DN -- The Cloud Forest
Title: The Cloud Forest
Collection: Fifteen
Fandom: Death Note
Character: Mello
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 232
Prompt: the cloud forest
Warnings: drug use
Summary: Nothing really matters now, and that's the point.
Author's Note: Most of the credit goes to eltea for a scenario we toyed with a long time ago, which wasn't too unlike this.
4. THE CLOUD FOREST
It fades things. It grinds the sharp edges off his jagged world, and if he runs a risk to get there-well, that sounds pretty fair.
Can’t get something for nothing, not these days.
He tugs the knotted leather laces to release his makeshift tourniquet, and he lies back and waits for peace.
One moment more of agonizing indifference, and then it comes-then it swells about him like the cotton swells to hold the thrice-blessed solution gallivanting through his withering veins; then it swells like warm, humid mist.
That’s what he always finds first, before the dull-sweet emptiness of the high-the mist. The Cloud Forest.
Maybe he saw a picture in a textbook once, in the world that he remembers, that was kinder, that was just. Maybe he made it up.
It doesn’t matter now. Nothing really matters now, and that’s the point.
The forest is green, a deep, rich green that tends to black, disappearing into the smothering expanses of shifting gray-white. The sunlight reaches blinding fingers that can’t break through.
And there’s a bridge, a bridge like an apparition, suspended from nothing, leading into the heart of the depthless fog.
As he gazes unseeing at the track marks up and down his arms, as he listens to the slow, gentle breathing of someone sleeping-almost-dead, Mello thinks that maybe somebody’s waiting at the other end.
Collection: Fifteen
Fandom: Death Note
Character: Mello
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 232
Prompt: the cloud forest
Warnings: drug use
Summary: Nothing really matters now, and that's the point.
Author's Note: Most of the credit goes to eltea for a scenario we toyed with a long time ago, which wasn't too unlike this.
4. THE CLOUD FOREST
It fades things. It grinds the sharp edges off his jagged world, and if he runs a risk to get there-well, that sounds pretty fair.
Can’t get something for nothing, not these days.
He tugs the knotted leather laces to release his makeshift tourniquet, and he lies back and waits for peace.
One moment more of agonizing indifference, and then it comes-then it swells about him like the cotton swells to hold the thrice-blessed solution gallivanting through his withering veins; then it swells like warm, humid mist.
That’s what he always finds first, before the dull-sweet emptiness of the high-the mist. The Cloud Forest.
Maybe he saw a picture in a textbook once, in the world that he remembers, that was kinder, that was just. Maybe he made it up.
It doesn’t matter now. Nothing really matters now, and that’s the point.
The forest is green, a deep, rich green that tends to black, disappearing into the smothering expanses of shifting gray-white. The sunlight reaches blinding fingers that can’t break through.
And there’s a bridge, a bridge like an apparition, suspended from nothing, leading into the heart of the depthless fog.
As he gazes unseeing at the track marks up and down his arms, as he listens to the slow, gentle breathing of someone sleeping-almost-dead, Mello thinks that maybe somebody’s waiting at the other end.