My parents named me Mail Jeevas, but for the first five years of my life I was simply known as 'boy.'

My mother, a brown haired, brown-eyed woman, was a prostitute. My father was a drug dealer, as well as a hopeless addict and alcoholic. They were never married- just living in the same run down old apartment somewhere in Russia and banging each other for the flying hell of it. Not to mention all the little affairs that they had on the side. In fact, if it weren't for the fact that I was my father's mirror image, there would be no way to prove that I was really his son.

Now, I say my father, let me be clear that I use father only for lack of a better term. We may have gotten closer upon our reunion years after our final separation, but I still hesitate to really call him my father. Fathers are the ones who raise you. Fathers are supposed to protect you and teach you. My father never did any of that.

My father, as I may have mentioned before, was a monster. He would come home drunk or high, then beat my mother and me within an inch of our fragile lives. In the rare event that he didn't beat the ever-loving tar out of us, he and my mother would get into shouting matches that lasted for hours on end. In fact, the earliest memory I have is of my parents screaming over some petty thing or other. I'm pretty sure he hit her after that.

The good thing (if you could call it that) was that, as long as my mother was there, she would try and defend me, however halfheartedly, against my father's wrath.

That is, until she left. Not that I blame her- I'd rather take my chances in the Sahara Desert without any water than live with that man. sometimes, though, I feel more than a little bitter about her abandoning me.

One day, she up and disappeared, not leaving a trace. And my father went ballistic. He attacked me, beating me to the point of death. I think, at the realization that I could die, he stopped hitting me and left me, bleeding, on the ground. I shook violently, wondering what I did wrong. He later threatened to kill me if I ever told anyone what he'd done.

I was always afraid to fall asleep, thinking that he would murder me if I did. I think I averaged about two or three hours in a week.

Neither my father nor I ever saw my mother again. He blamed me- saying that I ruined his life, I was a burden, I was too worthless to live… and I believed every word he said.

He never fed me. he didn't clothe me. I was reduced to scavenging for food and clothing in the garbage in subzero weather. I earned the nickname of 'the human raccoon' among other people in my tenement, due to my scavenging habits and the dark rings under my eyes. Everybody knew of my plight. Nobody cared. Again, I can't really blame them- what's one starving, abused child when there're at lease a dozen more living in the neighborhood?

I lived in a bad neighborhood. And I mean, a really bad neighborhood. The cops never patrolled. I think they were too scared to. Gunshots rang out with alarming frequency. Children were often killed by their parents in fits of anger, and then dumped in the garbage to be taken away by the end of the week. I remember when I found the body of my best friend Dmitri in the dumpster while trying to find food. I cried.

And then I took his clothes.

Please remember that I did what I had to in order to survive. The clothes I was wearing were threadbare, dirty, and so torn up that it was a miracle they stayed on my body. Dmitri's were a little warmer.

Just a little.

I'd often go into the better part of town, where the conditions were still harsh, but much better than the life I lived. Once, I even found a coat and shoes that someone had tossed carelessly on the sidewalk. I felt like a rich man then-a coat for my shivering body, shoes for my frostbitten feet. It didn't matter that the coat was far too large, or the shoes far to small-I had them, and that was enough. It felt amazing. This is one of the best memories I have…which is rather pathetic, now that I think about it. If you have to resort to fond remembrances of worn out shoes and throwaway coats, then yours is a sad life indeed.

Look at me, waxing all poetic. And my English teacher said I was hopeless.

And there, some people asked about me. Where was I from? Why did I have those bruises on my arms? Heeding my father's warning, I never told them, instead walking onward, peering into houses and buildings to get a glimpse of a life at least a little better than my own. Often, I'd go into the church to speak to the priest. They would give me food, and try to coax details of my life out of me, though, of course, I'd never tell.

Sometimes, the priest would try to talk me out of going back to my home. To stay there, or go to the police station, at least. But, no matter what he or anyone else said, I always returned to my father. He was the only family I had- the only life I knew.

So, I guess what he did later was entirely my fault.

One of my clearest memories was one that happened right after my father had beaten me again, then passed out in a drug-induced haze. After laying unconscious for an hour or so, I hobbled away towards that sanctuary, that church that had become my home.

"Father," I said, with that child like, endearing curiosity unique to the young and naïve (though I was far from naïve at this point), "is God real?"

The priest looked at me like one might look at a crazy person.

"My dear boy, why do you even ask such a thing?"

"I was just wondering. I mean, bad things happen to people, and he just sort of…watches. Why?"

"God has a plan for all of his creation," the priest responded. I got wide-eyed in wonder.

"Even me?"

