I
"Trauma"
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In a world filled to the brim with death and disgusting humans lives 3 realms...
At the very bottom lives hell. Here, souls of the damned rot. Those who have chosen to do wrong in their lives, sinning themselves deeper into "Satan's imaginary grasp", suffer gravely for their actions. From the moment a wicked human's body is buried, their soul travels to hell, to which they meet their eternal punisher.
Not even the most degenerate souls wish to stay...
At the very top exists Heaven. Those who basked in their righteousness thrive and frolic among the clouds, singing their sweet songs of glory and good deeds. Those who judged themselves before others, bringing forth love to those who needed it more than themselves, and acted accordingly to the goodness of humanity are rewarded with eternal peace.
Not even the most degenerate souls grow bored here.
And in the middle of these two realms lies Earth. Mortal beings trail it. For billions of years and evolution, the beings and species that lived on this corporeal dimension have subjected themselves to the theory of Darwinism.
Only the strong survived. Through all those millenia, species evolved, adapting to their environments and excelling at their survival, fighting off the elements of cold, heat, wind, snow, as well as the predators that lurked in their wake.
A food chain exists for a reason. One animal feeds on the one weaker than itself... gnawing at its bones, enjoying its meal, and attaining a sense of pride and dopamine for surviving another day. Mother nature blesses them.
But those blessings are quickly taken away, as the animal on top of them in the food chain pounces, inducing feelings of fear through their necks, causing a pain the animal never felt before.
Prey turns to predators, and predators to prey.
Humans, however, found themselves at the top of this chain. Though weaker physically than most animals, their wits and technological advancements made them excel, cheating their way to victory.
Such intelligent creatures...
But no matter the education those humans receive, and no matter how much they try and stray away from their roots, each of them are just feral, stupid cavemen, looking to survive and flourish in a world that they were never meant to live in.
These 3 realms hold the spirits of humanity, guiding them and testing their characters in order to decide their future.
...
"What a bunch of stupidity! I can't believe humans really think all of that is true!" Laughed a cowardly demonic being with a skeletal boar's head. He was skinny and tall, wearing a black fur-like chestplate and bandages around his arms. He threw down a playing card made of bone... dried, grey, and withered away, just like the dimension they lived in.
"Shut up, Gukuu and continue playing... I'm not here to talk. I'm here to win." Said another overly confident ghostly looking and skinny figure. He had big red lips and was covered in white linen, along with wearing a mask that covered his eyes. He held his scythe as he threw a dried, withered apple to the center of the devils that surrounded the cards.
"Careful, Deridovely... I assure you to be cautious when playing against me. I can be quite tricky to predict." Said yet another hell figure. He was stoic, calm, and collected as he played. He wore a tribal feather hat that brimmed his skeleton forehead, bearing sharp white teeth as he spoke. "Raise." He, too, threw in an apple.
"You too, Zellogi!" Said Deridovely, laughing with a cough. "Like I'd ever let you sneak past me with your damn poker face... I can call you out right now."
"I'm folding... I'm gonna lose if I continue playing, and I have no fruit to cough up." Spoke the boar—headed man. He dropped his cards, which made a clank sound as they hit the ground, emitting dust. He looked around to the infinite grey and lifeless plain that surrounded them
Faded and numbed yellow sandy mist covered the floor as white, sharp bones grew from the ground up. The entire world was dark but not completely black. A few other shinigamis, they were called, roamed the grounds of this barren wasteland.
Though they were animated, walking about, moving, laughing, and existing in this plane of existence, they were completely and utterly lifeless. Jewels laid spread in different areas of the desolate realm..
Gukuu rested his eyes on another shinigami, one that looked like a monster costume for a theater class combined with an emo rocker. He was tall and lanky with a wide back and skinny waist. Every part of him was creepy and eerie.
He had a widow's peak, with blue hair that aimed in the direction of the shinigami's
non—existent ceiling. His black shoulder pads held many feathers, and around his belt existed a few chains.
