[private]
[After the mistletoe room, Light doesn't come out of his bedroom for two days. He has water in there, but no food - he'd tried to store some, but it doesn't keep as long as it ought to. As if the mansion wants to drive him out. Once two days have gone by, without eating the little he usually does, he finds he isn't even hungry any more - instead, there's a bright, crystal susurration along every nerve. An energy rush, as he begins to consume himself. It penetrates the freezing fog that's around every little thing he does.
On the morning of the third day (he knows it's not morning, and probably not the third day, but fakes it), there's leaden knowledge in the back of his mind, that he has to eat something. So he picks up his sketchbook and heads off to the kitchen. He's clean and neat as ever: he hasn't let himself go, wouldn't know how if he wanted to. Except - there's something fuzzy about him, as if his image is reflecting the fog inside him. Perhaps it's the angle of his head, throwing his hair a little out of align: or three days without food withering him, a little, misaligning his clothes in some imperceptible way. Or maybe it's just his aura, draining life out of the corridors and rooms and people around him.
But it seems the mansion, or the people upstairs, disagree that Light should eat: the kitchen is not the kitchen. It's a completely empty room - tile floor, white walls, no other people. And no door. A blank slate. It reminds him of what he thinks prison would have been like: of the miserable cell he can barely remember. Except that he'd been constantly watched, voices whispering to him. L's voice, tormenting him with lies and promises and one mindgame after another.
Sitting back against the blank wall, Light begins to doodle: a cube, wireframed - no, a room, with a figure pulled up against one wall. The perspective is off, and it's all mere impressions: a circle for the head, scribbles of hair, an oval and cylinders over each other, for the body and legs. And a little notebook just visible on the figure's lap.]
[[OOC: private to cipherhood: backdated to three days after the mistletoe room and five days after the truth room.]]
On the morning of the third day (he knows it's not morning, and probably not the third day, but fakes it), there's leaden knowledge in the back of his mind, that he has to eat something. So he picks up his sketchbook and heads off to the kitchen. He's clean and neat as ever: he hasn't let himself go, wouldn't know how if he wanted to. Except - there's something fuzzy about him, as if his image is reflecting the fog inside him. Perhaps it's the angle of his head, throwing his hair a little out of align: or three days without food withering him, a little, misaligning his clothes in some imperceptible way. Or maybe it's just his aura, draining life out of the corridors and rooms and people around him.
But it seems the mansion, or the people upstairs, disagree that Light should eat: the kitchen is not the kitchen. It's a completely empty room - tile floor, white walls, no other people. And no door. A blank slate. It reminds him of what he thinks prison would have been like: of the miserable cell he can barely remember. Except that he'd been constantly watched, voices whispering to him. L's voice, tormenting him with lies and promises and one mindgame after another.
Sitting back against the blank wall, Light begins to doodle: a cube, wireframed - no, a room, with a figure pulled up against one wall. The perspective is off, and it's all mere impressions: a circle for the head, scribbles of hair, an oval and cylinders over each other, for the body and legs. And a little notebook just visible on the figure's lap.]
[[OOC: private to cipherhood: backdated to three days after the mistletoe room and five days after the truth room.]]