Nobody knows much of my past. My parents were killed in a brutal car accident, along with my older sister. I had been staying at a friend's house, or so they say. I was too young to really understand much of anything at the time, or to store the memories for my older self. The one thing I remembered through the years, though, was my name, Mail Jeevas, and my ever-constant auburn curls and emerald eyes. Social workers came by my supposed friend's house and whisked me away to the hospital, but I wasn't allowed to see the mangled bodies of my family. My parents were both only children, and my grandparents on both sides were either long dead or too far gone in senility that they couldn't take care of themselves, much less a young child. I was exceptionally bright, though, for my five years of life, and I was sent to the Texas Orphanage for the Gifted.
Dusty shelves full of books with their cracked spines and ripped pages were the first details I noticed as I walked through the doors of my new home. The social worker, who had been assigned to my "case", as she called it, led me through a dimly lit hallway to a messy office. A rather pinched, snobby old woman sat at the worn wooden desk. She directed me to a straight-backed plastic chair, and as I sat down, I noticed in my peripheral vision my social worker slipped out of the room, and my life.
"So, Mail," the old lady begins, "I am Mrs. Henne, and I will be your headmistress for your stay at our orphanage. Welcome to our family." I found her last sentence particularly ironic, especially since everyone's true family was dead. She wordlessly handed me a sheet of paper that contained my schedule for my classes, the weekend agendas, and my room number. "You will have a roommate," she informed me before sending me away.
I shuffled down the corridor and up three flights of stairs until I found my room, number 316. I considered knocking on the door, but shrugged. This was my room as well, now. I turned the knob and glanced around. Two beds, made neatly with neutral ivory sheets, wooden bookshelves sparsely filled, and two rickety looking dressers made up the room. Nobody else was in sight, so I unpacked my few belongings in the empty dresser. As I folded my striped shirts and ripped jeans up, a whirlwind of action burst through the door.
A girl with piercing sapphire eyes and long, straight, jet-black hair stared at me briefly, then threw herself on the bed facing mine. She would've looked serene, almost angelic, if she didn't have the dark bangs that curled over her forehead and brushed her eyelids. The bangs gave her a mysterious, slightly devious look that seemed to accent her innocence, rather than contradict it. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then, she propped herself up on her elbows and faced me.
"I'm Kathrine Bradshaw, but please call me Kat. I'm assuming you're my new roommate for home, bittersweet home," she announced, then paused. I sighed, figuring she would get angry if I didn't give her an answer.
"My name's Mail Jeevas, and yes, I am your new roommate," I replied, then continue unpacking. I pretend to be interested in folding up clothes, hoping she wouldn't ask me any questions. She silently stood up and held up my class schedule. She smiled at me politely and informed me that we had nearly identical schedules, except that I had to choose a musical instrument for my creativity elective.
"What would you like to play? I play violin, but there's the entire marching band instrument selection, and the choir, if you're into that kind of things," she said in rapid-fire speed, then turned on her heels and left abruptly. I sighed again. Maybe cello, I thought. Cellos were the perfect instrument for me, deep but not so very heavy-sounding, and maybe I would be in a class with my eccentric roommate.
Months passed, and I slowly became accustomed to the routine of my schedule. Math first, then physical education, then English. After a thirty minute lunch, I had science/social studies combined, my cello class, and a language emersion class, where they crammed four years of studying into one. This year, we had the so-called "delight" of having a Mr. Tasuku Nozaki teach us Japanese. I was usually quite attentive in my classes, and easily moved to the top of every class.
Kat and I became the best of friends. We looked out for each other. We were eerily similar in the fact that we were both long-time sufferers from photosensitivity, which meant we never ventured outside and kept the lights in our room dimmed. We knew each other. I remember at Christmastime, the last Christmas I would spend there, we exchanged presents. I had scraped together just enough money to buy her a bright red IPod Nano, complete with red earbuds. She had been saving for months, though. She grinned expectantly as I ripped off the cheap, snowflake covered wrapping paper to reveal a brand new, red-and-black Nintendo DS. I spent nearly an hour thanking her profusely.
Of course, as I had found out, nothing good ever lasts. Kat and I sat in our usual seats during our science class, and we whispered intensely about the strange old man who continued to peer through the small window in the door. After class, Mrs. Henne called me to her office. Kat asked me, "what did you do now, Mail?" And that was a question I asked myself as I hauled myself down to her office. Instead, I was greeted by the odd man who had been staring during science and a smug-looking Mrs. Henne.
