Warning: Heavy drug content.
Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note.
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Cope
Friday night and Mello finds himself alone in the apartment they used to share. He's sprawled across the couch, bathed in blue TV light. Games and their corresponding platforms still litter the floor like Matt's just gone to the kitchen or the bathroom, remnant memoirs, just as they were left. Mello doesn't play them. It's not like he'd know how, anyway.
He clicks the "channel up" button on the duct-taped remote. You'd think there would be something better on TV than 90's sitcom reruns and Disney movies, but there isn't. Mello sighs. That's what he gets for not paying for real cable.
He punches the "off" button and hurls the remote at the opposite wall, sending the room into a state of pitch black. Careful not to trip on the systems, (You're such a dumbass for not turning on a light, Mello!, his mind whispers) he stumbles through the dark into the kitchen. The fluorescent light burns his eyes as he flicks it on and rummages through a drawer for a chocolate bar, and, upon finding one, slips it into his pocket. He pulls his black jacket off the peg by the door and leaves, slamming the old metal door on his way out and wrestling the key into the lock.
Mello steps out into the cool dark of the night. The concrete breathes cold air from below his feet, the sun's warmth long gone from each sheet of pavement. A soft wind whispers through the bushes, confiding its secrets to Mello. But, he doesn't want to hear them. A cat yowls in the distance. A dog barks in reply. Someone yells at someone else. A solitary car rolls by, rap blasting from its speakers. Mello's boots keep time with the din. Thump. Clunk. Thump. Clunk.
Mello arrives at his destination. It's a club, easily overlooked, but not easily forgotten. He saunters up to the door, not breathing as he passes a group of half-drunk twenty-somethings smoking off to the side (Don't breathe because it will make you think of him, the mind-voice hisses to him). He flashes his ID to the bouncer, who in turn nods him through, not noticing (or caring) that the age on the card says twenty or the picture is one of Mello before he got his scar. Mello casually slides his ID back into his pocket and steps past the bouncer into the club.
The club is filled with people, some swirling as one mass in the middle, others smoking or snorting God-knows-what along the sides, and still others shoved into corners with their whores or their lovers (Comforting, isn't it?, it comes again).
Comforting? Comforting how?, Mello wonders. (It doesn't smell like him. No one looks like him. He's not here.) Of course he isn't. The thought is bitter. Mello discards his coat over a barstool. It was true; he'd never taken Matt here. Most of their Friday nights had been spent at home watching 90's sitcom reruns and Disney movies on TV. They found ways to make it romantic. At least, they had in Mello's eyes.
As the club life continues, Mello stands there (like a dunce) and ponders what to do with himself. Drugs were never his thing. The feeling of snorting glass wasn't appealing, needles scare the shit out of him (as much as you hate to admit it), and smoking is the last thing he wants to do. He could drown his sorrows in shots of alcohol (You don't like drowning, suffocating, do you?). He could find himself a cheap whore, but most everyone here is a woman, and Mello never really liked women anyway. Or, he could join the mob of people. Mello and the voice decide on the last option.
Abandoning his jacket, he slips into the crowd of people, warm, sweaty bodies sliding against his own, pushing him in whatever direction the crowd is moving. He lets them. The music is so loud it's inaudible, save for the heavy bass line sending pulses through the entire club. Mello can feel it beating at the top of his chest, right under his throat (Or is that your heart?).
This place is more comforting now, Mello can tell. He settles in with the movements of the people, dancing, crashing, throbbing. His mind dumbs down, working itself into a trance; even the annoying voice shuts up. He laughs for the first time in weeks; it's a liberating feeling. No one pays him any attention; they're all too busy dancing. Mello keeps up with them for hours. It feels too natural, now.
He becomes aware of his body slowing down and consciously thinks that he should leave. But, before he can get himself out, the throng passes by a group of smokers, the scent of their cigarette smoke drifting overhead and mingling in the noses of the people. Mello almost stops dead in his tracks. He knows the scent all too well. Turkish Royals. Camel. The kind Matt smoked. ("Don't ever smoke Golds. They taste like shit. Or Marlboros. I don't know why people like them.") Mello's mind is flooded with the image of Matt as he spoke those words and he knows that he can't be here anymore.
He pushes out of the mob, almost running out the door, forgetting his jacket in the process. The voice is back (Run, run, run, it's purring). And Mello does run. The cold night air prickles his bare skin and he turns down an alley. He vomits behind a dumpster, anything to get the smell and the taste out of his head. He feels much better once he's done; clearer even. But, now he's angry (Punch something. Kick something.). He kicks a dumpster, some of its green paint chipping off. He sends his fists flying against a brick wall, knuckles turning crimson and blood streaming down his arms. He's angry. He's so fucking angry. He's angry at Matt and angry at himself and angry at those damn people for smoking Turkish Royals (Let it out!, the voice screams).
Mello punches the walls and kicks at the dumpsters until he feels like he can't move anymore. He's bleeding and broken in more ways than one. A final jerk of his leg at the chipped green paint, and he's done. His anger is spent (Go home, the voice croons in its smug little way). Mello stumbles out of the alley and notes that the sun is rising over the dirty buildings. He bitterly thinks that he looks like he's drunk, and he might as well be, fumbling down the street and crashing into walls like he is.
The walk is a short one, and he makes it back to the apartment in a record ten minutes (Especially good for someone who looks like he's drunk…). He pounds on his own door until he realizes that he's left the key in his jacket and Matt's not there to save him from this one. A river of curses escapes under Mello's breath.
He's too tired to go back to the club for his jacket (Probably closed anyway. You know they are.). He collapses against his door and crumples to the ground. All he wants to do is scream and forget and make the world shut up and go away, because don't they know that he fucking doesn't want to talk to anyone right now?!
His voice erupts from his throat like a fountain. The wind stands still in shock and porch lights flick on. A curious neighbor pokes his unsuspecting head out the door. He sees Mello lying there, bloodied and bruised, and darts back inside to call an ambulance.
The monster echoes Mello's screams as it comes down the street, and the paramedics strap him to the stretcher, and he's still screaming. "This one's crazy…" the paramedics and neighbors mumble under their breaths.
(This one's crazy, this one's crazy, this one's crazy… the voice gloats.)
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A/N: Well, then. That was joyous. I hope you enjoyed. :)