Tag: Mello finds himself oddly intrigued by a stranger in the street. But is she really as simple as she appears? Is anything as simple as it appears?
What do you say to your best friend when he's buried six goddamn feet underground?
Mello kicks a clump of the still-fresh, dampened dirt with the tip of his boot and grimaced at the hollow sound it made. The sound of earth crashing down, covering, burying...
"Sorry, Matty-boy," Mello mutters, bending to brush off the top of his friends stone. It is a gesture of comfort more than anything; he knows the rain has washed away any stray dirt. The stone itself had been sent over by Watari when news of Matt's death had been relayed to him. The epitaph simply stated the name 'Mail Jeevas'.
Plain and simple, Mello thought.
Plain and... dead.
Dead and gone.
Dead.
Mello exhaled sharply through his nose. He took one last lingering look at his best friends resting place and turned heel, heading back to the beat-up blue truck he had hot-wired back in the town he had just blown through. He dropped into the bucket seat, earning a groan from the old hunk of metal, wiped angrily at his eyes, and fumbled to the wires down by his knees. With the proper wire tapped against another set, the old pick-up rumbled lazily to life.
He hated this. He hated driving five miles an hour over the bumpy, winding, dirt road (If you could even call it a goddamn road, Mello sneered). He hated the rows and rows of grave markers, the maze that is an old cemetery.
He hated the flowers.
"What are flowers to dead people anyways?" Mello let out a dry laugh. "What are dead people gonna do with fuckin' flowers... its fuckin' stupid..."
The urge to destroy the brightly colored adornments spread over his pallid skin; his body warmed to the idea of stomping them, every flower, every petal, into the ground.
Into the ground.
Six feet into the ground.
Dead.
These fucking flowers should be dead. These bright, mocking, frivolous, idiotic, stupid fucking flowers should be stomped six feet into the ground, six feet under so Mello could be spared of their glaringly bright mockery, their glaring reminders that people died. That good, beautiful people got put into the ground.
Flimsy pieces of his amber hair swayed over his eyes, the bumps in the old road jostling the locks about: just over his shoulders, just into his line of sight, just agitating enough to make Mello consider a haircut. But who did he have to impress? he thought. No one had ever been impressed by him before anyways. "No," he grumbled, "It's always been Near. Its always been that ghost of a fuck that-"
Bitter, bitter, bitter. Mello frowns.
What was Near to him? What did that washed-out child mean to him? Nothing. Not shit. Not a flying fuck. Like flowers to dead people. He'd never be smart enough, either way. And besides, Mello knew it was his quick temper that kept him out of competition with the prodigal boy, the genius, apathetic superior. Smarts didn't matter anyway.
And maybe that they were so opposite was what angered Mello the most. It meant he was everything everyone didn't want. (Always what everyone doesn't want.) He groaned inwardly. A dull thud sounds under the tires as the old dirt road becomes a scantily paved one.
The absence of the sun made it difficult to tell the time, the rain made it difficult to see clearly down the road, and his damp pants made it difficult to sit comfortably. But worse was the empty thud of his heart beating in his chest, and echoing in his ears. That made it hard to breathe, hard to think of anything but Matt, hard to hold down the anger and the hate. Flowers float through his mind. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel and grinds his teeth down on each other.
He needs something. Something to keep his mind even the slightest bit busy. Something.
Keeping one hand on the wheel, Mello leans over to the plain black bag he'd thrown into the far side of the passenger seat. His arm is just barely too short to stretch over the widely set old model, just too short to reach. He lets out a groan of irritation, glances back at the road and reaches a little further, but still, comes up just a little too short.
Too short.
Too short.
Not good enough.
Not quite good enough.
The ugly, grave-marking flowers are singing in his head: "Try a little harder, could have done much better."
A final push for the bag's shoulder strap. The wheel slips.
Mello's eyes flit upward, over the dashboard. The world seems to stop spinning.
"No..."
It takes one, one and a half seconds for Mello's head to catch up to what his eyes see.
Standing placidly in the middle of the road, Mello sees Matt. He is blurry through the rain and stinging tears, but Mello sees his friend laugh, and smile. His eyes brim; a strangled sob pushes up from his throat.
