Decided to write a big fanfiction novel : D
That's right, it's all about Mello.
Anyhow, sorry this chapter was so short. 3 There is to be more in the next one.
Disclaimer: No. I do not own Mello, or Wammy's House. Ack D: But I wish I did
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Mello – Chapter 1
Dream
The small misty town in which the woman and her small son lived in was more than a little depressing. It lied barely 2 miles inland away from the shore of the ocean, that seemed to make the town shrouded hopelessly in fog almost every day of the year.
The woman and her son lived in a small shack, just on the edge of the town. It had one room and a worn outhouse out back. There was a small wooden stove near one of the far back corners of the shack. With an old oak table and two wooden chairs across from it. There was a double mattress on the floor in the opposite corner from the stove. There were but two old pillows atop it and a purple quilt. Right next to the mattress on the floor was a cardboard box, atop it a lamp, which gave off a very dim light, made it possible to see in the shack. Next to the cardboard box sat a very old-looking teddy bear, it had only one ear and it's arm was falling off, but stayed to be the only toy the young boy possessed.
A little while away, on the dusty path from town to the shack, the woman held her parka tightly around her too thin shoulders and pushed, walking with effort, against the strong winds, her hand grasping a smaller one with an immensely tight grip. Her long blond locks flew, untamable in the wind, her form was slightly hunched, as to better prevent herself from flying away with the wind herself. Her shack was about a mile away from the center of the town, a mile's walk in this weather. It could be worse. A silver crucifix was dangling from her neck and was easily the most valuable thing she owned. Silently, she prayed for a safe walk home for her and her child. This said child was slowly falling behind, the winds too strong for his small, thin stature to endure. The woman tugged her child along, he didn't protest and kept along with the fastest pace he could, clutching a fresh, warm loaf of bread to his chest with his free arm.
"Mihael," the woman said against the howling of the wind, her son's blond head looked up. He squinted as to prevent getting the dust that was being blown around into his eyes.
"Yes Mama?" he asked, almost tripping over a stray rock in the road. Despite the cold, windy day, the boy's eyes were bright, hopeful and as shockingly blue as the sea. Despite the fact that his clothes were old and worn, and barely protected him from the icy winds, a small smile rested on his pale lips.
"Make sure you don't drop the loaf Mihael," she said, her hair being blown around even more violently as the winds picked up. The boy nodded and wrapped his little fingers more tightly around the loaf, that was covered only by the brown paper wrappings.
When the woman and her son finally reached the small shack, the sun was at it's highest point in the sky; noon. Mihael ran ahead of his mother into the house and placed the loaf down upon the wooden table and began filling the old wooden oven with firewood, as to keep the place warm. It was a chilly day indeed. Mihael was only 4, but he knew how to work the oven properly, as to not burn the place down. Quickly, he put the kettle on and rushed back to his mother, helping her to the old tattered couch that lay a couple of steps away from the mattress. He helped get his mother comfortable, taking the quilt from off the mattress and wrapping it around her shoulders, turned the radio on, and fetched her her knitting basket. She smiled her nice, motherly smile as he did these tasks, and to Mihael, it seemed to make the place a little warmer. Mihael jumped, startled, when the kettle began to whistle, and ran to it as quickly as he could, making the tea quickly, so that the water would stay warm. He walked back to his mother with more careful strides, making sure that none of the tea spilt to the floor. When she was settled, with her knitting and her tea, Mihael went outside to catch butterflies, since they seemed to gather around the grass space around the shack.
It was around several hours later when the loud, furious knocking began on the wooden door of the shack. The woman looked up with a start, her fragile heart beating at a more rapid pulse. Mihael was still playing outside. That was a relief, it was best when he wasn't home for times like these. Swallowing, and tying her parka closely around her neck, she went to the door. The knocking, well, banging, louder than before. She opened it slowly, only to see the big, blonde man she always saw. He was about half a foot higher than she was, and very muscular, he had cropped blonde hair and beady, piercing blue eyes. He wore his work clothes, but there was an empty bottle of beer in his hand. The woman opened the door fully and tried to help him get to the couch, he slapped her away.
