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The young boy's body twisted and squirmed until he was jolted awake. Sitting rigidly upright in his bed, Near looked, quite groggily, at his clock. It was only dinner time, though he had felt like he had slept for hours. Sweat clung to his forehead, pulling thin wisps of snowy white hair against it.
Shit.
Something else had occurred, though it took a moment for the sleepy boy to deviate the moisture from the excessive sweat. He had wet the bed. Immediately, his pale face turned deep crimson and he internally cursed himself for what he had done. He wasn't a small child anymore, so why had this happened? He knew what it was— the nightmares— but still, he denied the thought that he was weak enough to have such a reaction to something that wasn't even real. But it was real— while he was in it, at least— and he had felt those hands and that pain, and his thoughts were of fear and panic. He scrambled out of if bed and struggled to remove the sheets. Eventually, though, they came off.
He walked the sheets into his bathroom and placed them into a hamper. There he peeled off his damp clothing and looked at himself in the mirror. His appearance frightened him. While he was never very handsome, he was not particularly bad look. But now, he seemed to be far from it. When he refused a meal, he felt more attractive— but now, looking at his nearly naked body in the mirror made him feel like the ugliest duckling in the world. Shockingly, it was neither the disturbing protrusion of bones from his ribs, hips, and collarbones nor his weak, lanky shoulders that bothered him. It was the tiniest amount of loose skin on his concave stomach that he confused for flab. He dug his fingernails into it and dragged his hand across his skin. Bright red scratches remained as evidence of the deed. He felt sick and disgusting— a prominent itching danced across his skin. He needed to cut— and he needed to cut now.
Shaking slender fingers pried the razor blade loose from its hiding spot. He knew he should refrain from cutting in this mindset— the lack of control feared him. Instead, though, it pushed him to do it even more. He didn't want to die, but he wanted to be dead. While his mind was such a painful place to live, the numbness that seemed to come over him was just as unbearable. He placed the razor to his skin.
One cut.
Two cuts.
Three cuts.
The red, angry marks blossomed across his pale flesh. He was, most definitely, cutting too deep. However, he seemed not to care. While it wasn't intentional, he didn't mind letting himself bleed out. How long it would take for someone to find him was uncertain. No one cared enough to really notice he was gone. He let his mind drift off away from the pain, when he realised he was over reacting. He wasn't going to die, despite the heavy flow of blood dripping onto the porcelain white tiles. He just needed a nap. That was all. Slowly, he allowed his eyes to close and he revelled in the silence.
A fuzzy sound tickled his ears. It was dull— almost metallic— and faint— so extremely faint. Nears head was throbbing as the sound— and his vision— came into focus. He quickly recognised the sound to be a voice calling out his name.
He bolted upright. The opaque smell of rust hit him with a wave of nausea. He could barely refrain from retching as he searched the room frantically for another person. He couldn't afford to have his secret out. Not like this.
"Near?!"
The hair on the back of his neck stood up as he realised the voice belonged to Mello. He relaxed, however, when he realised it was coming from behind his bedroom door. He was still safe, for a moment longer, at least. Uneasily, he picked himself up and started cleaning everything. The mess was incredible, but not uncommon.
"Are you hurt?! I smell blood!"
Shit, Near thought. He wanted to respond— to call out and say he was fine— but it his mouth was dry and stale.
"Near, open the goddamn door!"
Suddenly, Near could speak, though his voice was feeble.
"I'm fine," he croaked back through the door, "I just skinned up my knee."
It was partially true. He had skinned his knee on the cabinet when he slunk down into unconsciousness. However, he knew it was the other injuries that would be more troublesome for him.
"Did you pass out again?" the blonde called, worry strung throughout his voice— he was hoarse and Near wondered if he had been yelling long, "Do you need me to carry you to the nurse? Open up the door!"
"I'm fine. Just go away. Stay away from me, Mello," the white haired boy responded, please don't come in, I'll just hurt you.
"You're obviously pretty hurt if you're bleeding this much!" Mello called out, and a thud sounded on the door.
He had attempted to break down the door, but Near knew he wouldn't have been able too. Not only was Mello rather lanky, but also, Near's walls could never be broken down. The argument persisted for only a few more minutes until Mello gave up, sitting down by the door instead. Near, however, thought he had left. He too, sat against the door.