But the mirage dissipates into the rain, and Mello is left looking not at his friend, but the retreating form of... a girl; a girl no taller than himself. He blinks away tears and memories and mirages and pulls over the truck. Mello hurls himself out of the cab. The rain thoroughly re-soaks him in a short moment. He watches the girl walk almost pleasantly along the yellow line in the middle of the road. She seems to have either not noticed or dismissed his presence altogether – just one soaked shoe in front of the other. Mello quickly grows impatient and irritated. What is this girl, with this drenched yellow dress, walking along so happily for? And why, he wants to yell, does she ignore him?!
Her demeanor alone is pissing him off.
He should just climb back into the truck and leave.
"Hey!" he calls out in agitation.
She turns around, her body facing him, her heels together. She clasps her hands together and tilts her head, seemingly unsure as to why this strange boy is yelling at her after nearly mowing her down with his awful old truck.
"Yes?" she calls back to him over the rain. Mello raises an eyebrow at the girl, surprised, taken aback even, that she responded so bluntly, as if he were the dumbass in the middle of the street.
"Yes?" she repeats, impatience hardening the edge of her tone.
He doesn't know what to say. There is no educated way to ask someone why they gallivant along in the middle of the street during an angry rainstorm. "Well, what the hell are you doing?!" he settles on. "I almost hit you, for fucks sake!"
Her laugh is a light, tinkling sound that hits the rain like wind to chimes.
"Don't you think I know that?" She is shaking her head at him, laughing and laughing. "Of course I know you almost hit me! I was there, remember? Why, it was only just a minute ago, you couldn't have forgotten already, could you?"
Her quips are quickly dwindling his nerves. "Of course I fucking remember!" he yells. "What I don't remember is you giving me a reason as to what the hell you're doing out here, dancing in the middle of the goddamn street!" Mello has thrown his arms out in frustration. "In the pouring fuckin' rain, no less!"
The girls eyes become slightly dizzy; she looks around, as if she hadn't thought to do so before.
"Oh," she says simply, "I suppose you are right. It does seem to be raining! I'd hardly noticed!" She laughs again, a little more softly this time, and looks down at her appearance. Mello can barely hear her mumbles above the rain. "My," he thinks she says, "I must be sight..."
Mello rolls his eyes. What a fuckin' freak. A serious nut-job, or something. He shakes his head at the girl, trying to study her face from afar as she continues muddling on how she hopes the bright yellow of her dress doesn't bleed.
"Hey!" Mello calls out again. She glances up. "Oh, hello?"
"You're not answering a goddamn telephone, for Chrissakes, I'm right here!"
An offended look flinches over her face. He thinks her lower lip is sticking out just ever slightly, but the dark shadows over her face make it hard to tell. "I'm not able to take your call right now," she shouts. "Please leave a message!" She turns on the heels of her sloshing sneakers and begins to trudge away.
Dammit, Mello curses himself. Fuckin' pissy women, I fuckin' can't stand these pissy types. Dammit, dammit, dammit!
With an audible mix of a groan and a frustrated sigh, Mello takes off after her, his clunky, soaked boots weighing him down. When he catches up to her, he turns her around by her shoulder.
Her face catches him by surprise.
He didn't imagine from a distance that she would look so... striking.
Her eyes are a deep, fuzzy gray; the kind of gray that they carve Greek gods or goddesses into. Her lips are set in a curved pout that falls open in her moment of surprise. They are a pale, washed color, like they've been in the rain for too long. Her face is equally fair, the seemingly only color spreading from the curve of her cheekbone. Her jaw is made up of clean, sharp lines. And her hair. Her hair appears about shoulder length, but it is hard to tell, as most of it is saturated and sticking to the sides and down the curve of her swan-like neck.
Mello shakes his head slowly, wondering for a moment just what kind of paradox this girl really is.
"I didn't mean that," he tries to reconcile, "I just wanted to ask you if you knew where a town was."
The edges of her eyes harden, and she seems far away for a moment, for another set of frozen gray eyes are flickering in front of her own. But she recovers quickly. "No," she says simply.
"Any town, I just need..." he glances over his shoulder at the blue truck that he left idling on the roadside. "I just need to uh, fill up the gas tank."
