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Damn it, you curse.
Damn it all to hell, and you choke and gasp from the holes in you chest and the cavities in your pride.
Light Yagami is dying-- rather pathetically-- in a puddle of his own blood, muddled and degenerated by dirty piss water. Wet, dirty and bloody.
Shot. By an incompetent Matsuda, who despite his tears and fiery rage still couldn't manage to hit anything vital. And so Light bleeds and whines in agony, pleading mentally for someone to help and cursing them to the deepest pits of hell with every fibre of his being in the same breath. He begs for Misa, for Takada, for anyone, but not for God. God doesn't exist anymore, Ryuuk said. Disappeared and left the world to rot in the hands of the filthy criminal. God is dead. Or he will be. By the rate the pool of blood is expanding.
And the gods, the real gods of heaven and hell and everything in between laugh at his misery and humiliation. That this hairless ape could blasphemously believe, truly, that he is one of them. That he is greater than them and they spare Light no ounce of mercy but speed the process along with wicked rotted fingers and a golden thread ready to be snapped.
Eager.
Fate.
It was fate that led Light to the death note and it was fate that brought it all full circle: live by the Note, die by the Note - so it is written. And when that name is written, just a few simple strokes by a chuckling shinigami, when that golden thread is cut, Light Yagami will cease to be a God. He will be tossed into Mu, and he will be nothingness. Thrown to the lowest of lows, unworthy of a body, a face, a soul.
As a show of thrill, they let Light live for a while longer: give him the strength to pull himself off the floor, out of his blood and into the rising dawn. Like a rat in a maze, running for the sake of running, an escape. Unaware that running will not find them freedom, but into the cold arms of death.
15 seconds, you have. Diminishing. With every stagger and gasp.
5. As the gods decide they had their fun with you. You human. So long.
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