"Yes, of course He does. Even for you."

I beamed at him, happiness and hope flooding my being. God had a plan for me. God did care.

The look of pure joy on my face brought a smile to his tired lips as he ruffled my hair.

He slipped something into my hand. A red rosary.

"For me?" I asked. The priest nodded.

"So you will always be reminded of God's love for you."

I hugged the treasure to my chest as I headed home.

My happiness was short-lived, however. My father grabbed me roughly by the wrist as soon as I opened the door. My rosary, the symbol of my hope, was sent clattering to the floor. I guess I should just be glad he didn't find it. My father glared at me. I could smell the alcohol on him. And he was furious.

Things happened so quickly that I can scarcely keep track of the memories that to this very day haunt the deepest corners of my mind.

(Ha. Look ma, I can write prose!)

He slammed me against the wall repeatedly. He punched me. I could hear my fragile bones crack underneath his unforgiving hand while he gleefully ignored my pleading tears. Then, he got out a pair of knives we kept in the kitchen, a sadistic gleam in his bloodshot eyes.

"Father, don't!" I pleaded.

He stretched my arm out against the wall, and then raised one of the knives up, as steady as he could when he was drunk off his ass.

"Father, please don't!" I shrieked frantically.

The knife came down, stabbing through the heel of my hand.

Screams, horrible, inhuman screams resounded throughout the tiny apartment. Screams of deepest agony, like a person burning in the deepest pits of Hell.

It was only later that I realized that those noises were coming from me.

He stabbed my other hand through the center of my palm.

I cried until I had no tears.

I screamed until I had no voice.

And he didn't care.

He didn't care.

I threw up. I begged for release. For death. For anything. He punched me across the face, telling me to shut up. That I wasn't even worth the effort it would take to kill me.

After what felt like an eternity (though it was only about ten minutes or so), he pulled out the knives, and I fell to the floor, the side of my face in a pool of my own blood and vomit.

I was almost five years old.

Was this what God had planned for me? To die like an animal, at the hands of this monster?

I heard people break into the apartment. My father yelled. Someone came up to me. It seemed so far away.

I fell unconscious.

I awakened in the intensive care unit of some hospital. A boy, possibly in his early teens, was watching me intently. He called himself L. he said he was working on a case when he heard screaming nearby, and had sent people to investigate.

To make a very long story short, I was put through some weird tests, which seemed to be to assess my intelligence. Then, I was asked if I'd like to go to a place called Wammy's House. I said yes-anything to get away from where I was.

They taught me some English while I was still in the hospital. I was a quick learner, but two months wasn't really a lot of time to learn a new language. Not even for the crazy super-genius that I apparently am.

When I was finally able to leave, I still had an ugly, yellowing black eye which embarrassed me. L looked at it, left for a second, then returned with a pair of orange-tinted goggles. He put them over my face. I went rigid, scared to have anyone touch me.

"There we go. That should hide your eye nicely. By the way," he said, pulling my rosary out of his pocket, "is this yours?"

"Yes!" I said, taking it from him. "Thank you so much!"

We went to Wammy's House. L introduced me to the other children. A girl named Linda, who was drawing in a corner. A boy named Beyond, whose smile showed a pair of too sharp teeth.

But the person who caught my attention was a tiny blonde-haired boy sitting alone in a corner, facing away from the crowd. He glanced at me over his shoulder before looking away again. I went over to him.

"Hi…what's…you're name?" I asked, enunciating carefully. My English was still far from perfect.

He said something in German.

"What?"

"I said …buzz off!" he snapped. "Go…away!"

He seemed to be struggling with English just as much as I was, his thick accent making him almost impossible to understand.

"I…just…wanted…to know…you're name," I said.

"…Mello."

I smiled.

"My name's Mai-um, Matt."

Mello gave me a shy sort of smile.

I pulled my rosary from around my neck, holding it out as an offering.

"Here," I said. "You…can have this…if you want."

Mello cocked his head, blonde hair bouncing with the movement of his head.

"Go ahead," I insisted.

Mello took it, blue eyes sparkling.

"Does…this mean…we're friends?" he asked.

"If you want to be."

Mello's eyes filled with tears. He smiled again, this time wider and more open.

He jumped up and hugged me, crying into my chest.

"…Dankeschön."

I later found out that that meant thank you.

"…I promise…I'll be the best friend ever," Mello said fervently.

I smiled a shaky smile, and hugged him back tightly, ignoring the pain in my bandaged hands.

It wouldn't be the last time that I would hide my pain for Mello's sake.

And there you have it. The origin of Mello's rosary and Matt's goggles. Please drop a review, and thanks for reading ^.^