she rolled over onto her stomach and put her face in her hands.
“Dammit, Mello…”
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