A/N: I'd just like to say a few things...

Yes, I know this is terrible, but I get most of my ideas on a whim anyway so... Also, I give good idea credits to my buds (Because they are amazing) and lastly, I do not own Death Note or any of the characters... though I wish I did. :)

Also, I'll be focusing on Mello's POV, until others start to join in.

Mello: Pt1

I remember everything so vividly. My past… the one before the Wammy house took me in. Before I met L, before I met Matt or that egg-head Near… before I had a home. No, I did not have a home when I was young. I had a roof with walls and a floor, but it wasn't home.

Most of you probably don't know who I am – though some of you are smart enough to guess. My name, in a past, was Mihael Keehl, now currently known as Mello. Ironically enough, I gave myself that name the day I met L and Wammy – or Watari as most of you know. But, I am getting ahead of myself. You will learn in due time how my life came to be.

Just so you know, I am writing this purely for selfish reasons. There is much in my past I need to relieve myself of, and this is the only real way I can express my pain and anguish… without damaging anything.

Yes, I have a temper, and I've been known to throw many a tantrum in my time. Roger had gotten fed up with them by the time I was seven, but the old man still put me in time-out… not exactly effective, but I suppose that was all he could do at the time. But you should know, that I wasn't always like that. No, there was a time when I was quiet. Maybe it was because I feared what may happen to me if I ever spoke up. Again, I am ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning.

As I said, I lived under a roof with four walls, somewhere in Germany. I suppose that's as close to a home as I got. My mother, a tall blonde with dark brown eyes, treated me like I was her world. She was the only one in my so-called 'family' that I loved and who loved me. Mainly because she defended me whenever my father or brother beat me senseless.

My father was a monster. He'd belittle me and beat me whenever he felt his undying rage. Sadly, I'm almost too sure that's where my own anger stems. My father only ever beat me when he was drunk or angry though, so I can't say for sure what his real feelings were towards me. My brother, however, despised me. He refused to even acknowledge me as his brother, saying I was nothing more than a mistake made by stupid actions. He always reminded me that I was second… that I was nothing more than a loser and wouldn't amount to anything.

My brother, lucky him, looked almost identical to our father. Brown hair, light skin, and a stern face made him look masculine and easily the eye-candy of many women. I on the other hand, looked more like my mother. Blonde and 'feminine', and I managed to hold a grace unlike other boys at that age. It had become a running joke in my family. Anyone that would come for a visit would mistake me as my parent's daughter, and my brother would only make it worse for me by adding I'd be better off as a girl. I don't think I could've hated him more than at those moments.

I suppose I could've told someone about my beatings. About my brother abusing me, or my father's alcoholism. Truth be told, I had many chances to tell someone… but I didn't. I was too scared to. I was scared that my brother would kill me, or that my father would shoot me. He was never afraid to remind me he had a gun, and used to love pointing it at my skull, only to laugh at my fear of death afterwards. The man was not right in the head. How my mother ended up with him was always the question.

I don't suppose you're here to listen to my bitterness. Let's skip forward a bit then, shall we. Long story short, my fifth birthday came around, other beatings ensued, and I was alone. Painfully alone. My mother was gone for the day so I spent my birthday sitting in my room, shaking from both the pain and fright. I stayed as quiet as I could, not wanting to anger my father further or have my brother make snide comments about me being a wimp.

My room was a glorified cage. What I mean is, we were not a poor family, and we weren't middle class either. We were close to what I considered rich, though I couldn't for the life of me figure out why… until later on. But that's for later. I had everything a five-year-old could want… but not what I needed. Thus, my cage.

Flat screen T.V. and video games, plus all the toys I could play with… and I was too afraid to play. It's a sad life for a kid who can't even enjoy the rich life.

I had been thinking about going into the garden to play when my brother burst through the door with a bunch of his friends, laughing and shouting while they began to tie me up. I struggled to get away, begging them to stop, but one little kid was no match for five teenagers. Once they had me tied up, it went all downhill from there.

They dragged me through the house, my mouth covered by tape so I couldn't scream, making sure I hit every door corner and stair step. It was possibly the most painful experience of my life. All the while, they laughed at me, called me stupid, and spat at me. I wanted to cry, hide, and run all at once. This was not what one did to celebrate their birthday.

Finally, one of the teens felt pity for me and began to untie me while taking off the tape. I can remember wanting to hug them for being so generous. It was then that my brother started up.

"Hey come on! We were having fun!"

It was the only female of the group, and I suppose she saw that I wasn't exactly enjoying their little game. "Julius, leave him alone. He's crying."

"What, seriously? That little shit has taken way worse beatings than this! Watch."

I don't remember seeing it… but I remember the pain.

He kicked me so hard in the stomach that I couldn't breathe. I'm pretty sure he laughed at me, but I couldn't hear him.

She told him to stop, but he kept going. He kicked harder and harder each time, making it almost impossible for me to breathe. All the while, he reminded me that I was nothing more than second to him. Perhaps it was that that made me crack.

I really don't know what happened. I just… snapped.

I grabbed the nearest object to me and hit my brother's knee, causing him to crumble to the floor. He was in a massive amount of pain, but somehow… it wasn't enough for me.

I hit him again with my object. A small statue my mother bought a long time ago. It was metal, but flimsy; but it did the trick.

I repeatedly hit him over the head with my weapon, and when it wasn't useful to me anymore, I began to kick him as hard as I could. That's all I remember doing, but I suppose it had been too much. Because when I stopped, he wasn't moving.

I felt my rage subside and I calmed down quite a bit. I soon felt afraid. There was blood everywhere, most of it on me. My brother's friends looked horrified to see what I had done. None of them said a word.

I suddenly heard footsteps at the end of the hall and saw my father staring at what I had done. His eyes, though hazed from hours of drinking, were in shock. He didn't look angry, but that could change fast with him. I didn't know what to do as he leaned down to cradle his oldest son. There came a squeak from the corpse-like teen and his eyes fluttered open. One look at me though, and they were filled with a fear I had never seen before.

My father's eyes changed then. They were full of a rage I had never once seen in him. This was more than the drinking. I knew, I just knew, that I was going to die.

So I ran…

I was out the door before my father could catch me. I had no shoes or socks on, and it was autumn verging on winter, and I ran for it. My father followed me out the door, rage and all, but I was able to slip away among the trees in the forest behind our house. My feet hurt from all the twigs and dried leaves, but I had to tough it out. Thankfully, the man never caught me. But, after that, I no longer had a family. Though I doubt that I did to begin with. I would sure miss my mother though.

To be Continued...