End of the Line by Miharu is Haruka's Love Child
A/N: This is not a plagiarized story. This is a repost of this one-shot that was on my original profile Miharu is Haruka's Love Child. I don't remember what I was going through when I wrote this the first time, but I think it's a super fun story even though it's dark and emo.
I never asked for this. I never asked for my parents to die…I never asked for my Godfather to sexually abuse me, to treat me like a public toilet…like a Goddamned slot machine. But would I be any less fucked up if I had?
I never asked for this.
I never asked the old man to rescue me, to pull me from that foster home, to bring me to his fairy tale mansion and care for me. Why did you do it, Wammy? Why the fuck didn't you leave me to die in that hell hole?
Fuck you, Roger. I never asked you to heal me, to treat me like your son. I could have made it on my own! I never asked you to teach me how to hope, how to dream…Maybe, just maybe I never fucking wanted to learn how to love myself! Did you ever think of that? No, because you never asked.
I never asked Roger for a roommate; he simply gave me one. I never asked the blond boy on the other bed what his name was, it had simply been supplied. Mello. He came with the room, he came with the dream…they were all part of the same package.
I never asked him to be my friend. I still don't understand how it happened, and maybe I never will, because I never asked. I never thought to…
I've simply let life happen. All around me.
We're not kids anymore, me and Mello. I never asked to grow up, but maybe the changes were just so gradual that they slipped away like dewdrop falling from a window pane.
I never asked him why he left me, why I woke up one morning to find myself alone in bed, with 2 dozen chocolate wrappers that I'd wrenched out of the trash surrounding me, threatening to drown me in misery and self-pity. Fuck you too, Cadbury, Nestle, Godiva…you bitches of nostalgia.
I never asked about the years we spent apart; I simply accepted the blood on his gloves, the smell of gunpowder in his hair, and I held him at night when he screamed—because bloody hell, he had so many nightmares.
Whatever shreds of self-respect I had left, I gave them all to him. It wasn't a question of loyalty, of friendship or even…love. Yeah, fuck you, Linda, you were wrong. I DON'T LOVE HIM. I don't. I don't. I don't. I don't, damn it!
Mello can roast in hell for what he's done to me, but even then, I won't get the satisfied smirk to fade from that scarred, frightened child—he'll be too busy burning for all the real sins he's done. I don't think God put me high on his list of contrition. Well fuck God too. He can stand in line because I've got first dibs on Mello's bloody soul.
I'm a man, aren't I?
No. I'm not.
Maybe.
Not anymore.
In a few moments…I won't be.
"Matt, put the gun down."
"Don't. Order. Me. Around." I clenched through my teeth, but my hand swayed a little, the metallic ice of a barrel just grazing my ear.
"Matt, you need to calm the fuck down."
"I'll be calm Mello…oh I'll be plenty calm when this is all over."
The shot rang out in all its cacophonous glory—with a flash of fire. Mello's eyes never looked so beautiful as they did in that one moment of agony…utter betrayal etched deeply across their cerulean surface. I couldn't look away even as his body, frail from the sleepless nights of planning, collapsed onto the floor. His neck jerked upwards and the slight snap of his spine was beautiful, simply as breathtaking as the blood that sullied every inch of that godforsaken leather.
Goodbye Mello.
"M..Maat." Well, the fucker wasn't dead yet. What a shame.
I stood over him, emotionless as the hard steel in my hand. And I laughed.
Oh God I laughed.
God. I never asked to be born. I never asked to get caught up in all this Kira shit. I never asked to leave when I knew I sold my soul to Mello.
Fuck it all. Fuck the world. Fuck every last woman and child and let them bleed out their misery.
I never asked for this.
I never asked.
I never put the gun to my own head.
I never set my finger on the trigger.
Mello's pleading eyes didn't stop me from kicking him in the guts, didn't stop me from breaking his ribs and laughing when my boots were saturated in his blood.
I never asked why.
And as I hold the barrel against my temple, I know that I never wi—
Bang!
Yes, Matt shot Mello. Yes, he shot himself. Hate on me if you must.