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[Warning: Very very slightly graphic writing and mentions of death]

14th June 2007:

It had started off as an unexpectedly wonderful day for L. Somehow he had managed to sleep that night and ease off his dullness, it had been two weeks and there were still no Kira killings, they were moving closer to Light being proven as Kira, and the day was as bright as it could get. 

Now all there was left to do was wait for Watari to return to Japan so that he could bake L the sweets he had been asking for so long, but the detective couldn't help but notice that the wait had gone on for too long. Where was Watari? Why was he late? Why had he not left a message pertaining to his delay? Why had there been no updates regarding the case he had assigned to Nate and Mihael?

And then he received a call - A call that had his stomach churning and his gut wrenching, as he felt the cake he had so happily eaten for breakfast rise up his throat, burning it like acid, as he heaved and retched and barfed it all out. The phone was ruined the moment it slipped out of L's hand, the moment the reality of the situation came crashing down on him, when it fell to the floor and shattered, much like himself. 

Watari was dead. Roger was dead. Nate was dead. Mihael was dead. Mail was dead. Then.. then why was he still okay? Why was he still breathing? Why was he still alive?

It wasn't supposed to work like this. It wasn't in the correct sequence, no.

He was supposed to die first. L was supposed to die first. Hell, he was the only one who was supposed to die! Not Quillsh, not Mihael, not Roger, not Nate, not Mail, not anyone else in the Orphanage - him. But they were all dead, all gone. So why did they leave him behind? Why did they think it would be fine to exclude him, to keep him in the dark as they all left together? Left forever?

He could feel the panic rising in his chest, his heart steadily becoming more and more chaotic in its working, he could feel bile rising up his throat once more, but this time, he was too frozen to do anything at all.

So he sat in his seat, with his eyes wide, wanting to scream and shout, wanting to sob and cry and weep his heart out, wanting to break every last thing in his sight, wanting to pull his hair out of his scalp, wanting to smash every computer, every T.V. screen he was too busy watching as his family was blown up to bits, but he simply couldn't. 

He couldn't move a muscle. He couldn't move a finger to wipe the stream of tears that had begun leaking from his eyes. He couldn't move his feet to get up so that he could run to his father figure and beg for him to awake, run to the kids that he had come to love as his own. He couldn't move his body to release himself from the constricting position that made him feel like he couldn't breathe anymore. He simply couldn't move.

He couldn't feel anything anymore, until he finally could - a stabbing pain in his chest, too much for him to be able to handle. He couldn't speak, until he finally could - a choked and broken cry leaving his lips. He couldn't move, until he finally could - his hands instinctively gripping and fisting the cloth covering his chest as he fell to the vomit-covered floor, not being able to care less as he felt his life being strangled out of him.

But maybe that was okay.. maybe that was what he deserved for not being able to save the people that had put so much trust in him. Maybe this pain, this suffocation was what he had to face as a punishment of some kind. Maybe this was to show him how they must have felt when they felt the impact of the explosion, when their skin sizzled off their body, when they smelt the burning flesh and cement as they breathed in their very last breath. 

And maybe.. just maybe, L thought as he finally let his eyes close and his body relax, this was the only way he could see them again.


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