Author's Note: I read this MelloxOC fanfic a while ago that I TOTALLY fell in love with (Habeas Corpus by dreamwithinadream262; if you're curious, check it out), but I'm not sure if it's going to be updated anytime soon. In any case, I decided to start a MelloxOC fanfic since I got such overwhelming support on my other Death Note fanfic. I love you guys for taking the time to read my writing (and writing SUCH thoughtful and comprehensive reviews to help me better it, it seriously means the world to me).
As before, I'm using the manga timeline and ages (with minor minor tweaks here and there for the sake of cohesion). I'm also pulling heavy inspiration from Death Note: Another Note - The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases.
I spent the last few days listening to EDM and planning out this story, jesus. It was a lot. I should also mention that Hideki Ryuga is kind of a main-ish (?) character in this. He wasn't available as a character choice, but yea. I submitted a request to have him added and we'll see what we see. There's probably going to be WAY more adult topics in this fanfic then there were in my other Death Note one, so M rating for safety.
Alright, I'm done rambling. I hope you guys had a great Thanksgiving (or normal Thursday if you don't celebrate it), and as always, hit me up in the reviews or PMs to let me know what you think!
Chapter 1: Okay
Teresa Fuller was four years old when her mother ran away with a strange man she did not know. The events had unfolded so quickly that she was scarcely aware of them. One day, it was just her and her mother. The next day, her father was back from his military deployment, back in their lives for good (he promised). They were happy at first, truly happy. Or at least that's what Teresa had thought when she was younger. Now that she was older, it felt more difficult to describe the events with a single emotion. It was complicated, like…. Well, if she had to compare it to something…it was like the pink and white wallpaper in her old bedroom. Her father had mentioned how pretty it was at first glance—adorned with beautiful little butterflies. But the closer he got, the more he noticed the frayed edges of the paper along the ceiling. It was a feeble attempt to cover the water stained and damaged walls behind it.
He had spent nearly every waking moment with her since his return. Not that she was complaining; she didn't mind; she loved his company. He was even better than the blurry picture painted by her ever fading memories of him, with only old photo albums and her mother's stories to serve as guides for her mental paintbrush. When they met him in the crowded lobby of the airport, she was surprised to learn how strong he was. He picked her up like she weighed less than the air that wisped by her ears. He was tall, and when she peeked over his shoulder at the ground, Teresa swore she was ten—no, twenty feet up from it. But she still felt safe, even when he carried her with just one arm.
Her father had gone from that blurry image in the back of her mind to the focal point of her life. He fell seamlessly back into his role, and it was like he was never really gone in the first place. Though, a point of convergence necessitates areas of divergence. And, soon, her mother began to shrink into the background of her life. It was subtle at first, and maybe it was Teresa's fault for not noticing sooner. The guilt was there when she was younger, but now she could put words to it. Her mother wasn't making breakfast like she used to. So her father would; so it was okay. Her mother wasn't picking her up from daycare like she used to. So her father would; so it was okay. Then there were no more bedtime stories. No more trips to the park. But there were fights at night. There was muffled yelling that penetrated the pink and white butterfly wallpaper of her bedroom. There were brief, contemptuous glances between the two people she loved more than anything else in the world. There was pain.
Then there was no more mom. She had seen the missing items on the shelves of their living room—the silhouettes of their ghostly presence untouched by the dust that seemed to linger on everything that belonged to her father. She had seen the lack of shoes on the rack near the front door—only her father's tan Army boots and his black flip flops remained, neither of which actually sat on the rack; there had been no room for them with the previous collection of heels. She had seen her father's puffy, red eyes—but when she asked, he told her that it was okay.
'It's okay.' It was the overly simplistic ostinato of their life, even when things were far from okay. Her father had repeated the comforting words to her when her mother didn't come back. He said them again when they discovered she had cleaned out the bank accounts. Then again when the police told him there was no crime committed—she was a joint owner on the accounts. It was her money as much as it was his.
