Warning: This chapter contains moderate language and adult themes. Nothing graphic, but just to warn you.

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/\_-Interlude of a Teenage Dirt-Bag-_/\

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You know I'm Third.

Everyone knows I'm Third. Well, somewhere in the back of their minds, everyone knows. I'm not Second, or (God forbid) First.

Everyone knows one thing; Mello is Second. And pissed about it. Maybe because he's been denied everything he ever wanted; just a whisper away, just a second too late.

You know, thinking back, I realise that for a while, I was Second. Back in the good old days. Mello was First, then. He had always liked that. He has this thing about superiority, and dominance. I don't know; difficult childhood, or something.

I could tell you all about those.

In case you've been living under a rock, or something, you'll probably know a bit about me. They call me Matt. And … yeah, that's it, really. In retrospect, you likely don't know a lot about me at all; people don't.

I've been a teenage dirt-bag since I was fourteen years old. You'd think it'd start getting kind of old sometime around now, but on the current count, I've been a teenage dirt-bag for … yeah, around four years now. Still going strong.

You mightn't think that four years is really a long time, but I do. I mean, Christ, I know it's not exactly a figure to be proud of – there was some old couple in the supermarket a few days ago … talking to some cashier. They'd been married for seventy-two years. I mean, Jesus, that's a long time. That's something to be proud of.

When they dumped me in Wammy's, I didn't talk. It's not as though I've always been as uncaring as I am now. Ten years of Mello-mania will do that to you. But yeah, I didn't talk. Not a word. Not even to tell Roger my name. I let the social workers do all of that. I just stared up at them, and let them think I was dense. I was dense. I couldn't talk, beyond a whimper. If I'd tried, I might have been able to eke out 'Please' or 'Stop' occasionally. But I didn't. Pop didn't like me talking. Didn't really like me, actually. Or my mom. And she fucking hated me, so really, it all worked out pretty okay.

So. I couldn't talk. I couldn't look anyone in the eye. I couldn't read … yeah, I couldn't read. Well, no one ever taught me. There were no books where I was dragged up. I never learned how to read, or talk, or communicate with other people.

When the forensics came to scrape Mom's brain off the wall (she put a gun in her mouth one day, after my dad had gone out to get drunk. She knew he'd come back, of course, but she'd done it anyway. He always came back. No matter how hard you begged whoever was listening to make him stay there, wherever her was for just an hour longer, while you found a place somewhere that maybe, just maybe, nobody would ever find you again), they found me. I was under the kitchen sink. I was usually under the kitchen sink. Some woman found me, and screamed blue murder until the rest of them came and pulled me out. I didn't cry. I shivered, but I didn't cry.

They cried.

They never bothered with the cute little fairy-tale, 'Mommy had to go to sleep, and she won't be able to wake up, Mail'. What was the point? I was standing in front of her when she pulled the trigger, for Christ's sake. They didn't know that, but really, once they pulled me in for a medical examination, they didn't need me to say anything. It was obvious that I could never go back.

My father never came home. He's probably still out there somewhere, but I don't have to worry about him coming after me. The councillor said that I have climbed the steps to society and have worked through my terror and anger of all of those years and that he is a man who should be pitied, and that he can't do anything to hurt or upset me now, since I have cleansed my mind, blah blah blah. But that's a load of bull-shit. I don't worry about him because I know if he ever shows up, Mello will shoot his fucking brains out before he gets in a one-hundred metre radius of me.

I didn't talk, when they took me in. Even when they sat me down with the nice clean woman with the blonde hair and glasses, and she asked me, very gently, what had happened to me at home. She looked like a princess from the picture book they gave me to look at. I didn't open it; I was too afraid of wrecking it, but there was a princess on the cover and it looked just like her. I didn't talk, even then. She suggested a few things and asked me if anything like that had happened to me. I didn't say anything. I just watched a tear draw a shiny line down her face as she patted my head and told me to be a good boy in my new home. I didn't say anything. There was nothing to say.

Even though I couldn't talk, they figured I was smart. Brain scans, maybe, or it could have been some tests they made me do. I don't know. I can't remember. I was on some weird tablets at the time … I mean, I had everything going. Posttraumatic Stress Disorder, depression, manic-depression, schizophrenia … anorexia nervosa … I had it all. I'm not exactly 'fixed' even now … I'm still a manic-depressive, but, you know what they say, time is a healer.

Anyway.

So they cart me off to Wammy's. I don't know why, I was still a total wreck. And then Roger says, 'We're going to call you Matt', and next thing I know I'm in a class with fifteen other kids and a teacher, when I've never met another kid in my life, and the teacher is talking so fast and using so many words that I've never heard that I think it's another language. And then the class is over and everyone runs past me and disappears … on my first day, they found my hiding in the kitchens. Under the sink.

They let me have my own room, but I slept on the floor beside the door. Just in case there had been a mistake. Eventually, I was able to move into Mello's room. I was the only kid that they could put there he wouldn't kill.

I think they sort of realised then that I wasn't not exactly on the same page as everyone else. They took me to a speech therapist; no joy. They took me to a football club; no joy. They brought me to a concert; I hid under the seats. They brought me to the sea; I sat still and shivered.

The other kids hated me. The weirdo who sat there and whimpered when they tried to talk to him. It not like they gave me grief; they were grief.

One day I sneaked away from Speech Therapy … and when I heard them calling my name, I dodged into whatever room I was next to. And by some twist of fate, it turned out to be Mello's.