"I can do things myself woman!" he nearly shouted, although the words slurred together as if his voice were gurgled. The woman blinked hard at the slap and the shout, and went quickly to the stove, taking the pot of freshly made soup off the top. She put the pot on the table next to two bowls and spoons.
"Mihael's already eaten," she explained, although she highly doubted he would care. She was right, and he simply staggered down into the chair, eyeing the soup, as if examining it's contents. He didn't even have to ask.
"Chicken... soup," the woman said slowly, taking the seat across from her husband. He frowned and got up again, stumbling like a blind man to the fridge. He grimaced, furious instantly upon opening it.
"No beer?!" he demanded. The woman shrunk in her seat a little and didn't get the chance to answer, for the man picked up his bowl of soup and threw it at the wall, the bowl shattered and the thick yellow soup dripped slowly down the wall like paint against the white. Obviously her husband had had a few too many drinks tonight already, violence seemed to happen more often now, that work was getting harder for him. It was becoming more and more difficult for the woman to be able to see the man she married under the rough skin and piercing eyes. Mihael chose that one moment to run happily into the shack, a blue and green butterfly nestled in his cupped hands.
"Mama look what I-" Mihael stopped dead in his tracks, looking up, somewhat terrified at the scene before him. His father had thrown the second bowl of soup, just missing his mother's head, and was now stomping about the shack, trashing it violently, throwing about pieces of furniture. He watched as his mother gripped the crucifix tightly in her palm, whispering words he couldn't hear to God. Mihael winced as he heard a crash to the right of him and looked up at his father, who had now approached him.
"M-Mihael," he slurred, glaring down at his son's hands furiously.
"You brought a bug into the house?!" He shouted, the loudness of it making Mihael jump. And then his hand came down, hard, and amazingly fast.
The boy woke with a start and a gasp. He shot up into a sitting position in his bed. It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room he was in. Once they did, he thankfully remembered where he was, and with a sigh, wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead. His chest lifted up and down heavily with his slow breaths.
His hands were shaking, and he frowned at them. He pulled the comfortable covers off himself, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He stood up, walking around the room, his room. He gazed sleepily out the window, still dark, the moon was bright and yellow. He stared out at it for a few seconds, trying to recover from his dream. He'd been having dreams about his past almost every day since he'd arrived at this orphanage. It was his third one. The others had kicked him out for various reasons; extreme rudeness towards the other children; beating kids up and such, refusal to every person who offered to take him to a new home and rudeness towards the teachers and headmasters. Here however, they seemed to value his intelligence far too much to kick him out. From what he had heard, this was a special orphanage, for gifted children, established for them to one day become 'the world's greatest detective', to take on the title of the one called L. He considered himself very smart indeed, but it was nothing to really boast about, not that he was modest, no, just, there were so many other things he could be proud of himself for, his ability to win at everything he did for one, his being fluent in 3 different languages, his ability to be great at everything he attempted, those were things to boast about. But here, his intelligence was what mattered, he needed to keep up his marks, if he wanted to stay number one here, it was a good way to pass the time, a good goal in life.
It was demanded that he have an alias as well, so he chose Mello. He chose this name because it was what his mother had called him when he was a baby, a play on his name; Mihael. Although, he could never tell anyone his real name. He didn't know why though, couldn't imagine the threat of telling someone your true name. He didn't really care though, considering he had no one to tell it to. One thing Mello wasn't good at was keeping friends. Sure, he could make them easily, but being able not to scare them off was the hard part.
Mello was considerably a violent child, he attacked anyone who dared offend him, and this caused most of the children at Wammy's House to fear him, and be his friend only out of fear. It didn't matter to him though, what did he need real friends for? He had these ones to play with, he didn't need anything more.
When Mello had finally become too sleepy to stand any longer, he drifted himself back to his bed, dream long forgotten, he fell into another deep sleep.
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