DEATH NOTE

Sawyer slammed his head hard, relentlessly on the steel door of the tiny room that had become his prison for the last five years.

He was in an asylum. 

He's been ever since he was fifteen, never having to finish high school, never given the opportunity to live the American dream...

He'd been diagnosed with Schizophrenia.

He was pretty handsome...well, if you took away the overgrown beard, the beady eyes and the overly pale skin that hadn't seen sunlight in over half a decade.

It wasn't his fault.

He'd been tricked.

Granted the African American man had looked overly suspicious. With his armlets and weird Harry Potter hat.

But Sawyer had been drawn nonetheless.

The strange man had asked him what he wanted.

"I can make them all go away." He'd said enchantingly...and he'd fallen for it.

Like the naive boy he was he'd replied,

"Honestly man, I've been having a lot of trouble sleeping."

The man had grinned at him like a cheshire cat and out of nowhere had brought out a vial of medicine that Sawyer could have sworn he'd conjured out of thin air. 

But to Sawyer it looked like a grey-coloured concoction and it oozed the worst smell.

Like the painfully gullible boy he was, he'd used it...and then began his eternal torment.

He kept seeing a personality, shrouded in a dark cloak—it was the same dream over and over again.

The dream would always start with him moving towards the personality but then at the last second, the cloaked figure would turn around to reveal the most disturbing sight he'd ever seen in his entire life.

It was absolutely terrifying.

It had no nose, eyes, ears...or mouth. It's face was blank and the weirdest part was, every single movement, every single expression Sawyer made, it would always replicate it. 

It never moved from where it stood in the dimly lit hallway by the corner, in his dreams.

And all it did was...watch him.

He saw it everywhere. 

In school, at home, in the shower...

From that day...he never slept.

And quickly he became delusional.

At least that was what those who were supposed to love him, those who were supposed to support him—his friends and family—called him.

Eventually, he stopped going to school. All day he stayed up in his room cowering in a corner with all the curtains drawn open.

It would stand by his door and just stare at him with it's faceless mask.

It never came near him, near the light anyway.

Sawyer suspected it couldn't go near the light because it was darkness. 

And darkness and light never mingled.

It didn't take much for him to crack.

It became too much for his family to handle—the alienation, the self-imposed isolation..

In a nutshell, they threw him into an asylum...and he'd never felt more alone.

It hurts. Everything hurts.

Eventually, gradually, painfully slowly—he lost his mind.

As the years rolled by, he discovered what the 'thing' was.

It was DEATH.

And everyday for the last five years, it'd been standing there in his room, constantly reminding him that his time was almost up and would soon claim his soul and drag it straight to Sheoul.

But he was already prepared.

He raised the sharp razor up into the pathetic excuse for a bulb and his short life literally flashed before his very eyes.

Somehow, he could see his life being reflected in the sharp edges of the blade.

He wanted to end it all, he needed to end it all.

"Farewell Mother." A tear fell down his tired eye.

A tear for the woman that should have fought for him, prayed for him.

And another tear for DEATH'S next victim.

"I surrender."

"Wait!"

Sawyer held a soft desperate voice say.

"You still have so much to live for."