Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note or any of its respective characters, but if I did Light would die earlier on and L, Matt, and Mello would all live happily ever. Sadly that isn't what happens in this fanfiction XD. This is my version of Matt's life, told from the point of an anonymous shinigami who wrote Matt's name in his Death Note to gain the rest of his life span. And fangirls (and possibly fanboys) there will be MattXMello later on, as well as some smexy lemons. But do try to focus on the more serious and finer points of the tale XD. Anyways, without farther ado.
As the bullets went through his chest and embedded themselves into his internal organs, Matt didn't even think about the pain. Only two thoughts ran through his mind as he slumped back against the car, knowing that he would die in seconds, that this breath, this moment would be his last.
The first, a name; Mello. Mello, Mello, Mello. Mihael. The alias suddenly switched to his true name. Something that Matt had heard only once, whispered in a sweet cool breath from soft lips on his ear. Call me Mihael. Only on that night, that beautiful night, was he allowed to let Mello's real name roll of his tongue. That night, the one where they confessed everything, the only night when they hadn't lied or fought. The only night they had been honest with each other and themselves.
Matt's eyes slowly began to close as a single tear slipped out and made its way down his cheek, carrying some of the blood with it as it went. Perhaps it was a tear shed for lost friendship. Or for love. Or maybe simply for time he'd never have and things he'd never do. But either way, in that moment Matt had his last thought. And surprisingly, it wasn't 'Mello'. It was something else.
They were wrong._
Throughout Mail Jeevas's whole life, before he was even called 'Matt', people could describe him in just one word. 'Indifferent'. He didn't seem to care about anything. When Mail skinned his knee in kindergarten, he didn't cry. He just stared at the blood. When a kid told a funny joke in class, he didn't laugh. When the school yard bullies picked on him relentlessly, he wasn't angry or upset. He wasn't anything. He just was.
Still, this lack of emotion didn't particularly concern anyone. Not at all. He was simply a strange, peculiar, monotone little boy. No one knew why he was like this. No one asked. No one cared. Nobody would ever guess that his father came home high every night, that his mother was eternally drunk and oblivious to his yelps of pain as his father hit him over and over again, yelling at him that he would stop once Mail managed not to cry. Oh yes, Mail was an expert at being indifferent.
It hadn't always been like this though. Daddy hadn't always been with them. He had been in a place called prison until Mail was four, and back then things were good. Mommy loved him back then. Back then his clothes were washed, his meals made, and Mommy never hit him, not ever. She would play games with him, and hug him, and read to him before he fell asleep. The last thing he heard in the waking world was his mother's soft voice, willing him into sleep.
But then everything changed. Daddy was here to stay now, along with the syringes and broken bottles that now littered his living room floor. And Daddy made sure that the ugly blue and black bruises on Mail's body stayed as well, and stayed hidden.
Some days Mail thought about running away. But he never did. He could never bring himself to leave his Mommy, no matter how drunk she was. Somehow, although he was only six years old, Mail knew why his mother drank. To forget life, her situation. To be oblivious to everything, the sorrow and the pain. Even the love for her son.
Mail wanted to be angry with her at times too. He wanted to scream. Why? Why are you trying to forget me? Why won't you look at me? Why won't you protect me? Why won't you tell me you love me? But he didn't do that either. And if he did perhaps she would not hear him, or at least pretend that she didn't.
Some days were better than others. Some days his parents went out. They never took him with them, or told him where they were going. Sometimes they would come back an hour or so later with more alcohol and such. Other times they would disappear for a couple of days and resurface drunk and/or high as ever in the same dirty clothing sporting fresh bruises.
Mail never got scared when they were away. The longer his father was gone, the better, and there wasn't enough of his mother left to miss. Sometimes in their absence he would even have some fun.
He could watch whatever he wanted on T.V. or fool around on the old computer and not have to hide out in his room being as quiet as possible. He didn't have to eat the leftover stale crackers in the kitchen for every meal, and would take some money from his parent's room to order pizza, leaving it on the doorstep in case the delivery man questioned his age. He could sleep soundly in the peaceful silence of the house, not being kept awake by his father's shouting, smashing glass, or blasting music.
Unlike other kids his age who worried about when their parents would come home, Mail prayed that they would stay away for as long as possible.
On one of these occurrences, Mail's parents left for four days, the longest time they had ever been away. On this fourth day, something very significant happened. Something life-changing. It was what Mail thought to be the end of his very short, very sad young life. But it was not. On the contrary this event was really the beginning of everything. It would set him on his path, the course he would take that would make him become 'Matt', that would lead him to Mello.
One could call it 'destiny' or 'fate'. Or you could call it 'luck' or 'chance'. But whether it was meant to be or not, this is what happened. And as you already know the ending as well as the beginning, I shall reveal the middle. I advise you to grab some tissues and prepare yourself for the interesting, tragic, and sadly short life of Mail Jeevas.
So what did you guys think? Good or bad? In between? Please review, constructive critism is always helpful.