subversion

Light didn't move for a couple of days, after that. Well, more or less. Sometimes one need or another would prod him towards the bathroom - water, or the toilet - and then he'd curl right back up beneath his quilt, and drift back off into sleep. The broken mirror gave him nightmares, and so did she.

By the time he'd drawn himself back together, blanket stitch around and around the edges, he was past feeling hungry, so he didn't bother with the kitchen. He didn't want to go out, anyway. He's dreamy and floaty, lying on or in the bed, leafing through books with pretty pictures or straightforward text. Sometimes he really, really feels he should eat something, like he might even die if he doesn't, but mostly he's - tingly; he's lost weight fast, four or five pounds, and his hair's a mess, and he's a mess. He's waiting, in truth, for the pieces to draw properly together.

Just at present, it's been a week, and he's lying in bed, tired and hollow, clad in little besides a black t-shirt, and watching the play of pinprick lights on the ceiling, the ones only he can see.

[[OOC: private to stripesandheels.]]

Light is, for reasons of his own, spread out in a chair in the music room. He's surrounded by rhythm instruments - drums, castanets, spoons - but looks a million miles away, and isn't playing any particular one. Reaching out, he taps a tambourine; all the little bells chatter.

Also, his hair is bright blue.

[[OOC: private to stripesandheels.]]

It's been a few days since Light vanished into a random bedroom, determined there to stay until he felt himself again. Unfortunately, his logic and reasoning are all heavily skewed sideways. Which is why he's standing against one of the kitchen counters in a loose tracksuit, poking at a cup noodle with which he seems displeased. His hair is limp, and it's clear he hasn't been taking care of himself since he disappeared.

[[OOC: private to ijk_mno.]]

Clocks and watches being what they are in the mansion, it's impossible to get any more accurate than "the middle of the night". Light is fast asleep on the floor of his own room, wrapped in spare blankets and sheets, curled on some futon's poor relation that pulled out of a bag.

Something has made him twitch almost awake at intervals, but he can sleep through a very great deal. At the moment, he's flying, ghostlike, through one floor of the mansion after the next.

[[OOC: private to stripesandheels.]]

It's almost exactly three days since Light found himself suddenly deaf. And there's no sign of it wearing off. At all.

He knows it could be days, or weeks; it's what the place does. But it might also be forever, and the thought of spending the rest of his life in this weird not-silence appals him.

Sat at the table, he's picking at a bowl of brownish-yellowish-mostly-rice... stuff. There's definitely seaweed in there, and fish flakes, and chopped spring onion that looks as if it might actually not have come out of a packet.

[[OOC: private to stripesandheels.]]

"What's that smell?"

He's not a fan of artificial scents. Closing the door behind him with a brush of his hand, he concentrates hard on not sinking to the floor and sitting against it.

[[OOC: Continued from here. Private to stripesandheels.]]

It's a kitchen, deserted except for Light, who's ... more collapsed than sat at the table. His arm is resting on the surface, and his head is pillowed on it; the other hand is touching a half-eaten piece of toast - perfectly square, spread thinly with some kind of golden-yellow jam, and at least an inch thick.

Over the last week or two, it's got harder and harder to keep his temper; he keeps blowing up at people. It's intolerable; the solution he's chosen is to use (not abuse) some of the prescription sedatives in his medicine cabinet. He's been careful; he's started on the lowest dose, intending to titrate upwards. Unfortunately he didn't anticipate how severe the interactions with his usual medication were likely to be.

He's literally fallen asleep at the table.

[[OOC: private to stripesandheels.]]

The room Light leads Matt to is a bar, which has been abandoned every time he's checked it. It's pure curiosity: something a little familiar. Heading to the counter - which is immaculate, as if someone scrubbed it down before walking out - he peeks behind there and steals a bottle of orange juice before looking back to her.

"It was some kind of genocide? Chasing utopia?"

[[OOC: private to stripesandheels.]]