At the age of four, Mihael Keehl was given the name Mello. He was a quiet child. He laughed more than he cried, and he observed more than anything. As he grew he harnessed great knowledge, reading and writing at three years old. He had an extensive vocabulary and spoke like an adult.
To top it off, Mihael was a beautiful child. He had startling ice blue eyes and golden locks that tumbled to his shoulders in a neat bob. He had a pale and flawless complexion. He had a breath-taking smile, even when he lost teeth.
He hated people, children and adults alike, with the exception of his parents. Children his age annoyed him to no end. They were ignorant, sloppy, filthy and overall pathetic. Adults looked down on him for his age. They spoke to him in horribly sweet voices, and they garbled their words in a poor attempt to be cute.
His parents treated him as an equal. Once they saw his genius, they attempted to propel it further by teaching him to mature. This is not to be confused with forcing him to grow up. They gave him every opportunity to be a child. They purchased him toys if he asked; they allowed him to play games and usually partook in said games. They even offered him the chance to join a public school if he chose. Anastasya and Nikolai Keehl were both brilliant; Anastasya had a Ph. D in English Arts and Literature, while Nikolai had a Ph. D in general Mathematics and Sciences. Together they knew English, German, French, Russian and Japanese fluently.
Mihael chose to be homeschooled, and was scheduled to learn all of the languages his parents knew, along with core curriculum at an advanced level. As he grew and matured his parents had arranged for him to be taught psychology, forensics, medical, sociology, and logical deduction.
At four years old Mihael was amazingly quiet. He observed everything around him and memorized people's behavior. People often ridiculed him for it, calling him creepy and unnatural. Mihael simply stared evenly at them until they let him be. He let such occurrences bounce off of him as though they were of no consequence.
On December 27th of 1998, Mihael lay in his bedroom, drifting off to sleep after finishing one of the many books he had received for Christmas. As he drifted into a state of semi-consciousness, he heard his bedroom door open.
Anastasya and Nikolai stood together, staring at Mihael in awe.
"He's incredible, isn't he?" Anastasya murmured.
"Indeed. He's brilliant, mellow, and mature. He's something else."
"Mellow… That's interesting. I wonder how he would like a nickname."
"Mellow? As a nickname?" his father inquired.
"Yes," his mother replied. "He's very unusual, and Mellow is such an unusual name."
"Well," Nikolai chuckled, "If we're going to call him that we might as well spell it differently, no? Perhaps without the 'w', so it would be spelled M-E-L-L-O? Then it would be an unusual name with an unusual spelling for an unusual child."
"I'm serious dear. I think I'll ask him tomorrow."
All the while, Mihael lay there in a half-awake trance. He absorbed the information as he heard it, and was content to approach the subject tomorrow, but a thought struck him. 'Isn't unusual a bad thing?' He asked himself. Turning over, he sat up and forced himself a bit more awake.
His parents looked over at the movement and saw their son sitting up groggily. "We didn't mean to wake you dear, go back to sleep," Anastasya cooed.
"But I want to ask something. Isn't unusual a… bad thing?" Mihael asked sleepily.
Nikolai and Anastasya exchanged a glance, and his father went to the edge of Mihael's bed and knelt. Looking his son in the eye he asked, "Well, what do you think? What is unusual?"
Mihael thought for a second and replied, "Unusual would be what a group of people sees as not normal, right?"
"Yes. Now, which would you rather be, normal, or not normal?"
Mihael thought hard, rolling the definitions around in his head and thinking of the possibilities. Finally, he reached a deduction his four year old mind shouldn't have been able to reach.
"If I were normal, then I would be like everyone else. And if I were like everyone else, then I wouldn't be me. I would be like a copy. I'd rather be me."
His mother and father swelled with pride at his response. Who could say they had a child as mature as little Mihael?
"Well then, from now on, you can be Mello," his mother said.
Mihael-no, Mello- smiled at the pride oozing off of his parents. He thrived on making them proud. He nodded at the name eagerly before his eyelids began to droop again. A low chuckle sounded from his father's throat and he was slowly eased back onto his bed as his eyes closed again. He felt his blankets being tugged up around him and two kisses being deposited on his cheek.
"Goodnight, little Mello," his mother whispered affectionately as they left and quietly eased the door almost completely shut.
Mello smiled to himself as he drifted back to sleep. His parents liked that he wanted to be himself; that he wanted to be unusual. It made them proud.
'If unusual makes them proud, then unusual is what I'll be,' he thought blearily as he fell into dark unconsciousness.
It was five days to Christmas, and a fresh snow littered the ground. Everything looked wonderful and beautiful and peaceful. Seven year old Mello stood still, tightly wrapped in a scarf with leather gloves on his small hands. To anyone that couldn't see his eyes, it was a beautiful sight. His eyes held a different story.
Ice blue orbs shone with tears but held no life. They had grown dull and ageless. Looking around himself, Mello saw the sight around him and laughed without mirth. It was wrong.
Rain should have been pummeling the ground and sleet should have been pelting those daring enough to go out. The world should be sobbing and mourning a new loss.
"Mello, dear, are you ready?" Anastasya called out.
"Yes, mother, give me a second!" Mello yelled as he shut his door. He ran downstairs with his small bag for the trip. "Where are we going again?"
"We're going to visit some friends of ours. One of them is your godfather. They're very close to us and we think it's time for you to meet them," his mother replied and he trotted to her side.
"You'll love them Mello," his father stated as he walked through the ground floor, turning off lights and ensuring they had everything. "Consider it a late birthday present and an early Christmas present."
"Yes, but who are they?" Mello enunciated his words as though his parents hadn't understood.
"Their names are L and B."
Indeed, Mello had met L and B by now. As his godfather, L had adopted Mello along with his twin, B.
Mello had learned that they had been world renowned detectives, brilliant for their abilities to solve any case presented with, and so infamous among the world that they were forced to hide their identities and simply be a letter on a screen.
Mello supposed it could have been worse. He could have been in an orphanage, after all.
Mello lifted his head and looked to the driver seat with bleary eyes. All he could remember were his mother's screams, blaring horns and bright lights.
"Father?" he asked timidly, looking to the driver's seat. The shattered windshield lay scattered across Nikolai's lap, with a few larger pieces piercing his skin. The truck that hit them had crashed into the driver's side and the whiplash had snapped Nikolai's neck.
"Nikolai Keehl, March 4th, 1963-December 14th 2001" read the tombstone.
Shaking, with tears already cascading down an angelic face he turned to face his mother in the passenger seat. The impact of the crash had sent her rocketing to the right and her head had hit the window hard enough to shatter it. A piece of glass had lodged itself in her temple, causing her to bleed to death. The shoulder strap had caught her neck and crushed her windpipe, but according to the doctors she had been unconscious and bled to death in under a minute.
"Anastasya Keehl, September 15th, 1965-December 14th, 2001" read the adjacent rock.