They stayed in the house for as long as they could, but the bills began to pile up. She had seen the brightly colored envelopes with bold red lettering, too. The landlord began coming by, and Teresa would sit in her room, listening to more muffled yelling. Then the police came back and told her father that staying any longer was a crime. They asked if he had some place to take his daughter—family, friends, anyone that could take them in. He lied and said he did. Then he lied and told Teresa it would be okay.
In a region as densely populated, and impossibly busy, as the Bay Area, Teresa and her father were just two more homeless faces in a transient population of twenty-something-thousand. People would pass, avoiding eye contact. Some would drop money into his worn patrol cap when they noticed the small girl sleeping in his arms (under equally worn layers of jackets).
"How old is she?" a stranger had asked once.
"Five." her father had responded gruffly, tightening his grasp on her.
"I'm sorry." The stranger's apology had confused Teresa at the time. But now that she was older, she understood exactly what the stranger was sorry for. It wasn't long after that encounter that the police appeared again.
Her father was blurry in her vision again, but this time it was because of the tears that refused to subside. She had screamed and flailed, desperate to keep the fistfuls of his cotton shirt in her small hands. Strange hands, hands much larger than hers, easily pried open her slender fingers.
"Teresa, it's okay!" Liar, liar, liar!
"No!" Teresa had begged the officers that tore her out of her father's arms. She had lunged out of their grip: a last meager attempt that resulted in her fingers ripping the nametape off his combat jacket. It was the only token she had of her father as she was passed around from shelter to shelter—from group home to group home.
Teresa Fuller was six years old when she found her forever home, though she had not recognized it as such until she was seven, and she would lose it again by the time she was thirteen. A few days after her sixth birthday, one of the caretakers at the group home had excitedly told her that she was going to go live with a wonderful family in Los Angeles. Teresa had just nodded, unsure of where this strange place was. A man and woman came to meet her a few times. They were tall and pretty, with perfect hair and perfect clothes. The woman smelled like her mother's perfume, so Teresa didn't move away when she sat shoulder to shoulder with her. It was comforting, something familiar in an ever-changing environment. They had talked to her with bright smiles, flawless teeth, and a hopeful twinkle in their eye. They asked her a hundred questions about herself, and Teresa was too shy to answer any of them.
"Do you like stuffed animals?" the woman had asked, holding out a plush teddy bear. Teresa stole glances of the soft toy with quick flits of her eyes. The woman let out a melodic laugh. "I thought you might like to keep him company." She placed the soft thing in Teresa's arms, and Teresa clung to it like it would disappear, just like everything else important in her life.
"She's not much of a talker, but I'm sure she'll open up." the caretaker had assured the perfect couple. Teresa wondered if they fought at night, too.
After a week of visits, each one accompanied by a toy, Teresa was loaded up into the couple's car and driven to yet another strange place. It was a large, beautiful house. Much newer than her old home. There were no water damage stains on the walls. The living room had hardwood instead of dark green carpet. The floorboards were all the same color and style and didn't groan when she walked across them. The appliances all matched in a sleek silver, instead of the off-white and robin's egg blue that she was accustomed to seeing. The countertops were a marbled white. Teresa had run her fingers along the edges of them, looking for the lifted corners of the stickers that gave the counter its appearance, but there were none to be found. It was real marble.
Her room was in the familiar pink and white pattern, but everything in it was brand new. An assortment of books and toys lined the shelves. A toy chest sat in front of her bed. The bay window seat was lined with stuffed animals. Yet it didn't bring Teresa the slightest bit of joy. All she could focus on was how different everything was from her real home. The new shoes they had bought for her were too stiff and hurt her feet. She missed her worn out sneakers. The frilly dress they had put her in scratched her sensitive skin and made her want to cry. Her father always bought her comfortable cotton shirts and tights. The ponytail they had pulled her hair back into was too tight on her scalp. It made her head hurt and feel too heavy. Her father always let her long black waves sit loosely on her shoulders and cascade down her back.
