There's five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. These stages are the heart's way of healing itself. Every heart is different. Every person has their own ways of processing the pain. Some people move on quickly; some linger longer in certain stages, but they all move on.

All, that is, but Mello. Mello is trapped; aimlessly bouncing between denial and anger and bargaining and depression. Some days he's a hollow shell, uselessly stumbling around with a bottle of vodka in hand as he breaks down at anything that remotely reminds him of him. Other days he's a hurricane, leaving nothing but destruction in the wake of his rage. Never even once does he ever come close to touching acceptance. This self-destructive nature tends to lead to various things such as out of character behavior. For instance, not only hanging around people you never liked, but being living with them.

Which brings me to, well me. My name is Nate Rivers, commonly known as Near, and I house the infamous, the dangerous, the grief-stricken Mihael "Mello" Keehl. The very Mello that has lead to my fourth noise complaint and strike three eviction notice.

I can't help but sigh as I open the door, leaving the notice for him to find. There's no point in trying to hide it. He'll find it and he'll get mad. No matter what I do, he's going to be mad. He's always mad. Honestly, I am too. Well, I would be, but I'm numb. Normal people such as myself would get use to this after six evictions over the course of a year.

"Seven," I say to no one in particular. I find myself staring into the crowded cupboard as I restock Mello's comfort items, chocolate and liquor; mentally preparing to see it completely depleted in a matter of days

A sound echoes through the abnormally silent apartment. It takes me a moment to realize that the strange sound is, in fact, my own, bitter laugh. It seems so foreign, I don't believe it to be mine.

Suddenly, the door swings open, but I don't jump like I use to. I don't freeze when I feel that hateful glare burning into the back of my skull. Instead, I turn to face him. Head on and expressionless.

Pretty bold for a sheep.

"Welcome home." My monotonous voice echoes over the sound of his ragged breath. His eyes narrow. I do not know what made me say it. I knew it would piss him off, but I said it anyway.

"Welcome home?" What do you mean home?" He holds up the eviction notice and shakes it. The sound of the page flapping page pierces my ears and I wince. "We're homeless. Again!" He sounds like he's accusing me. Like I did this on purpose; like it's my fault. Maybe it is; afterall, I brought him home. I took him in.

He crumples the page and I turn my cheek as he throws it into my face. I stand there silently refusing to look at him. I know it's a mistake.

We're like broken records. He gets mad. I don't react. He forces me to look at him. I say something that's nothing short of slapping him across the face. He gets angrier. He lashes out. He strikes. That should be the end of it. It would be the end of it, but I don't know when to quit so I mention him and he slams me against the wall.

That's where I am now, gasping for air, held a foot off of the ground by my scrawny neck. He fights his imminent breakdown as his glares into my dull eyes. His jaw is clenched and his teeth are grit together so tight I'm certain they'll shatter from the weight of the world he insists on carrying on his slumped shoulders. His grip around my throat tightens and I can barely smell the stench of vodka and… something else.

He drops me.

I gasp and slide up the wall to my feet. I look into his eyes and without skipping a beat, I utter the fateful words: "Does smoking make you feel close to him, Mihael? Does it make you feel close to Matt?"

I'm on the ground again in a heartbeat. I don't know what's wrong with me. I know that mentioning Matt is the same as daring to strike him back. I know the sound of his name passing my lips is like lighting a match in a dusty flour mill.

"Maybe tonight will be the night he finally kills me."

Oh. That's what I'm doing. I want to die; to escape these relentless fists, the cuts, the bruises and broken bones, the sleepless nights. I want to die to escape him.

I look up to him and see tears streaking his face. The sound they make as they crash against my cheek is as if they are saying "how could you," "you took him from me," "this is your fault." My head thuds against the wall behind me as I pry my gaze from his devastated expression to stare blankly into the endless darkness.

There it is. The guilt. The reason I continue to torture myself in this endless cycle. It's my fault, so I let him do this. It's my fault… Somehow.

I am lifted again. "Don't you ever-" his voice cracks and he pauses. I can see the frustration in his eyes as he tries to compose himself, but he can't, not tonight.

It's the anniversary of his death. One whole year, right down to the minuet, and I think it finally hit him.

Matt is not coming home.

