And I'd Do It Again.A faint laugh from the other side of the door, the sound was sweet and utterly devine to M's aching ears. If he hadn't moved before she opened the door, he would have melted onto the carpet.
So there the two stood. L, looking professionally captivating in a plain gray suit and pants. Her hair was dimly illuminated a monotone shade of pale gold from the faint lights in the hallway, which quickly faded as she shut the door behind her. M came close to stumbling as he realized he was staring and quickly took a step back, forgetting about the furniture which had inhabited the room before he.
Her crimson stained lips which had been perfectly placed in a smile diffused, leaving nothing but a shocked expression which covered her entire face.
"M..Mello, what on earth.." She whispered breathlessly, her eyes widening as if he'd grown a third head. That was when he remembered why she'd come. This wasn't a ble
An Overcast in Okutama. M didn't move from the space on the floor he had been sitting on. Transfixed by his own reflection in the screen of his phone, he listened intently as his thoughts tried to organize themselves.
It was like being in a crowded bar where everyone was drunk and thought that they had to be heard by everyone, so they were all obscenely loud. So, he closed his eyes as it seemed to act like a wall - seperating himself from the continuous chatter. Only to open them again to come face to face with himself once more.
He watched his crucifix rest against his chest, rising each time he took a breath. It caught the dim light perfectly so that it glistened and created a cross-shaped glow upon a spot on the floor.
" 'Everything has its beauty, but not everyone sees it.' " M recited to himself, picturing the face of his old mentor, Roger. When Watari was away, Roger stepped in. But Ro
Scars and Chocolate Bars. M sat in a small, lonely hotel room burrowed into the heart of downtown Tokyo. He perched himself upon the bare mattress, the sheets in a clumsy pile at the foot of the relatively small bed. As he sat, bent over as he clutched his bleeding hands to his chest, his eyes remained closed. He had not yet found the strength mental and physical - necessary to open them again.
He knew he needed help. His wounds were bad. On his hands he had third-degree burns, and plastic shards embedded deep into his flesh from the pipe bomb which had ironically saved his life. Although that didn't mean it hurt more into the large section on the left side of his face which had been severely burned. M narrowed down the possibilities, and knew he was going to die from infection if he didn't get any support.
But he felt nothing short of forsaken. M calling for help? Impossible. Matt was the one that called him