The look she presses into him is not one of plain curiosity or accusations, but an odd mix of the two. She's scrutinizing him, and Mello has one clue why. Okay, he muses, So I did almost hit her with a truck. But she's looking at me like I just killed her goddamn cat or something. From irritation, he tries his hand at giving her the same strange expression, but it falters when she moves and walks around him, to the vehicle.
"Well?" she calls behind her.
Mello finds himself shaking his head again. This time, he is not even entirely sure why, and he follows suit.
The two situate themselves into the car, and before the cabs light goes out, he notes a deep reddish-brown tinting her hair. The color makes his stomach turn. She turns her head and raises an eyebrow to him. Mello shifts gears and pulls back onto the road.
"Just keep straight," she says plainly. "A proper town will come along in a moment."
And the cab of the truck is quiet, save for the rumbles of the road. After a minute or so, Mello begins to drum his fingers against the steering wheel. He quickly grows bored, and impatient with the lack of conversation. "So, you got a name?"
He throws a sideways glance at her in time to see her shrug.
"I did," she murmurs vaguely. Mello curls his lip a little and shakes his head. "Did?" he retorts.
One corner of her mouth lifts in a smile that doesn't come close to sealing the distance in her eyes. What is with this weirdo? Mello asks himself.
"I don't have one either," he says. "They all just called me Mello."
"Something tells me that name does not precede you," she smiles. From what he can see from the corner of his eye, it seems a little more genuine. "They called me Nora." He hears water splashing and assumes she is wringing out the bottom of her dress. "Nora Lenore, really, but just Nora was fine."
Mello nods and tries the words out; Nora Lenore. They have a sort of strange zest in his mouth.
"So how did you almost hit me with this piece of shit anyways?" Nora tilts her head as she speaks. Mello cannot tell if this trait is irritating or endearing. The former?
"I was hungry," he says plainly, earning a scoffing laugh from his passenger. Its like she doesn't believe him, she's just laughing and laughing at him. Like flowers. Like Near. He shakes his head. "Hand me that bag, will you?" Mello jabs a finger toward the black bag that Nora had unthinkingly pushed to the floor when she'd climbed in the truck. She lifts it up, surprised by its lightness, and drops it into his lap. Mello un-ties the front flap and flips it open with one hand. After digging around for a moment, he pulls out a chocolate bar. Nora's laughter picks up again.
A few dim lights seem to be melting over the horizon, through the slowing rain; Mello takes it for the town Nora had mentioned. Mello follows the road until a gas station comes into view. He parks across the street. "I didn't think you really wanted gas," Nora says matter-of-factly, a sly grin tugging at her mouth. Mello laughs soberly and pushes open the door. Already feeling like the Bonnie to his Clyde, she hops out, too.
Covered by the blanket of early, early morning, the two slink to a gray Oldsmobile that is pulled up to the curb. "Lesson one," he jokes. "The older the car, the less likely an alarm is." Mello digs in the pocket of his dark red jacket and produces a pocket knife. He flicks out the small knife and holds it up for her to see. Her eyes seem to glow, and she bends at the waist to watch him wiggle it around in the lock on the handle with her grin growing into a full blown devious smile when she hears the hollow click of a lock popping out of place. She looks happily at Mello. He merely shakes his head and laughs quietly, putting his finger to his lips to be sure that she keeps quiet. Nora imitates his motion, and nods, the crafty smile tugging her mouth upward despite her efforts.
He opens the door carefully, working to keep the noise minimal.
"Lesson two," he slides into the car and reaches underneath the steering wheel. "This thing here is the harness connector. It lets you reach the wires behind the ignition." She watches him easily tug off the plastic cover ("Cheap shit," he mutters with a smile. "This is too easy sometimes.") and toss it over his shoulder into the back seat. "Find the two wires that look the same." Mello puts the end of the pocket knife between his teeth, simultaneously clicking on a small beam of light from the head of the contraption.
He plucks two wires, strips them with his teeth, and twines them together.
"Last lesson, there's the ignition wire. This brown one here, see? You just tap it against these two and..."