"What's the matter?" the man had asked when he noticed Teresa's brown eyes filling with tears.
"O, sweetie, if you don't like it we can change it." the woman quickly added, bending down to wipe up the drops that escaped onto Teresa's olive cheeks.
"M-my feet h-hurt." Teresa cried into the woman's arms.
"I'm sorry, sweetie." the woman cooed, lifting the child off her feet. "Brian can you take them off her feet?"
"Yea, they must be too tight." the man, Brian, mumbled while undoing the straps on the Mary Jane shoes and checking Teresa's feet for injuries. "Hmm…they're a little red and swollen, but they'll be okay."
"Can I have my sneakers back?" Teresa meekly requested with her face buried in the woman's neck. She slowly inhaled her perfume and closed her eyes, imagining she was back with her mother and father. There was a pregnant pause between the couple.
"We'll buy you new ones." the woman finally answered, not wanting to admit that she had carelessly tossed the shoes in the trash.
"My skin itches." Teresa began crying again, trying to shrink away from the dress that surrounded her body. "And my head hurts." She pulled on the hairband but stopped when the stinging in her scalp intensified.
"I'm so sorry, Teresa." the woman said again.
No matter how hard Teresa had tried to fall into the comfort of this new house, new school, and new life, an anxiety and sadness coiled in the pit of her stomach until she could no longer ignore it. It gave her nightmares and made her cry for her father. It had peaked one day after school, as she waited in line to get on the large yellow bus that always took her home. The ever-watchful bus monitor had turned her attention away from the line for a second, and the idea of getting on this large metal tube to go back to a house with strangers she did not love terrified Teresa. Something told her to run, so Teresa did. She sprinted down the sidewalk as fast as she could. Her knuckles turned white as she kept her vice-like grip on the straps of her backpack to keep it from bouncing against her tailbone. When she reached the end of the street, she heard the panicked yelling of students and teachers in the background. She hesitated for a moment at the corner, wondering if she should return and explain herself. But that same something told her to keep going. She bounded into the busy intersection, across the crosswalk, and onto the sidewalk on the opposite end. Cars honked, tires squealed, and people screamed, but Teresa kept running. She ran until every gasping breath burned her lungs, and the hot September sun made her dizzy. She dipped into the shadows of an alley way to try and escape from the heat and her possible pursuers. Dizzy, out of breath, and about to throw up—she would be easy to recapture.
"Oof!" Teresa huffed when she bumped into something and fell to the ground. She hadn't even noticed this other person in the alleyway.
"Watch where you're going!" the person reproached. Teresa looked up to the source of the hostile voice. Piecing blue eyes, shaggy blonde hair, warm ivory skin. A boy just a few years older than her.
"I-I'm sorry!" she began to cry again, intimidated by his scowl.
"H-hey…stop that!" he demanded, unsure how to deal with such a fragile creature. When the gentle thing gave no response to his orders, and showed no signs of stopping her pitiful sobs, he adjusted his methods. "…um…listen, I wasn't trying to make you cry." He gingerly held out his hand for her. "What's your name?"
"T-teresa." she replied.
"Why are you saying it like that?" he asked, cocking up a brow at her. One of his blue eyes opened up wider than the other, as if he was trying to piece her together.
"Li-like what?" she asked through diminishing sniffles.
"Like Tur-eh-SAH." he clarified, saying the last two syllables in quick succession just as she had. This time she gave him a strange look. "It's pronounced Tur-EE-sah." He separated each syllable, placing the emphasis on the second syllable.
"No, it's not!" she suddenly shot back with a burst of bravery, narrowing her brow at the boy. "It's pronounced Tur-eh-SAH." She had expected him to get mad at her again, to scowl at her again, but he smiled, clearly amused by her. He had a nice smile. It made her comfortable enough to finally take his hand and let him help her up.
"Okay, Tur-eh-SAH," he repeated the name back to her exactly as she had pronounced it. "I'm Mihael."