Trapped
Leather fingers gripped a leather wheel. The turn of the wheel, the screech of the tires. The mumble of the tiny television leering out at him from its perch near the window.
It was all a dizzy scene.
He remembered being nine years old; nimble-fingered and ambitious. They were boys out to trap the possum, the very one that the caretakers had been complaining of recently upon coming to spilled trash and damaged apples out in the orchard. Matt seemed intrigued by the idea, but Mello remembered distinctly having to do all of the work.
He set out the trap and came back early the next morning to a dead rabbit, apparently having suffocated in the tangled web he had set. His eyes balked at the sight for a horrible minute; the limbs already hardening, the rabbit's mouth wide open and head pointed skyward as if pleading dumbly for its life. The boy had been so appalled by the visual that he'd shut his eyes tight, yanked the entire trap out of the ground and disposed of it, dead rabbit and all, into the farthest trash can in the lot. He was washing his hands for an hour and ignored everyone who knocked, pounded on the bathroom door, yelling his name. And Matt, he couldn't even tell Matt. It was a disgusting thing he had done; shameful. Matt would never have to know. Hell, he'd never know.
Wammy's seemed like a far-off world now, a world of color and ice cream dreams and indoor voices. Yet he used to daydream without end for these days. These days, where Mello was subject only to his own genius, able to constantly strive for the highest peak. He achieved everything to deepest personal benefit; taking in only the ripest of pleasures, the most dignified of roads. He was right in those childhood daydreams; everything had changed for him. He had left everything behind; the safety, the blind dreams, even the rabbit's face. Everything except Near, his hate for Near, his throbbing need to best Near... and Matt.
He never imagined it happening like this. Often he recognized grimly that yes, the end could come in a heartbeat - or lack thereof . It would take an instant, and in that instant everything he strived for would crumple to ruin like a jab in the side of a sand castle. Sometimes the thoughts looped like a curse in his mind; the feel of his own heart bursting; the tear of skin, the spattering of second-rate blood, shameful stains. But the television presented something completely new.
He recognized the car in a heartbeat. It was a sorry sight now; the windows shattered in and stray bullet holes imprinted into the hull. Mello imagined what it looked like in person; a deathbed in a sea of sparkling glass. It was a haunting thought that tugged at him from a distance; he refused to let it settle.
He heard the bullets ringing in his ears.
The turn of the wheel, the screech of the tires. Hollow eyes caught the hostage in the backseat. She was going to live.
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A/N: I feel bad that you all gave me such delicious reviews and then I stopped updating! Pretty subtle in this one, but I decided to post it anyway. Along with this other, also old one. I'mma try and get back to some real M/M soon.