"Mail, this is Mr. Wammy, and he and his orphanage have taken notice of your outstanding academic skills. He will be escorting you to your new home in Winchester, England. You don't need to pack any clothing, for he will take care of everything." Now I saw why she was so smug. She was getting rid of me.
I whimpered, "can I at least grab my DS from my room?" Mrs. Henne glared and started to speak, but Mr. Wammy interrupted her.
"Of course, Mail, but please do not tell anyone where you are going. It is top secret." He directed me to the door and I sprinted up all three flights of stairs. Kat was sitting on her bed, staring solemnly at the ceiling when I came in.
She hushed me before I could speak. "You're leaving, aren't you?" I nodded sadly. She stood up and locked the door. Brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear, she closed her eyes. "Can you tell me where you're going, so maybe when I'm eighteen I can come find you?"
I considered this. Sure, Mr. Wammy had told me not to tell anybody where I was headed, but telling my best friend in the world couldn't hurt, could it? "Winchester, England," I mumbled. She wrote this down on a scrap sheet of paper and nodded. Hugging me, she wished me goodbye.
During the ten minute drive to the airport, Mr. Wammy started telling me everything about where I was headed. "Mail," he started, "you are going to be trained to be the world's greatest detective's successor." The confusion I felt must have been obvious on my face, because he continued, "Now, you probably have never heard of L, but he is what you will become one day. Also, we've given you a new name. Starting today, you are no longer Mail Jeevas, but Matt."
The big metal gates greeted us as he drove through the winding road that led to Wammy's house. The long airplane ride here had been passed mostly in silence. Mr. Wammy escorted me to my room and directed me to the closet, which was full of new, unworn striped shirts and jeans. I smiled slightly, then set my DS, with its now-dying battery, on the nightstand.
Hours turned to days, and days into weeks, as I settled into my new home. I was determined, however, not to forget my past, and keep my memories intact rather than fuzzy and indistinct. My steady, constant routine started with breakfast, classes, lunch, classes, dinner, and finally bed, when I would reminisce about my best friend. I wanted to send her a letter, but Mr. Wammy informed me that doing so would be pointless, because I couldn't tell her anything, not really, and I wouldn't be allowed to include a return address. I resigned myself to holding onto my memories. My life didn't stay peacefully monotonous for long, though.
I sat on my bed, playing my DS. I enjoyed these quiet days when I could sit alone in my room. Suddenly, Roger burst through the door, struggling with a blonde haired, cerulean blue eyed boy in his arms. The newcomer was shrieking foreign obscenities at nobody in particular, and he clawed at Roger's arms and kicked his legs into the air. Roger dumped the blonde hellion unceremoniously onto the bed opposite mine and sighed.
"Here's your new roommate, Matt. His name's Mello, and I trust that, since you're a very nice person, you'll be able to tame him somewhat," Roger told me, then quickly left the room, leaving me with my angelic-looking demon of a roommate. I cautiously stood up and walked over to me. He was curled up in a tight ball, still whispering in another language, but it sounded more like he was praying than cussing, which would make sense, seeing as he gripped a red and black rosary in his hands tightly. I stuck my hand out.
"Hi, I'm Matt," I informed him, wondering if he even spoke English. Mello sniffed and turned his icy glare on me.
"Go to hell," he snapped in his accented English, and made several obscene gestures at me. I retreated back to my bed. Roger was right, though. I would try to become friends with this demon, even if he didn't want friends. I rummaged through my dresser and found what I was looking for: an unwrapped chocolate bar I had gotten for being the top student in computer lab a few days before. I trotted back over to Mello and offered the bar to him. He glared at me perplexedly.
"Why are you offering me a gift when I offended you?" he asked, with a very confused expression on his face. I smiled at him.
"Because you seem like you need someone who'll be friendly, and 'cause I want to be your friend," I replied cheerily. He glanced at me and cautiously took the chocolate. Slowly unwrapping it, he was about to bite off a chunk, then paused. He broke off a piece and offered it to me.
"I would like to have a good friend," he mumbled in his cute accent, and I grinned widely and accepted the chocolate. We spent the next hour discussing good pranks we could pull and the logic behind the entire "gingers have no souls" argument. (I had to explain that my fiery hair was not ginger, but true red.)
