hey, just here to say that there are some parts in this that sound a bit raceist but i promise you that i do not mean it in that was and i hope this doesnt offend anyone. this is a fanfiction but you will understand it even if youve never heard of death note (i hope) again, i hope i dont offend anyone. feel free to tell me your thoughts even if you hate it, comments make me feel good about myself :3 this is just a little thing i thought up in phys ed, and yes, thats why i was being all sad. this idea is not all mine, i read a fanfiction on fanfiction.net that had the same basic concept, but not in this way. enjoy :) (btw its rly short, i wrote it quite long but thought it worked better with just the beginning and end, leaves the rest to the imagination)
(btw, i dont watch degrassi, i just found this vid and liked it)
Perfection.
Near was the meaning of perfection. He was white, all white. Clothes, skin, hair. All white, flawless, perfect. Not a stain. He was all white, except for his eyes. They were black. A flawless black, a perfect black. Near was perfect. Smart, genius in fact. Cute, sweet, everyone adored him. And thin. Near was so thin. Mello watched from across the room, jealousy and hate in his eyes. White. It was perfect. Near wore white. Mello wore black. Mello was not perfect. He looked down and saw his fat bulging through his tight leather vest. The fat had always been there. No one else could see it, but he could.
Mello looked down at his plate of food. Realising how much was actually there. He compared it to nears, who had almost nothing on his plate. Mello’s eyes widened. He wanted to be thin, he needed to be thin, thin was perfection, he needed perfection. And that was how it began, his quest for perfection.
Perfection. There is no such thing as perfection. There is always a flaw, always. Mello looked down at himself and saw the ribs that showed through his tight leather vest. The ribs had always been there, you had always been able to see them, but he hadn’t. This, this was not perfection. He had fought for it, blood sweat and tears, and he had been left with this. Cold and alone, dying. Alone. The quest for perfection, the quest he had failed.
The quest for perfection, Mello realised, was just that. A quest, for it was something you could never get, never reach. There was always a flaw. You could always find a flaw within yourself, especially when seeking perfection, especially when in competition. Perfection was something you could never reach. But what you could reach, Mello finally realised, a little too late, was peace. You could find peace. And with that last thought, Mello took his final breath, and closed his eyes.
Peace.
