Disclaimer: Death Note isn't mine. You know the drill.
During the critical moment, Mello just happened to glance at the rear view mirror. He was checking his hair. His stupid bangs were getting long. He casually brushed the blond hair out of his eyes with one gloved hand when he noticed Takada Kiyomi scribbling something onto a small piece of paper.
Sudden comprehension mixed with no time to think out a better plan of action, Mello raised the gun screaming "YOU BITCH!" as he fired. Reflexively almost. Takada slumped to the floor. Her doll face barely had the time to form an 'oh' of surprise. Glassy eyes stared as blood gushed out from the grisly hole that the .45 caliber bullet left dead center in her forehead. Grey sludgy brain matter followed soon after, dribbling out like dog slobber. Fragments of bone splattered the inside of the van creating a splotchy pattern reminiscent of a Rorschach inkblot test. The paper, the seemingly innocent piece of paper, fell from her small hands. Not yet drenched in blood, Mello could make out the characters 'M-i-h-a-e-l-K-e-e-h- scrawled on it with irritatingly neat penmanship. Saved by one letter. He lived because of one fucking letter. One fucking letter that Takada failed to write BECAUSE SHE WAS TOO FUCKING BUSY MAKING SURE ALL OF THE LETTERS WERE WRITTEN PERFECTLY. What saved him wasn't his intelligence. It was dumb luck.
Fuck. FUCK. Mello's heart was racing, pumping his body full of adrenaline. The gun was still smoking. Blood continued to pool. The van reeked of the liquid metal. The blanket he had given Takada was completely soiled and completely unrecognizable. Not that he wanted that …thing back. He took a deep breath. He wished Matt were there to give him a cigarette. He could really fucking use one to calm him down. Matt always laughed at Mello while he spluttered and coughed as the smoke tickled, no, burned his trachea. It wasn't Mello's fucking fault that his body couldn't stand the smoke but he tried anyway. If Matt, who hated scotch, could down shots of scotch with Mello, Mello could deal with the smoke. Matt… He quickly shut down that train of thought. Thinking of Matt was like jabbing rusty nails into a festering wound that hadn't quite healed. They grew up together in a world of anti-social genii trapped in their own worlds. They respected each other. Understood each other. In life, Matt was Mello's best and dearest friend. In death, Matt became the eagle that tore at Prometheus's liver, feasting ravenously upon the bloody chunks of his flesh. Dead! His best friend was dead. He himself narrowly escaped death. He should have been happy. He wasn't. He let out a strangled laugh. The noise that escaped his vocal cords was an inhuman wail. Hoarse. Desperate.
Mello had no idea why he felt like laughing. Nothing was particularly amusing about the situation. Nothing was funny anymore. But he couldn't think of anything else to do. He was angry, mostly at himself…but he couldn't think of any other way to take it out. He looked down at the body. "Not so fucken pretty now are you?" He said to no one in particular. He shot another bullet, the explosion of gunpowder drowned out the screaming in Mello's head for a full, precious second. The body jerked at the impact. Thick gastrointestinal juices joined the pool of grey and red and Takada's desecrated body emptied its bladder as her what was left of her central nervous system faded away. I underestimated that bitch. He thought bitterly. Never again. That… that is the last time I'm showing any fucking trace of compassion.
He turned his body away from the mess he created to face forward. He leaned his head back on the driver's seat with his eyes closed. He clutched his aching right shoulder with his left hand… the recoil from the Beretta wasn't pleasant. Ross raised an eyebrow when Mello picked that gun. He knew his frame wasn't bulky enough but Mello didn't give a shit. He wanted to create giant messy holes. Holes from which his targets couldn't recover. He dropped his head on the steering wheel and tried taking deep calming breaths through his nose. He gagged almost immediately. The smell of all the evacuated viscera was putrid. It was beginning to make his eyes water. He rubbed his eyes roughly with one fluid motion using back of his hand. He winced slightly as the leather brushed against the delicate scar tissue that marred half of his once innocent looking face. Mello hadn't forgiven Kira for his face, not because he was vain, but because it was evidence that he miscalculated the situation. It was evidence that he fucked up.
It was the kind of evidence that made Near such an intolerable condescending shit. Not that Near had actually said anything when he saw Mello's appearance when the two of them met at SPK headquarters. He twirled his white hair—made eerier by the glow of all the television screens that surrounded him—around his fingers and marched action figures across the floor with a knowing smirk on his lips. Near didn't need to say anything. Second best. Those words may as well have been permanently tattooed to his thin lips. The image was taunting him.
Mello clenched his hands into tight angry fists at the thought of that dipshit and punched the dashboard with his left hand. The glass smashed and the speedometer dangled uselessly, separated from its underlying circuitry. He inhaled sharply and then cursed under his breath. His knuckles throbbed painfully from the impact. Subcutaneous hemorrhage. The delicate tissue of his capillaries had been ruptured but his skin was not broken; the leather had protected him. He was still clinging onto the gun with his right hand. His muscles were screaming for him to let go. But to be honest, he couldn't let go of the gun. He needed to hold on to something solid to calm him down. The cold metal of the gun felt reliable. Unbreakable. The urge to punch shit until his knuckles were raw hadn't subsided yet. Pistol-whip something maybe. But he knew now was not the time. He needed to leave. He needed to fucking disappear and hide somewhere safe so he could think. Clear his head.
He climbed out of the van, stumbling as he did so. It was as though the Earth had a stronger gravitational pull outside. He fell on all fours and he could feel vomit clawing up the back of his throat from the sudden change in position. The acid burned his insides as it ascended his esophagus. But Mello refused to puke. He forced the feeling back down and angrily spit out the acrid taste in his mouth. Water would wash out the rest.
And Mello's first innocent thought of that evening came to him with the exaggerated weight of an Acme anvil. Shit…What am I going to do now? He couldn't even stomach the thought of going back to his grubby apartment. Not that he ever liked that shit hole. It was cheap and cheap came with giant cockroaches that made too much fucking noise at night. But it wasn't the roaches that bothered him anymore… too much of Matt's stuff was there. But he had to go back. He needed to retrieve several of his belongings. Clothes. Chocolate. Bullets. Nitroglycerin. Just to name a few items. He was going to get revenge if it was the last fucking thing he did. Even if it cost him everything. Even if it meant falling from grace in the eyes of his deceased idol.
Well wasn't that cheerful :3
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