Slowly, we became best friends who told each other everything and conspired devious pranks to pull on our fellow orphans and Roger. When people saw us coming with our evil smirks, they were usually wise enough to turn on their heels and walk away. I felt myself replacing memories of Kat with those of Mello, and one day I could barely remember what she even looked like. I didn't mourn the loss, though. I had Mello to back me up.
Mello learned his English quickly, picking up everything he needed to hold a normal (or seriously abnormal, depending on how you looked at it) conversation with me, as well as some more expressions to add to his already quite colorful vocabulary. He didn't forget his Russian, however. Several times I had nearly fallen asleep when Mello had whispered my name. When I didn't respond, he climbed onto his bed and started saying what I assumed were prayers in Russian. Everything was pretty much perfect, almost like a true family.
One day, however, he stormed into our room, brandishing the list of test stats. He shoved them in my face. "Who the hell is Near?" he demanded, and I absentmindedly noted how good his English had become. There was practically no trace of the Russian left. I shrugged and took the papers.
"He ranked ahead of you." I was surprised. Mello was traditionally the best, followed by me. The list, however, read: 1. Near. 2. Mello. 3. Matt. He glared at me, his icy blue eyes narrowing dangerously.
"I can really see how you're number three; you're so brilliant, Matt," he snapped sarcastically. I put my hands up in mock defeat. He groaned and threw himself on his bed. Flinging one arm over his face dramatically, he moaned, "how am I supposed to beat a kid that I've never even seen?" I sighed.
"Is the great Mello worried he can't beat somebody? This Near's triumph was probably just a one-time fluke. Cheer up," I told him, then stood up and sat down next to him. "You worry way too much. Sheesh, MarshMello, why so serious?"
He glowered at me, probably debating whether he was going to murder me in my sleep or not. I pulled out a chocolate bar and grinned, knowing that as soon as he saw it all would be forgiven. His eye twitched, and I could see how hard he was trying to resist. Finally, he gave up and tackled me, pinning my arms to the floor and stealing the chocolate.
"You know I would've just given it to you if you had asked, right?" I sat up, massaging my wrists.
Mello smirked. "I do not ask, I take," he informed me, smirking and biting into his newly acquired goods.
I held Mello back until he was more placid, knowing that an agitated Mello would only end up in the enigmatic Near getting injured. He walked with me through Wammy's, pausing only to scowl at the others who were unfortunate enough to cross his path. He stormed into the playroom, nearly knocking over our classmate Linda. I smiled an apology at her, but she responded with a very rude hand gesture as she left. I sighed. Mello was ranting about the new list, and most everyone was slowly edging away from him as if he were a madman with a very large knife. The only one not looking at us like we were insane was a small child in the corner who was building an entire building out of dice. His pale, grey-white hair hung in his eyes, and he was dressed in loose white pajamas.
I watched the pale kid, figuring that from the lack of emotion towards Mello's outburst, and his seemingly friendless status, that he was Near. The innocent expression he wore, however, kept me from directing Mello to him. I sighed mentally, and faced Mello.
"It's no use, Near's not here." I grabbed his arm and directed him to the front, strongly hoping nobody would contradict me. Everyone just seemed happy to watch us leave. Mello scathingly scanned the hallways, but he evidently didn't have a clue where he could find Near.
Years passed, sending us spiraling into our awkward stages of teenagers. I leaned against the wall, laying in the shade so I could continue my DS game while Mello played soccer with the more athletically inclined students. Near was somewhere inside, choosing not to take advantage of the rare sunny day. Roger appeared in the doorway with a solemn expression on his face. I shrunk more into the shadows, worried he was coming to scold me about one of my pranks, but he called only Mello. I waited a minute before retreating back to our room to hear what was going on.
Mello sat on his bed, facing the wall. He didn't look up when I entered. A suitcase half-filled with his clothing lay on the floor, its contents jumbled together without any of the order I was used to seeing. I made my way over to his bed and sat on the opposite end.
"Mello…?" I asked quietly. "Are you alright?" I reached my hand out and touched his cheek, the way a worried mother might to her distraught child. He glanced at me and quickly looked away, but I saw enough. His icy, cerulean blue eyes were filled with unshed tears, and his mouth was set in a hard line.
"Matty, I'm leaving," he whispered in a choked voice. My eyes widened, and I pulled him into a tight hug. He wrapped his arms around my waist as I threw mine around his neck. "Matty…" he whispered again. "Matty, L's dead," he finished. I tried to comfort him, gently stroking his hair. "He didn't pick a successor, but I told Near he could be the new L. I'm leaving," he repeated once again.
