Auri's Notes:
This is a three-part story from Mello's POV. It's kind of drabble-y, and it kind of rants at points ('cuz of the freaky way Mello thinks) but, overall, I'm very pleased with the result of this story.
This first part is mainly just a teaser. ;
Enjoy.
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The phrase is Latin, which, loosely translated, means 'thus passes the glory of the world'. I take it to mean as 'all glory must fade'. I found it one day while flipping through an old Latin dictionary that I had found in the library, and took it truly to heart. The words held something for me, a kind of hope. Just speaking them, quietly to myself, among dusty old books, did the trick.
"Sic transit gloria mundi…"
I had inhaled a lot of dust with this small speech, and with it a new optimism. Thus passes the glory of the world…Glory. Truly, it was something desired by all, on the inside. Whether we show it or not, we all wish for glory. It is sweet, yet when tasted by simply you and no others, it leaves a bitter taste in another's mouth. Envy is bitter, glory is sweet.
Sic transit gloria mundi. The words instilled trust in me. I swallowed the optimism eagerly like a sweet, exhaled, and closed the book with a snap. Dust billowed from the shut pages, and I waved them away, standing. I'd lingered here too long, I should have been in bed about an hour ago. I pushed the book back into its place on the shelf, stroked its spine once, lovingly, and backed away through the myriad of soaring bookshelves. I glanced at the clock near the library door. 11:21. Okay, maybe TWO hours ago.
The hallway was silent as I crept out from between the double-doors to the library with a complaining creak. Silently, like a black ghost, I slipped through the hallways, towards my room.
Down a hallway, where there were several shut doors that, if opened, would divulge their sleeping occupants. I glanced up at the doors as I passed them. I knew each one, each of their occupants. I was quite friendly with most of them, except…
The sweet taste of optimism faded on my tongue and was replaced, the taste was bitter. I curled my lips at the taste, even though it was incredibly familiar. Envy, I tasted it every single day.
That door. I stopped in front of it, and narrowed my eyes at it. His door. The door behind the object of all my hatred slept, in white sheets and white pajamas. White. Pure, and white. Full of innocence, full of genius, and full of what I considered perfidy.
I turned away from the white room, and started to move again. I passed another two doors before I finally came upon my own room, the door just slightly ajar. Gingerly pushing the door open, I crept into the room, trying not to make any noise. I shut the door behind me, crossed the room, then collapsed onto my bed, my eyes now itching with dust and tiredness. I was eager for the bitterness to leave my mouth, to leave my thoughts. I exhaled, and pulled the blankets up over me, my eyes closed tight.
The white room… Nate lived in there. Or shall I call him Near? For that is what all other occupants of Wammy's House Orphanage refer to him as. I don't remember the last time I've heard him be called Nate, actually. He is Near, now, and has been for… years, as far as I know. I am 14 years old, and I cannot remember the last time I have heard him hailed by his true name. I simply can't. His identity is lost, almost. Behind this 'Near'.
I think his whiteness is a façade. Near is… perfect. Near is a pale boy, only a couple years my junior. Near's hair is white, like snow. His skin, porcelain, with very dark, long-lashed eyes with a color I cannot discern. Maybe it's blue, maybe it's green, maybe it's brown. I don't know. It's just… dark, to me. Near's hair has a kind of curl to it, maybe waves. Either or, his hair is messy, and falls in his face. He's always toying with a lock, too. He sits, stands, and walks with a strange crouch that I have only ever seen one other person commit. It bothers me to no end.
Near loves toys. His favorite is a blank, white puzzle. However, I have seen him play with other things, too- Legos, playing cards, the occasional Matchbox car, or toy robots. He will sit for a long time and play by himself, hardly ever talking to anyone.
I know so much about him. I know Near is perfect in every way. Near is a genius, the smartest child in the orphanage. Near is… everything I could ever hope to be, in mentality. Near is infuriating, perfect, perfidious, and quiet. Near, although creepy, holds a grisly sort of beauty that draws even ME in. Near is Near. Near is like a lab mouse. Shock white fur, trained to an astonishing level of intelligence.
I loathe mice.
I really, really do.