_-Chapter IV-_
_-Wash Away These Memories-_
_-_-Flashback_-_-
It was so dark. I stepped into the house, wondering why the door was left ajar. The power was cut off. I couldn't see anything. They haven't gone out looking for me, have they? They told me to never wander too far, but I was a restless kid, always running after the pigeons and roaming the backstreets. I didn't notice it had gotten so late.
I stepped into the kitchen cautiously and lit a candle, stuffing the box of matches into my pocket. It was so quiet in the house. It was never this quiet. Holding up the light, I walked around slowly. "Mother?" I called out. "Father?"
There was an odd rusty smell, from memories of scraped knees and of biting my tongue, of nosebleeds. It was the smell of blood. The hair on my arms tingled with apprehension.
I called for my parents louder, more desperately. No answer. Breathing heavily and trying not to choke on the smell, I entered the hall, trying to not bump against anything in the dark.
Suddenly, I tripped on something and fell bodily to the floor. The candle flickered and went out. I fumbled in the dark for the candle and touched something warm and wet on the floor, spread out all around me, coating my hands like oil. Slowly and slightly trembling, I brought my hand up to my face. The smell of blood grew stronger. I resisted the urge to taste it. Instead, I desperately resumed my search of the candle. Then, extremely frightened at this point, I just took the box of matches out and lit one. In that short span of its flame, I saw before me a sight I would forever try hard to forget.
My mother, and my father, sprawled out on the floor, their throats slit open and stabbed multiple times. All around me was stained with blood. There was so much blood.
I let out the scream of my life and dropped the matchstick. It went out immediately. In the darkness, I started bawling my eyes and heart out, a terrified little child in the dark and with the dead. From where I was kneeling in the pool of my parents' blood, I trembled and screamed and screamed and screamed.
When I had screamed my throat raw, I tried lighting another match. My hands were shaking so badly, I couldn't get it to light. I could still smell death all around me; this had to be a nightmare. The worst nightmare of my life. When the match was finally lit, I gazed upon the horrible sight on the floor with tear-blurred eyes. I felt another stab of immense grief and pain. Suddenly, something left intact at the back of my shattered young mind made a decision.
I stood up suddenly and threw the flaming match stick at the sofa. It fell softly and ignited the fabric around it. In moments, the sofa was burning brightly enough to light up the room dimly. I stood, strangely quiet, breathing hard, staring, my tear-stained face hardened. The place was practically stripped bare of everything but the few unmovable furniture we had. The windows were smashed; we were robbed clean. I lit another match and threw it beside the first. The fire was blazing now. I could feel the heat against my skin. I lit another match and threw it across the room, and then another and another until the entire room was ablaze.
I didn't even look back at the bodies on the floor as I ran out the door, didn't look back at the house on fire. I ran hard through the town, the memory of what transpired already evaporating from my mind. The pain was furiously pounding in my head, throughout my system with my blood running through my body. But even at a young age, my willpower was already strongly developed. I pushed it all back into my unconscious, exiling them into the shadowy corners of my mind. I kept running till I reached the lake I frequented during the day, and I jumped in. The cold water washed every trace of blood and memory from my body.
Fifteen minutes later, I walked shivering through the streets of Winchester at midnight, a nameless, shattered, orphan child. I walked up to the nearest house, huddled under the shade at the top of its porch steps, and cried…
I screamed and opened my eyes, seeing nothing but blinding white light. My body arched up in sheer pain.
"Whoa!" a voice said, and I felt myself being restrained. "Easy there, Mello. They're still out there looking for you. Do you want them to find you? Crissakes."
I writhed where I lay on the ground, the white light dimming away. Before the darkness came and took over my sight, I saw his face, older and yet unchanged, looming over me. Matt looked dead-worried, but he spoke with forced calm and humor: "Tried to kill yourself again? Don't worry. Doormat's here for ya."
Doormat. Matt's Wammy nickname. Always being pushed around. Submissive, dead loyal Doormat.
"Mello?" he said again, the worry coming through his façade; the smell of cigarettes riding his breath assaulted my tortured senses.
"Mihael," I automatically corrected, drifting into nothingness. "My name's…Mihael."
_-_-The End!-_-_
A/N: Ah, finally, the end. Did you understand any of that? It's pretty weird, I know, and there're probably more holes in this plot than a slice of perforated Swiss cheese, but it was fun to write. And tiring. Five hours straight, man; Five-hours-straight! Hope you enjoyed it anyway :