The tears couldn't be held back.
I'm such a mess now. I don't know who I am anymore. I just want to die. I deserve to die. Why am I so afraid to do it, then? What is wrong with me. I want to be normal. Mello is normal. Matt, more or less, is normal. So why I am fucked up like this? I want to be perfect.
Thoughts rattled around the young teen's mind as the tears streamed down his sunken cheeks and pale skin. He sat against his door and bawled his eyes out— desperate to scream.
"Why?" was all he could choke out.
This one teary question— directed at no one Mello could think of, other than God— whom Near did not believe in—caught the blonde boy's ears.
"Near…" he whispered, too faint for the younger boy to hear.
Near woke up extra early the next morning. Not from his nightmares, but from a buzzing alarm clock. He had plans to get to the library way before Matt had to join him for breakfast. He sought to be alone today.
Not bothering to change from his pyjamas, the ghost slipped from his bed onto the floor, and— nimbly, like a spider— walked out into the hallway. It was still dark.
The climb to the library was rather treacherous. Some toys from the younger students were sprawled out upon the steps and it took great care to avoid stepping on them in the early morning darkness. Shortly, a few stubbed toes and lego-imprints later, he arrived.
There, Near found sanctuary in a castle of books. The hours crept by and the sunlight danced across the floor until it became apparent that it was almost noon. Near was delighted by the lack of disturbance— but also saddened that no one had even came looking for him. Surely, Matt would have noticed he was not at dinner. He was supposed to tell Roger if he missed any meals.
I guess he doesn't care after all.
"There you are."
Near looked up from his thoughts, clearly startled. He clinched a book, ready to throw it at any threat. There, he only found Mello, hunched over with his hands on his knees— panting.
Breath taking, Near thought, breathless, he amended.
"Yes, here I am," the sheep responded coldly, collected.
"Why— why would—," Mello panted, "Why wouldn't you open the door? Yesterday— I mean. I thought you had broken something."
"Because I didn't need help."
"Apparently you do."
Fear struck Near dead in this tracks.
"Matt told you about my parents?"
"What? I don't know what you're even talking about," Mello said with a genuine look of confusion on his face.
"Never mind," Near replied, relaxing just a little.
"Um, okay," the blonde muttered back, "Anyway, let me see your knee."
"No."
"Why not?"
Because I said so, Near thought, ignoring the boy and picking up his book again.
"Come on, Near. You might need stitches. Lemme see it," the taller boy persisted.
Bang.
The cracking sound erupted through the silent library. Mello looked stunned as the book dropped from its contact point— directly left of Mello's head. Near, overcome by something he did not recognise as his own, had thrown the book straight at Mello.
"I'm so— I do— I'm s—," Near stammered, quietly to the point that it was almost inaudible.
"What the… What the fucking hell, Near?! I was trying to help you!" Redness spread across the blonde-eyed boy's face, unable to control his poor temperament, "You damn brat."
Then, he was on top of Near, and half-hearted punches were flying. Near wasn't crying, like he thought he would have been, but instead, a sad dullness soaked in the soft pain. Near barely struggled, though his words implied great effort.
"Get off me, Mello! You're fucking crazy! Get off," Near said, his voice breaking.
No, you're not. I'm the crazy one.
"You're such an ass, Near! You act like you're so great, so high and mighty… Even you need some help sometimes!"
That did it. Near's mask shattered and the tears came down. Still, Mello kept hitting him, unrelenting, though his intent wasn't really to hurt him. Mello didn't know why he was even hitting him, but he needed something to express his emotions— his fear— that had been pent up inside him. Soon, the hitting turned to wrestling.
"Ow!" Near screamed, a sound so blood curdling that Mello stopped immediately— he knew he hadn't hurt him that badly.
The consecutive seconds occurred so rapidly that time almost seemed to stand still. Mello was looking at the palm of his hand— smeared with blood. A 'what the hell' rolled from his lips, but soon he was apologising. But then he was stopping. He was looking at Near, and Near was searching his eyes. But he couldn't find them. No, Mello's eyes were focused on one small part of Near's wrist, peeking out from his white shirt. Both boys reached for the fabric immediately— with opposite intentions. Mello beat him to it, however, and soon the fabric was scrunched up, revealing Near's lost world.
Don't look, Near thought.
"Near?" was all Mello could manage to say.