Death Note: Lost Memories (Prologue)
Death was horrible. Surely this was death. He was surrounded by darkness. Perhaps he was blind. And maybe deaf, too, since all he could hear was the rushing of blood in his swirling head. He was sore. His muscles felt like they hadn't been used in days, or longer, and who knew how long he had been here?
But what was here? What was this place? He was too sore to move and feel around, but he could feel the floor under him. He felt a cloth fabric, some cushioning, and something hard under that. Against his body's protests, he scooted his hand away from him. It hurt, badly. Little pricks and tingles stabbed his nerves. His hand didn't go far before it hit the wall next to him. He did the same to the other and saw it was about the same distance apart. That wasn't good. He lifted his right hand up, too quickly, and it smacked into the ceiling, which was only mere inches from his face. Not good. Not good.
Now he was panicking. He was in a box. Claustrophobia was setting in and his anxiety levels were rising. A sound came from his mouth, a breathy moan, nearly inaudible. But he heard it, so he wasn't deaf. He licked his lips, feeling the dry skin of his lips scrape against his tongue. His throat was dry and he tried to swallow saliva that wasn't there.
"Waaaah," he cried at breathily, "Aaaagh….Argh!…..Arrrrgh! Arrrrgh! Aaaaah!" Ignoring the pain in his muscles, he banged his fists on the top of the box, slamming his palm against it. "AAAAH! AAAAH! AAAAH!" His mind shouted 'Help me!' but what came out of his mouth was "¡Ayúdeme! Helfen Sie mir!" Let me out! "Faites-moi sortir! Освободите меня!" He didn't know what he was shouting out. All he heard was his voice, was it his voice?, in his head that cried out for help. "Aiutilo!" He banged harder and harder, and his fists and palms hurt so badly. "Help me! Help me! Help me!" Now he was bumping his knees with the ceiling. "Tasukete!"
He was scared. Who wouldn't be? His eyes were instantly moist, but his throat and tongue were dry as the desert. Every sound he made came out hoarse. He didn't even know he was shouting in different languages. He just wanted to get the hell our of there.
And then he heard it. A sound of hope. Oh gods, the metaphorical light had come to his rescue!
"Is there someone there?" came the mumbled reply.
He wept. Someone had come! "Help me!" he shouted, matching the language he had heard his savior say, "Help me! I'm in here! Get me out!"
"Hold on buddy!" said the voice on the other side of his prison, his angel.
Oh gods, thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
There was the sound of wood creaking and cracking. Then, he saw through splinters, a tiny bit of dim light. The person who came to his rescue was using a metal tool. It looked to be a crowbar. So the box had been nailed shut. No wonder he couldn't budge it.
And then the top came off. He saw who his savior was. It was a stout-looking uniformed man, a security guard. He had on a bushy mustache and a double chin. The ceiling light behind him made it look like he was glowing.
"Are you okay, buddy?" asked the savior. "What were you doing in there?"
The savior's pudgy hands went under his armpits and lifted him out of the box that could have been his coffin. Then, when he was out of the box and trying to stand on weak legs, using the savior as a leaning post, he saw that it was a coffin. It was elegant and white and gold. What was he doing in there? Was he dead? No, he was clearly alive.
"What's your name buddy?" asked the savior.
He blinked at the savior. He racked his brains, but it seemed his thoughts were too far away and kept scurrying away from him. Name? Name…Name…Name…Name…
Nothing came. He couldn't find an answer. And now he was in a new panic. He searched the hollows of his mind for an answer, a clue, a hint, anything!
"What's your name?" repeated the savior.
He blinked. "I…I dunno."
The savior's eyes widened slightly. "Well, what do you remember?"
And he told him what familiarity he found in his brain. "Nothing."
He didn't know who he was, where he was, or how he got there. He was a stranger to himself.
"C'mon," said the pork-belly savior, "I'm taking you to the hospital."
As the savior half carried him, he looked around. The place was bland. It had only white walls and tiled floors. Then they went through the door and there was a sudden change in scenery. It was more elegant, but still cluttered with caskets.
"Excuse me," he asked, "Where are we?"
His savior looked back at him. The frown he had made more lines on his face. "We're at the Hosho American Style Funeral Home."
He looked down at his feet. So he was dead, supposedly dead. Someone had thought he was dead.
"Let's see who, uh, dropped you off here," said the savior. He was led into a small office. He waited against the wall, his thumb nail in between his lips. The savior looked through paper work.
"Here we go," said his rescuer, "It says here that a Mr. Yagami was the one who dropped you off. Does he sound familiar to you?"
He looked down again, furrowing his eyebrows. Yagami…Yagami…Yagami… Again, it felt like the answer was there, but was out of his reach. It was frustrating.
He shook his head.
The fat angel sighed. "Well, just sit there. I'm going to call an ambulance and get you into a hospital, then I'm going to call this Mr. Yagami, and see if he's responsible for you."
He nodded. Then he sat himself down on one of the metal chairs that was against the wall. He had his feet on the ground, and that felt uncomfortable. He brought his knees to his chest. Better. Then, he lifted his buttocks off the chair, but his balance was off and he fell back down. Why was sitting so damn difficult?
"Here we go!" He looked up and saw the porky uniformed officer holding a document, "It says here your name is Ryuuzaki! Hm, no last name. I'm guessing that Yagami is your last name. Does that sound familiar?"
He shook his head. "No," he mumbled, "It…It doesn't…" There was no familiarity with that name, either. Was he really Yagami Ryuuzaki? There was no way to tell now.
While his savior made phone calls to a hospital and for the person who ran the funeral, he, perhaps it was time for him to go by Ryuuzaki? Yes, he will call himself Ryuuzaki for now. So, while his savior made phone calls, Ryuuzaki wracked his brain again and again, but, like cockroaches to a light, he couldn't find answers. It was like he didn't exist until he woke up in that casket. Perhaps he was once dead and he came back to life?
(A/N): I bet my loyal readers are like "OMGWTFBBQBRBG2G!!!1!!" and whatever the hell kind of textilian they have come up with. Yes, I'm writing a Death Note fic. And guess what? It's yaoi! Yay! I'm a big, big, big fan. If you ever go on my deviantart account, you'll find my lemons I know, I have, like, three other stories I need to update, but man, this was bugging at me. I'm excited about this one. And this is only the prologue. I'm writing chapter one right now. And first of all, has totally confused me with all these updates. I was going to call this "Memories", but there already is a DN fic with that title, so I'm calling this "Lost Memories". I hope you guys enjoy! Read, review, all that jazz.