One of them holding his Death Note.
He was looking out into the barren desert that was his realm, appearing as if in deep thought, back turned to the rest of the shinigamis.
"Hey, Ryuk!" Called out the boar, Gukuu, to the bored looking shinigami. "You should come play with us for a change."
Ryuk, without a scoff or a sigh, responded dully.
"No... I'll pass."
"AHA! Two death-heads! I win again!" Yelled the overly competitive shinigami, Deridovely.
Ryuk then raised himself in a very robotic and methodological way. There was no character in his movement... just a boring process of engaging and disenganging the now gone muscles in his body.
"It's been five days now... about the time I got going." He spoke, uttering a dusty speech bubble as he began walking.
"Hm? Where are you off to, Ryuk? Anyplace you go around here, it's all barren anyway." Said Gukuu again. He was right, there was nowhere to go. Their dimension was essentially their own purgatory... and there was nowhere to go.
"I dropped my Death Note." He said before beginning to walk down a spiral staircase, letting his weight completely fall on each step, making a clack sound with each landing.
The cocky shinigami, Deridovely, began laughing at Ryuk's mistake.
"Haha! Whoops! You're really screwed man!" Said Deridovely, mocking Ryuk and his mistake. Ryuk did not turn his back nor argue. He simply walked further down the stairs.
"Hey... weren't you carrying around a second one behind the Old Man's back? You saying you lost both?" Asked the calm and composed shinigami, Zellogi.
There was no response to this question. Ryuk continued his slow and boring path.
"So... You got any idea where you dropped it?" asked Gukuu.
"Yeah... The human world."
And all together, Zellogi included, the shinigamis asked "What?"
...
Manhattan, NY... November, 28th 2026. Lexington Avenue, 53rd street.
"AGH! FUCK YOU ALL! BITCH ASS FUCKAS! NICK MY NAGGING ASS!" Spouted a smelly, troglodyte like homeless man, cursing any person that walked by him. He was buzz cut and full of dandruff. He wore tattered grey clothes with a hole in the back of his pants. He was laying on his side, feet bare, dirty, and touching the floor of the NYC subway that led to the E and 6 train.
His finger and toe nails were a disgusting yellow, and anyone that walked by him covered their nose and looked pained as the man's piss smelling aura assaulted their nostrils.
He was laying down on the bare floor of the subway station, riddled with other homeless people, begging for money.
A well dressed young woman in heels walked past the man. He began his short little routine.
"Aye, sweetheart! Over here! You're so beautiful... think you can ble—" The lady did not pay any attention to the man and kept her head up in typical busy New Yorker fashion. "OKAY! FUCK YOU TOO! STUPID BITCH!"
In any case, this man would be taken by the police, told that he was causing a public disturbance, and, if he didn't stop or comply, be charged with harassment...
But he was homeless and bat shit crazy. In New York, especially in the Manhattan area, that was a pass to basically do whatever you wanted as long as you weren't physically hurting someone.
The people that walked past him would rather piss themselves then to even dare speaking to man of this kind.
His name was Creever Cridley. The world, filled with its darkness and scorn, had brought him here to this subway tunnel. Here, he spent everyday begging for money, facing rejection from every passerby that refused to give him a dime.
His mother was a drug addict... and his father... well... his father was a violent predator.
Creever escaped when he was 14, finding solace in the home of a neighborhood drug dealer, Tinkin. Tinkin ran his block and neighborhood, dealing dope to every house that would take it. He bought out apartment buildings and gave homes to those who needed it. He took single mothers in and blessed them with the ability to raise their sons and daughters in benedictions.
He, through his dope, opened up new possibilities for his neighborhood; the path to an education. One by one, he selected people that came of age to go to school.
Creever, a young boy that liked to smoke weed, was one of them. Tinkin found Creever at a bodega struggling to pay for a chopped cheese. When Tinkin saw this, and saw Creever haggling with his aggressive and to–the–point tone, he was impressed.
