Lol. First death note story ever.
Emily is not a mary sue to be falling in love with anyone. I am seriously just experimenting right now.
Disclaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimemmmerrrrr: Unfortunatly, I do not own death note. BUT I WISH I DID. I would make a sequel, called life note, if it was me. :D
AGH. This story sounded so much better in my head.
I love the title, anyway. I am so creative, I suprise even myself sometimes. EGO EGO EGO EGO EGO
The Speed of Dark
Snow was falling. The girl knew this. She limped, running, or trying to anyway. Running from the man that had hurt her, who had tried to kill her. The man who had kill each person she knew slowly and painfully. One by one, they had fallen. So the girl had just ran. She would not end up like the rest. She refused.
Voices, bright lights, gunshots, people yelled and screamed. She could hear sirens, pounding her ears. If she listened quietly enough, she could hear the sound of snow hitting the ground. She could not stop and strain her ears now, listening intently to the people. She dared not even a glance over her shoulder. The man was after her, she knew.
Her legs folded from beneath her, Failing her mind, body, and spirit. Slowly, she fell from a squat, balancing on her toes, towards the ground. She fell hitting her head, her eyes half lidded. It was so very cold, the cold was burning her skin…
I know the color of snow is white.
Then why is the snow red?
Where is all the red coming from?
Shuddering, Emily opened her eyes. One of her very first memories, after she had seen her so called family murdered. Murder, was the only thing she could remember. But, Then again, she did not have very many memories for a girl of 4, one who had amnesia, or some type of memory trauma.
Emily brushed her dark hair out of her eyes. The young Italian girl was sitting in a bustling police office, as she had for the last few days. She knew it was probably loud, but could not hear them. She was in her own world.
"Poor kid. The whole family murdered."
"I heard that it was that new serial killer in Venice."
"I think the news said recently that L was working on the case!"
"I heard her father belonged in the Italian mob, and the reason they all died was cause he got in a fight with a Russian mob member."
She stayed silent, scanning the police office for anyone who might bother her. Every once and a while, adults would ask her if she was cold, if she wanted some food and ect. She stayed here at nights, generally watched by every person in the building. The law of Venice was still trying to figure out what to do with her.
When she was sure that no one was watching her too closely, she closed her eyes, trying to fall into the comforting blanket of sleep. The gentle hum of the computers and the soft voices lulled her to sleep. So, she was obviously surprised when somebody shook her shoulder gently.
Her eyes opened wide, and she yelped, scrambling away from the figure that was crouched to her left.
Her left hand clenched the place where the person had touched her. It felt as if the person had burned her. She blinked a couple times, trying to focus. Slowly, the figures made more sense.
The person next to her was a older male, smiling at her. He looked like a stereotypical European man. Bowler hat, suit, cane and a briefcase, he fit the bill well.
" Hello" He spoke in a kindly voice. "Emilliana, I am here to help you. You may call me Watari."
Instantly, they girl had 3 thoughts:
1. The man was different then all the other reporters and journalists, who thought too highly of themselves for her taste. She often enjoyed shooting them dirty looks. He actually looked like he wanted to help her, instead of getting a promotion for a best seller, front page story.
2. His real name was very unlikely actually Watari. She was 89 percent sure, anyway. The man hardly looked of Japanese ancestry.
3. She narrowed her eyes when she heard her real name being spoken. She did not exactly like the name "Emilliana" The Italian girl referred to herself as "Emily" and requested that others did so too.
She fished in her bundle of blankets for a pad of paper and a pencil. That was the other thing about Emily. She could not talk.
Well, she could. Just not around others. She had diagnosed herself with Selective Mutism Thursday. She encouraged the others to read about it on Google, to shed some light on her peculiar situation. ( A/N LOL HINT)
When she finally found her writing utensils, she expressed her 3 thoughts on paper. When she was done, she handed her childish handwriting to the elderly man.
He read for a couple seconds, before chuckling. He looked up, searching her face for some more environmental answers. His gaze settled on her hand, partly showing under her sleeve. Self consciously, she pulled her sleeve down, hiding the bandages. The scars from the angry Russian man where still heavily imprinted on her skin.
"Emily, then." His smile seemed permanently fixated on his face. The young girl nodded. She was happy inside, but dared not to smile. Now, she trusted no one.
She was surprised when his smile slid off his face, and he looked grave.
" Of course, I need your help with this unpleasant situation. I do have good news for you, but I need some information first." He was talking awfully low, a bare whisper, as if he only wanted her to hear. She turned rigid as he spoke. She no longer wanted to talk about Death. She wanted to go out. See the sun. Apparently, happiness was a thing too heavily priced for a place such as this.
"It depends." She wrote on the pad. He peered at her as she wrote, still crouched on the ground.
"On what, may I pertain?" His voice was seemingly innocent.
Her scowl got deeper. "It depends on your good news, and how much information I can give you." She scribbled fast.
"Let's talk out the details, yes?" He offered her a hand. Hesitating, her dark eyes looked up at the elder man. She had an inner battle with herself, weighing the pros and cons for almost a full minute, but the man never faltered.
" Yes, lets." She thought warily, carefully placed her hand into his larger one. He gave it a gentle squeeze and stood up, pulling her up beside him. She brushed of the dirt from her pants' knees.
Whoever this man was, he had intrigued and surprised the girl. His soft sent of sugar, or at least, being around sugar a lot. The way he seemed to not want to hurt her. The way he had trusted her with information, even though she was a child. He was certainly peculiar.
Besides, she was 30 percent sure he had candy on his person somewhere. Those chances where good enough for any child.
fails at last sentence humor
R&R, people. First story ever.
gets on knees and begs for you to review