He didn't beat me up. I know, having known him now for as long as I have, I can safely say that he would kill anyone who did that to him, except for me. He asked what the fuck I was doing. He was around nine of ten at the time, foul mouthed as ever. Then he asked who I was, and what I was doing here, and why I didn't speak. I didn't answer. He said that if I didn't learn they'd never leave me the hell alone and I should get over it and learn to talk. He said that basically good for me if I'd had a shit life; I could go and join the club. He said, 'at least learn to say your own fucking name … what is it, Matt, is it?'

I shook my head, but he waved disinterestedly at me. 'That's your name now, get used to it. You think I was born 'Mello'? Yeah, right. So, Matt? Okay. Matt. Maa-aat. It's easy. Try.'

'Mmmmah.'

'No. Ma-at. Matt. Maa-aat. 'T'. You get it? Go for it.'

'Mmmaah-aah.'

'Ma-at. Again.'

'Maaah-aaahht.'

'Good. Again. Maaatt. Try it.'

'Maatt.'

'So. There you go, that's your name. Your name is Matt.'

'Matt?'

'Yeah.'

'… matt?'

'Uh-huh, my name's Mello.'

I don't know how exactly when became friends. But I knew he were friends when he knocked out the guy who was hassling me one day, and got a week of detention for it … and then waited until he woke up and knocked him out again.

Things were, you know, pretty simple back then. Mello was First. I was Second, apparently, though I was still learning how to read, and to talk. They cancelled my appointment with the speech therapist, relinquishing me into Mello's care, even though I'm pretty sure they were a little worried about the words he was teaching me. He was actually a pretty good teacher. He's not that patient any more. At all, actually. He's much angrier now than he ever was as a child. Or maybe it's just that Mello … well, he's always been indulgent when it comes to me.

When Near arrived, things got more complicated. It was probably then that the two of us started distancing ourselves from the rest of the world. We were Matt-and-Mello. It was us against them, and we liked it that way.

Mello was always my best friend, and I was always him. I owe him my speech, my sanity … I owe him both my lack of grievous body harm and my excess of grievous body harm. Mello protected me from the rest of the world, but he couldn't protect me from himself. He's always been the only person who was allowed to curse and swear at me, and beat me within an inch of my life, and then set fire to a teacher's desk when they called me a lazy bastard.

I know what you're thinking. Yeah, okay, fine. When I was fourteen I fell totally in love with him. But don't get the wrong idea. I didn't do anything … I mean, he was straight. I thought I was straight too. I still think I'm straight … ugh. Look, it's complicated, okay? And besides, he left home that year.

Do I love Mello? Of course I love him. He's my best friend in the whole, wide world. He's the only person I've ever been able to rely on. Before he left me, he was consistency in my life. I could tell Mello anything. If he was ever inclined to stop bottling everything, he could tell me anything too. I love him like a brother. Nothing else. That phase of my life is over, and really, it was never going to happen. Of course I love him. But there's a line between us that I will never overstep. If he hadn't left, I probably would have crossed it by now. Maybe it's a good thing that he left when he did.

They called Mello 'fag' for years. It's kind of funny that they got it totally the wrong way around. Well, sort of – I mean, I'm not gay, but – look, I already said it's complicated. Let's just skim over that.

His departure signalled the beginning of the teenage dirt-bag years. The ones where the kids would whisper about me and Mello and wonder what the hell had happened. Why he left. Left me. I wondered the same thing, but then I remembered that I am not the centre of the universe, and that Mello is far too much of a genius to stagnate in one place for too long, especially when there's a world that needs saving. That's what I told myself, anyway. Well, I couldn't believe fairy stories when I was a kid, so why not try them out during the teen years?

And then, when I found him again, yeah, sure, it broke my heart to see what he'd done to himself. It didn't surprise me, but I'll admit when I took the bandages off and saw most of his face was missing, I had to choke back some tears. He'd changed. Changed totally. I knew I had too, and maybe we'll never be back to being Matt-and-Mello, kiddie geniuses. Maybe we'll just have to settle for being Matthew and Mello, adults with problems. Or maybe not. Honestly? I don't see us living that long.

Four years as a teenage dirt-bag. It's a long time for someone like me. The first constant in my life … and probably the last. That's why it's such a big deal. People like me … well, we don't tend to really live very long. I'm probably sort of nearing the end of the line sometime around now. Oh, don't worry, it's not like I'm going to go throw myself on some train tracks or whatever, but you know. If you don't hear about me for a while, you can pretty safely presume that I won't be coming back.

Wait … pretend I didn't say that. It's not a cause for tears. Really, it's not that bad. I'm not dead yet. And besides, I've had a good run. I've had good friends. Well, I've had Mello, anyway. And I had four years of consistency to my name. That's a pretty big deal for me. It won't be that hard to say goodbye when you know the world like I do.

In an ideal world … but that's a stupid thought. There can never be an ideal world for me, because ideally, Mello would have to be happy, and he could never be happy in my ideal world.

So, I'll just wait around for the trumpets to sound, if that's okay with you. Maybe they won't sound for a while, but you know what? I'm okay with that either way. There's a pretty good view from where I'm sitting at the moment. And Mello's sitting next me, wherever we are. And when the trumpets, sound, we'll hear them together.

That's a promise, Melz. A promise and a thank you, for always saving my life.

And through it all
How could you cry for me?
Cause I don't feel bad about it.
So shut your eyes,
Kiss me goodbye,
And sleep.
Just sleep.

The hardest part is letting go of your dreams.

- Sleep, My Chemical Romance

A word from Matthew, from the point upon which we stand, balanced.

Next up: IQ : Unbeatable, Part 2. Certainly, it'll be much bloodier, and with a good deal more shocking revelations ... are you sure you can handle it?

- Wraithlike xxx