The Oldsmobile groans and the engine turns over. Nora laughs excitedly and runs to the passenger side.
"Its a useless trade," Mello laughs. "But its the only one I know. And hell, it comes in handy once in a while, right?"
In a moment, the two are laughing together in the rebellious joy of stealing someones car, and the moments seem to pass a little faster between them. Soon, the sun is coming up, and Mello notes that Nora has drifted to sleep. The rising rays of morning collect in the red of her hair, almost electrifying it, and the color turns his stomach. Its too red, he thinks. Too familiar. Mello thinks he likes Nora better in the dark, where her hair looks brown instead of that haunting shade of red.
He pulls into the first hotel parking lot he sees. Sleeping in an Oldsmobile isn't his idea of pleasant, and it surely can't be Nora's either, so he reaches down to the harness connector and plucks the two wires apart. The car shudders off.
Mello heaves a quiet sigh and slouches against the seat. The still of morning seems to move inside of him. Its like his body can feel the clouds swirling about the sky in the aftermath of their nights storm, like he can see ghosts swirling in the clouds, like he can feel every emotion he'd never known in the glow of the rising sun. Nora sighs in her sleep, and Mello remembers the strange company he is keeping. He pushes open the door and walks around to open the passenger side. Nora's hand tumbles out of the open door. Mello bends at his waist, tossing her arm over his shoulder, and moves to scoop his other hand under her knees, but she stirs. She moves quickly. Too quickly. He jerks his hand back at a sharp pain on his knuckles. Mello looks down.
In the mere moment at her wake, Nora had thrown back the hem of her dress and pulled a switchblade from a holster that was strapped to her upper thigh; a device that Mello would have never thought to look for. She'd clicked the blade free and sliced his knuckles in a single, clean swipe.
"Touch me again, and I'll slice your fucking throat," she growls at a dizzying speed.
Mello is frozen. His mouth has fallen open, and he is gaping at the line of blood on his hand. Not that it hurts too terribly, but the shock... the shock drips from the wound with his crimson lifeblood.
He shakes his head slowly and untangles his other arm from her body. "Sorry," he says. "I didn't think it would... be a problem."
"Touching someone in their sleep, not a problem?" Nora slips the blade back into place at her thigh and stands up. "Such skewed logic, you have, Mello bean..."
She walks ahead of him, into the hotel.
Mello wipes the back of his hand on his pants and grimaces. Should he just learn to expect anything and everything from this girl? Should he get back into the car and leave her here? Should he follow her? The bigger part of him is tugging him back to the Oldsmobile, but a smaller, nagging part is saying "Dive into that rabbit hole, maybe she'll hurt you again."
Dive into it.
Get hurt.
Feel.
And so he turns heel and heads inside, unsure why he feels sort of electrified by the blood still trickling down his fingers.
The man behind the desk at the entrance holds his hand out expectantly when Mello stalks by. "The lady, she say you pay," he said in a thick accent. Mello rolls his eyes and digs into his pocket. He flicks a few bills at the man and walks down the only hall. "Second to last on left," the man calls from behind. Mello grimaces. But he easily finds the room, and finds Nora dozed on the single bed.
"Your a serious freak, Nora Lenore," he mutters. But there's a light tilt to the way the words roll. There's a subtle interest in the way he looks her up and down before sitting down next to her; a look that asks what other tricks she has up her pretty yellow dress. "What a clever bitch," he's gotta laugh. He'd never have guessed that the small girl was packing blades under her skirts. "Clever," he mutters again.
Mello crosses his arms behind his head and leans back, closing his eyes. Odd as fuck, he thinks, but damn... damn, is she interesting. Like nothing I've ever seen. A burst of air pushes from his lips in a dry sort of laugh. He shakes his head again (she seems to have that affect on him), but he can't shake away her eyes, the bright gray that hardened when he'd touched her. He breathes in and begins the drifting dance around the edges of sleep.
From beside him, Mello hears Nora let out a soft chuckle.
"Oh, I'm just as fucked up as I'm sure you are, Mello, 'ol boy," she says vaguely.
His eyes dart open and to his left. Nora has turned onto her side, facing away, and her smooth breathing has resumed. Mello doesn't sleep.