Matt, P. I.

10

I feel very, very, very violated. Like, extremely. These people have got to be a bunch of social perverts themselves to be doing this shit for a living.

Have I mentioned that I feel violated?

First, on the damn ambulance they asked me about a bazillion and two REALLY personal questions—what color is your natural hair color (idiots), what's your blood type, when did you have sex last, have you had sex with a MAN…It was really hard to not punch them all in the throat (fuck, I really could have gotten off on insanity again). But I managed to restrain. Mostly because they had actual restraints right there, and I really didn't want to know if they were comfy or not. But still. I saw Mello through this tiny little window, very briefly and he was a few blocks from Ramona's office sitting on top of his Hummer waving furiously. I waved back, but more for my own satisfaction than his. He couldn't see me.

I wonder what he'll do for fun now. Looks like there won't be any more late night jersey devil hunts for us. I hope he doesn't do anything nuts. That would be so like him.

I stopped worrying about him for a bit when they dragged me inside that godforsaken building—all brick and square and mildly Victorian looking, and dreadfully old (definitely a ghost haven)—and began the whole "institutionalization" process. It began with the confiscation of ALL of my personal items. In other words, there goes my DS, my pocket knife, my wallet, my spare packet of ketchup, and my GOGGLES.

They took my goggles. What the hell am I supposed to do without my goggles? What if I need them? What if they get stolen, or broken, or lost? Nonononononono not my goggles not my goggles why why why

Arrrggh

Anyway.

So then came the cavity search.

And then they took my clothes.

So now I'm stuck in this horrible grey outfit that's drafty and scratchy and the top button chokes me so I have to leave it open, which means all these creeps can see my pale gamer chest.

And by "these creeps" I mostly just mean my roommate.

OH GOD I THINK HE MIGHT KILL ME. They told me he's just like me but with a little touch of sociopathy, and that no, he'd never hurt anybody but I really don't quite believe them. There's just something about his eyes. The eyes of somebody who can look through your skin and see all your organs and decide which ones look tasty, then make plans about just how to cook them, like "hmm well maybe that spleen would be really juicy grilled with some carrots." Plus he even LOOKS crazy. He's paler than I am. His hair is all dark and stringy like it used to be gelled but now it's just greasy. And his eyes are yellow. YELLOW EYES. WTF WHO HAS YELLOW EYES. And a little while ago he actually asked me what color his eyes are. Like he didn't know. How can you not know your own eye color? Jerk. He's too skinny and his fingers are too long.

I don't know though, this outfit makes me look pretty skinny too. Maybe I look crazy too. Maybe that's why everyone's been out to get me recently, maybe they decided I look crazy so they have to lock me up. I don't look crazy, do I? I'm only pale cause I can't tan, I just freckle (I just stay out of the sun, cause I hate my freckles.) My hair isn't dyed anything weird. The only weird thing about my appearance is my goggles and the fact that I wear long sleeves year round. My arms are scrawny. I don't want to get freckles on them.

Okay, maybe I am a little strange. But at least my name is normal. Well, maybe a little abnormal, but it's still a human name. You can trace back my ancestry—I come from a whole line of pale fuckers with the last name Jeevas. My new roommate, on the other hand…his last name is Birthday. Fucking Birthday. And his first name is Beyond. Beyond Birthday. Beyond Birthday. If there is any other human being on this planet with the last name of Birthday, then you can shoot me now.

Why is he staring at me. He's staring at me WHY IS HE STARING AT ME WHY IS HE DOING THAT STOP IT IT'S CREEPY YOU FUCK.

Do I have to be friends with this guy? Cause I'm stuck with him 24 hours a day and he's reaaaally unnerving. I AM A SANE PERSON STUCK IN A HOUSE OF NUTCASES. I guess I should at least try to make friends with him, maybe…he's creepy enough that maybe if I'm friends with him other crazies might not bother me.

Though I really wish my bed was more than four feet away from his. I don't know if I can sleep with him near me.

Ha, who the fuck am I kidding? I'll never sleep in here. This is a nightmare. I'm sitting here on this creaky bed in this tiny room with one little barred window, with this GUY staring at me, and I know something is definitely not right in this place.

For one, why is it so cold? I mean, maybe it's that this shirt is irksomely short sleeved, and that the AC is going strong for the summer, but it should not be this cold. I have goose-bumps. Ick.