"If you're going to leave, I can't and won't stop you," I breathed into his ear, "but try not to get killed, please. And if you need me, just call and I'll be there, I promise." He broke away from my hug and looked at me gratefully.
"Thanks, Matt." He smiled sadly. We packed his suitcase together in silence. He stood up to leave, his heavy winter coat on to combat the brewing storm outside. He placed his hand on the knob and hesitated. I grinned at him encouragingly. Still he paused. Finally, he turned to leave.
"Mail Jeevas," I blurted out suddenly, the name rusty on my tongue. He stared at me, shock and understanding written all over his face. Mello nodded solemnly. I looked down at my boots, feeling heat pool into my cheeks.
"Matt-no, Mail… Mail, I'm Mihael Keehl," he replied, and with that he left. I heard his footsteps echo through the hallway, and I collapsed onto Mello's bed. I knew he wouldn't be back here again. A note fluttered out from his pillowcase. I picked it up curiously and silently read it.
Matt,
I apologize for leaving so suddenly, and wish I could be with all of my buddies. I'll miss all of the games I love, but hopefully you'll play those games in my place. Please make sure to always clean our room, since you now are the sole occupant. I hope you'll never forget to feed the pet animals we get from class, and always do your homework so you stay up there at the top of the list, hopefully in my old spot. Just remember to study instead of staying up all night playing games, and you always listen to your peers so that you don't pull any more epic fails like our last soccer game.
-Mello
I stared at the note for a few seconds before I realized the secret message. I reread only the first word from each line and smiled to myself, pocketing the note.
Years pass by, so quickly that I can barely distinguish one day from the next, knowing only that I follow the same set-in-stone routine. One day, Near's decided he will join the Special Provisions for Kira in America, and he's gone as well. I'm now number one, but I really never have and never will care about being on top. Near and Mello were the ones who worried about first place; it had never been my fight. I throw clothing into a worn suitcase, deciding now would be the ideal time to leave. The fourth generation's escalation to the top was finished; let the younger ones scamper at their chance to be number one. I carefully unfold the worn letter Mello left me and read it again. The ink has faded to a pale blue. I smooth out the wrinkles and set it on top of my clothing. I close the suitcase and hold it tightly in my hand.
The walk down to Roger's office is strange. Every detail stands out so clearly now that I won't see it ever again. I collect my passport and leave instructions for Roger to destroy my file and not tell Near of my leaving. I choose to take a plane to Los Angeles, California. There have been several reports of Mafia activity that sounds suspiciously like Mello's work reported in L.A. police files. The flight leaves on November the fifth, the fifth anniversary of L's death. How fitting, I think wryly. The plane touches down the next day. I rent a hotel room and wait for any sign of Mello, knowing he won't lay low for long.
"Where are you, Mello?" I ask, looking out at the busy streets below. It's the afternoon of November the tenth. I decide to ride around in my Camaro until I can think of anything better to do. I barely notice the stench of lingering cigarette smoke trapped in the seats as I start my car. I drive for hours, eventually settling on parking and hacking into the police reports again for any sign of Mello. Abandoned buildings make up my scenery. I am about to give up for the night when I hear a small explosion.
The building I thought had been abandoned has suddenly caught fire at its large industrial doors. A few quick internet hackings later and I discover that this building is being used as a Mafia hideout, and it is currently crawling with police members and Mafia thugs alike. I slip into the now wide-open entrance, picking my way through the debris. Now is my best chance to find Mello, or at least information on him. Gunfire sounds above my head. I run through the stairwells, stopping as I spy several police officers charging through the smoke. I drop to the ground, pretending to be dead. They don't even spare me a second glance.
Smirking, I pick myself up and silently follow them, taking care to stay behind. They are discussing the best way to storm the room they have congregated in front of. I head back, mentally measuring the approximate size of the room. Mello's in there, I wordlessly decide. I wait about a hundred feet from the room, knowing that Mello would take drastic measures to escape. Sure enough, a very loud explosion rips through the stillness. I cough, clearing the smoke out of the way as I run in the direction of the room.
A person lies facedown, sprawled out from the intenseness of the explosion. I drop to my knees, checking for a pulse. I turn them over and freeze. I carefully scoop the unconscious person up, taking care not to disrupt the angry red line of burns covering the left side of their body.
"Well, Mello," I whisper, "it seems that we are reunited at last."