Violence, religion, injustice, and death

[chilichoc]

*The fact that she could smell the rain before she opened the door should've tipped her off that this wasn't really the room with the Wammy's House grounds, but she's already taken the first step in

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[curtainwizard]

[Stepping back into his bedroom, sketchbook in hand, Light sees Mel, for just a second, and he begins to stare, to step back - except then he's a lot healthier and saner-looking, immaculately dressed, and somehow, a lot more loathsome to look upon. Light has lost, and it shows: it's killing him, bleaching him out of existence. What the room's turned him back into is Kira at the height of his power, and a hair from losing it all, and prepared to do anything, anything at all, to win

[chilichoc]

*Mel's mind is too fuzzy for her to puzzle out whether Light can see her; she sits up from where she fell, huddles around the ache in her chest, hands knotted at her rosary, and watches.

What is he doing; does he really think he can talk his way out of this? She remembers him admitting to Miha who he was, but she's never seen Light like this, flaunting that he's Kira, full to the brim with it.

Mel knows Light only sees contempt when he looks at Near; she sees a sort of purity, like the face of a statue of Justice.

He's repeating himself, she wants to say when Light begins talking again. Buying time for some reason... The others realize why the same time as Mel, and she's as surprised as anyone when Matsuda's the one who fires. When Light rails against his father, Mel abruptly remembers that this version of Light is dead: this happened. She doesn't need to break him; he's already broken, and this is what did it.

She hates him, more than Light from her world, probably more than anyone, but it's pitiful, in the most literal sense, as

[curtainwizard]

[It doesn't seem like twenty-five minutes before Light's eyes start out of his head, and he convulses into a ball, and thrashes for air like a drowning man: a screaming inhalation around useless vocal chords that couldn't, and can't, save him. Hands - both intact - grabbing at himself, where he was ripped open. Leftover pain, throbbing deep inside like hammer blows

[chilichoc]

*Mel can't watch this; she knows it too well: the feeling of having to put yourself back together piece by mental piece. She curls up again, knees to her chest, fingers of her left hand at the rosary beads, as if relearning how to feel them. Her cheeks are stiff with dried tears, her eyes sore when she squeezes them shut. She gropes for something neutral to say, to warn him she's here. It's bad that she is, but sooner will be better than later. Her voice comes out low and ragged.*

You're in one piece.