Two, the lights in the lobby flickered when they brought me in. In a place like this, with generators and high tech locks, there shouldn't be any lighting malfunctions. AND YET.

Three, this place doesn't have a very good history. Actually, if you look it up, none of LA's mental hospitals have very good histories—I see headlines sometimes in the newspapers around town. Where there is bad history, there's bad energy—and sometimes, bad spirits.

Although, maybe for now I should focus primarily on my potentially bad roommate. I know he can't be too bad, or they wouldn't have put him in this ward—we're in the "mostly harmless" category—but he still freaks me out. The nurse said we would get along. I wonder why. I guess I'll have to talk to him at some point. I'm lucky and all that they let me keep this notebook—since it was a part of my original treatment plan, they decided to go along with it and let me have it. I just have to write in felt tip pen now (no pencils allowed)—but I do have to do other things than write. Besides, I don't even like writing that much. I'm just bored.

I wonder how Mello is. I wonder if he's going to shoot Ramona. I wonder if he remembered my car. Probably so; he gave it to me after all. I wonder if he'll really come see me.

HE'S STILL STARING AT MEEEEE WHAT IS THIIIIIS

I'll say hi.

There. Hi.

…

Well, I learned some things about "Beyond Birthday."

He likes to be called B. Like the letter. Reminds me of Mello's friend L that I mentioned a while ago, (page 12, right after my first close call with Ramona.) I never knew so many people liked to go by letters. Initials? Anyway, he's in here for the same thing as me—delusions and hallucinations. He explained it all in a very smooth, oddly logical manner—that ever since he was born, he could see the name of any person written in red letters above their heads…as well as the day they would die. Creepy. Very creepy. And occasionally he had this way of seeing these strange creatures. Shinigami. Japanese gods of death.

At least now I know why the nurse thought we'd get along. He believes in shinigami. The only other people I've seen that believed in shinigami were all teenage otakus. Most people don't even know what they are. I asked him how he found out what a shinigami was, and he replied with an eye roll, and said, "I asked one what it was, duh."

He says he shouldn't even be in here at all, because he's not making anything up.

Maybe we have more in common than I thought. Maybe this won't be so bad after all.

BUT WHY DOES HE KEEP LAUGHING? IS SOMETHING FUNNY?

He better not be laughing at my name. I told him to call me Matt.

Oh god, what if he's laughing at my death-day.

Oh god, do I believe him?

No, I'm not writing in my diary, B! And no, you can't read it. Ugh this guy is so nosy. Five minutes into our conversation earlier he started asking me shit about my life. You know, the classic stuff—"So, was your mom a prostitute too?" He asked me if I sneaked in any strawberries, and when I said, "Uh, no?" he wailed and bashed his face off his mattress. (?) This will definitely be hard to get used to.

Oh great, now the nurses are doing the medicine rounds. Here's another wonderful thing about this place—I'm supposed to take drugs. Anti-psychotics, actually. I don't know how this is going to work, seeing as I'm NOT CRAZY, but I just hope it doesn't do anything too bad…my dose isn't supposed to be too bad…

Maybe the nurse will let me off a bit. She seemed nice. The opposite of Ramona—friendly, brunette, and motherly. When she was bringing me to my room she chattered on and on about how she thought my job was sooo cool because she just loved that TV show called Ghost Hunters. She asked me if I'd had any encounters with ghosts, and I said yes—and then she goes, "ME TOOO!" And tells me all about some house she used to live in.

How is it that when I talk about weird stuff, I get locked up, but this lady can do it and WORK here? Meh, at least she believes me. Well, about the ghost, anyway. I haven't told her about any of my other adventures, but she's probably read about them in my file.

B, what are you doing? B, stop it.

The nurse is giving him his meds, and he's HITTING ON HER. B STOP IT SHE'S LIKE FIFTY. Oh lord.

I cannot believe he just said that. "My hypothalamus must be secreting serotonin because baby, I want you!" What does that even mean? And she's giggling. Why do I get the feeling this happens every day? "Are you happy to see me, or is that just a defense mechanism?" SOME ONE GET ME OUT OF HERE.

Oh god it's my turn.

A/N: For once, a chapter that's relatively calm. O.o Hehe, we'll see how long things stay that way. xD Sorry for not much Mello in this chap, but don't be fooled, this is still a MxM story! There's just some B in it too. :D Hopefully all of you readers love B as much as I do! He's just so fun to write about. There will be much more B in the next chapter. :) Review please? I love to hear from you all!