His grip loosens and I drop to the ground again and I watch him as he stares, not at the wall, but through it. He has a distant look in his eyes, as if he can see beyond it, into some other world I can't fathom. Just as I think he's about to reach through, his fist collide with the wall and I flinch.

I can hear the soft tapping of blood dripping on the tile. I open my eyes slowly and glance between the hole and the growing red pool staining the wood floor.

"There goes our deposit." Shut up, Nate! "Well, my deposit." I can hardly believe my bitter tone, and the look on Mello's face says he can't believe it either.

I feel something in my spine crack and I cry out as I'm thrown into the counter. I start to fall to my knees, but he's suddenly supporting my weight with his lips pressed desperately to mine. I don't want to be here. I don't want to see him like this. I don't want him on me. Not in this way.

He pulls away and looks at me with drunk, pleading eyes. I let out a sigh and nod. I hate this part. I can take the screaming, the hitting, the drinking; I can take everything else, but I can't stand this. I can't stand the feeling of his fingers on mine, the sound of my clothes hitting the ground, his lips against mine. I hate the very fact his touch still excites me more than anything and my touch means nothing to him. I hate myself. I hate Mello for making me hate me. I hate him.

Mello forces me to my knees with a painful grip on my jaw. I open my mouth to cry out, but he forces his length down my throat. Tears sting my eyes. I didn't even notice him take off his clothes. I don't even know how we ended up in the living room.

I look at up him; his eyes are closed in drunken ecstasy as he thrusts with his fingers knotted in my hair. The blinds must be open because there is a soft, white glow around him. He looks like an angel; so beautiful it makes my heart ache, but some angels fall. This one fell too hard and lost his grace.

He jerks my head back and he forces himself deeper down my throat. Tears start to roll down my cheeks. It hurts.I'm choking so much I think I'm gonna be sick. I can't breath and I can feel myself starting to panic. I try to pull away, but he holds fast. So, I do what anyone else in my situation would do; I bite. Hard.

He cries out and removes himself. I gasp for a moment, trying to ignore the metallic taste coating my mouth, and he backhands me. I yelp and sob as I try to crawl away. He grabs my ankle and pulls me back. I scream and I beg, but he can't hear my words, all he hears is white noise. He shouts at me to shut up. He hits me. He says it's my fault we're homeless. Yes. It is my fault.

These are the noises they complain about; my fear, his rage. They can hear us, but they don't call for help. They don't care. Nobody does. So why do I?

I sob again and it earns me another strike. I'm terrified, but I can't stop the soft moan that escapes my throat. He grabs a fist full of my hear and yanks back to threaten me in my ear with a low growl. I moan again.

I'm not a masochist. I don't enjoy pain, but what am I supposed to do? The pain won't go away. I break and bleed and cry, but he doesn't care. We aren't lovers. He is my punishment. He wants me to feel the same pain he's felt in his heart everyday for the past year.

As if I'm not in enough pain. As if I don't hurt too. I do. I miss him too. I didn't know him that well, but I know he made Mello happy. I miss Mello's smile; the light in his eyes and his dry, rosey cheeks.

His sobs bring me back to reality. He's crying again, but I don't know where he went. No, I know exactly where he went.

I struggle to get to my feet and I stumble toward the bedroom cautiously. "Mello?" I call out, cringing at the hoarse sound of my voice and the pain it causes me to speak. The hesitation is hard to miss, but I don't care. I know he's not paying any attention to me anyway. I can hear his broken cries as he calls for Matt. "Mello…" My voice drips with pity as I push the door open to see him rocking next to an emptied drawer with various articles of clothing strewn around him. I don't have to look to know that he's clutching a striped shirt and a pair of goggles.

I am by his side in an instant and my arms are wrapped around him. His trembling form leans into me and pleading for me to bring Matt back; he begs me to kill him.

There is nothing I can say. If I say anything I'm afraid he'll break. I'm afraid I'll break. I'm afraid he'll snap back to reality and break me. So I just hold him and rub his back, offering whatever comfort I can as he cries and hopes this all just a bad dream, but I made a mistake. I made a sound.

Next thing I know, I'm on the bed and he's on top of me, calling his name. I don't want this. I don't want to keep doing this, but I give in and just lay still.

Matt wasn't the only one to die that day; Mello and I, we may be here, but we're dead too.