Tinkin saw something in the boy... a motivation that he rarely was able to come by in those days.
He recruited Creever as a delivery boy and inventory manager.
From there, they forged a path of power through their contraband. While they were dealing, kids from their neighborhood were going to school to become doctors... musicians... dentists...
Children who were told not to dream went off to become lawyers, nurses, electricians, plumbers, teachers, and more.
All due to Tinkin and Creever.
Tinkin became somewhat of a father figure to Creever.
And then... the big betrayal happened.
One day, when Creever was 17, as the two were celebrating the graduation of a newly indoctrinated Doctor from the neighborhood, there was a silent attack. Someone had laced Tinkin's drink with his own supply of dope.
After that, Tinkin slowly began losing it. He wasn't him anymore... he was just a shell of himself.
Creever, the second in command of the operation, could not stand seeing his father figure slowly erasing his brain.
So he, too, began numbing himself.
It was scary at first, but ever since that first needle entered his arm, Creever could forget all his pain.
Creever sat there, present day, on the floor of the subway, angry at himself for God knows what. Every day that he woke, he was in withdrawal from the heroin, and every person he saw reminded him of what he could have been.
"FUCK YOU ALL! UGH! I JUST WANT SOME FOOD TO EAT!" He screamed, now sitting up and putting his head in his arms. "I just want some food." He said, through bated breath.
...
Plop he heard.
"OH!" His head raised. "God bless you ma'am! Thank you— STUPID BITCH!" He yelled as he realized the item he was given was a magazine for hammers. "What am I supposed to do with this? You stupid hag! Goddamn fuck! I'll kill you!"
But he didn't. He simply looked at the magazine, rolled it up, placed it under his head and continued to exist in his pain, no heroin to help him.
Plop.
"I DON'T WANT YOUR STUPID MAGAZINES!" Creever said, looking up to the floor in front of him. "WHAT—What? Fuck is this shit?" Creever questioned the magazine he saw in front of him.
Only he had never seen this magazine before. In fact, it didn't look like a magazine, it looked more like a journal. It was a deep black book with a small amount of pages. On the front, in white lettering, it displayed the words "Death Note" in a font Creever had never seen before.
In fact, he didn't even know that words could have "fonts."
Though he wasn't looking for more literature to read, and was still feining for a hit of H, his curiosity, the same one that made him try heroin, took over. He reached out and touched the book.
He felt the pages with his dirty, unwashed hands, bringing it close to him.
"Who dropped this? HELLO! NEW YORKERS! HELLO!" But no one listened to him. He knew that no one would pay attention to him unless confronted with immediate danger.
He felt the soft marble like leather of the cover, and decided to open it.
That's when, in the beginning pages of the notebook, instead of finding white pages, he found black ones filled with white lettering.
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DEATH NOTE
How to use it:
I
The human whose name is written in this note shall die.
This note will not take effect unless the writer has the person's face in their mind when writing his/her name. Therefore, people sharing the same name will not be affected.
II
If the cause of death is written within the next 40 seconds of writing the person's name, it will happen.
If the cause of death is not specified, the person will simply die of a heart attack.
After writing the cause of death, details of the death should be written in the next 6 minutes and 40 seconds.
"I ain't reading all that shit! What a bunch of fucking boring mumbo... Fuck, I need a bit of heroin." He said, tossing the notebook back into his dirty hobo sack, before getting up and dusting himself off.
"JEREMY!" He said loudly, already used to screaming for no reason at all other than the fact that he could. He then set off toward the entrance to the tunnels that led to his underground world he knew all too well, off to see a man that reminded him all too much of his father figure.
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Author's note
Hello everyone. I would like to say thank you for reading the first installment to my Death Note Fanfiction "God of The New York." I was planning to hide this for a while, but I think I will update it each week.
I will be posting weekly updates each Sunday I believe. Stay tuned and let me know what you think!
+ Percyossidy +
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