[private] sometimes we're thrown off our pathways
Light's days are all more or less the same, now.
Wake up (but is it the morning, or the evening? he's past caring), persuade a pear or a satsuma or, these days, even an apple (glare fully in place) that it's breakfast, go to the library or back to his room or to one of the outdoor rooms he favours, the one with the snow or the one with the island. Sometimes he gets a trick room, but not as often as he did, and he suspects that the reason for that is that there's simply never anyone in there with him.
He sees people so rarely that he could convince himself he's the only one left in this whole section of the mansion, the one with the worse décor and the darker corners and the monsters that follow you into the corridors. There had been a-a thing, once, mechanical, all whirring teeth and saw blades and whirling chains, and Light had seen the door in time and got out, and it had come right out after him, and-
Luckily, that time he'd been able to outrun the thing. But he's never forgotten it, and never stopped being far more careful around the corridors than he was in the old place. Still, mostly it's just quiet. Desolately so, even. And, for the most part, he's perfectly happy with that.
So when he ends up in a room he's seen before, on rare occasions, one with high white walls and a smooth white floor and ceiling, and all of them exactly the same, right down to the door that isn't in any of them, he sighs, and glares at the smooth white space behind him, and sits against the wall to draw three-dimensional boxes, with a tiny figure drawn up against the wall in each one.
After all, sooner or later, the place will have to let him out. He knows it.
Wake up (but is it the morning, or the evening? he's past caring), persuade a pear or a satsuma or, these days, even an apple (glare fully in place) that it's breakfast, go to the library or back to his room or to one of the outdoor rooms he favours, the one with the snow or the one with the island. Sometimes he gets a trick room, but not as often as he did, and he suspects that the reason for that is that there's simply never anyone in there with him.
He sees people so rarely that he could convince himself he's the only one left in this whole section of the mansion, the one with the worse décor and the darker corners and the monsters that follow you into the corridors. There had been a-a thing, once, mechanical, all whirring teeth and saw blades and whirling chains, and Light had seen the door in time and got out, and it had come right out after him, and-
Luckily, that time he'd been able to outrun the thing. But he's never forgotten it, and never stopped being far more careful around the corridors than he was in the old place. Still, mostly it's just quiet. Desolately so, even. And, for the most part, he's perfectly happy with that.
So when he ends up in a room he's seen before, on rare occasions, one with high white walls and a smooth white floor and ceiling, and all of them exactly the same, right down to the door that isn't in any of them, he sighs, and glares at the smooth white space behind him, and sits against the wall to draw three-dimensional boxes, with a tiny figure drawn up against the wall in each one.
After all, sooner or later, the place will have to let him out. He knows it.