In your world no one is dying alone. [inner monologue]
-Mello is dying.
He knows this, even through the hazy, feverish half-consciousness of attempted sleep. Something about the way he feels, like his body is melting from the inside, tells him with absolute certainty that he is, in fact, dying, and there is no possible way to stop it from happening.
He's terrified.
Mello decides to give up on sleeping, for now. He slowly blinks his eyes open, rubbing away the crusted goo from his eyelashes with the back of his hand. He doesn't have to look to know it's a sickly shade of green - everything is green, lately. Everything he's coughed up, thrown up, leaked out of his body - all unnaturally green. His room is dark, and still. L is gone. Light left before. Mello is alone, and for the first time in a very long time, he is sharply aware of just how alone he is, and the knowledge pierces his decaying brain and heart with a bubbling mixture of overwhelming emotions - sorrow, anger, fear. Guilt.
What was it Light had said to him on the way out the door? "I love you"? That couldn't be right - surely Mello had heard wrong, or imagined it entirely. They hated each other, always had - Mello didn't understand why Light would say something like that. He didn't understand why anyone would say something like that to him. Nobody had in twelve years.
His father. The last person Mello had heard those words from had been his father. His mother had never been terribly affectionate in the first place, but she'd shut Mello out entirely after his father died, and Mello hadn’t understood why until one night years later, when she'd accidentally slurred a drunken, offhand confession: Can’t stand the sight o’ya, Mihael. Y’look too much like ‘im. His father, of course, that’s who she meant. The words rang hot in his ears then, and they hurt just as much now, years later, when Mello was too weak to fight off the memories he’d worked so hard to forget for so long.
Mello shifts onto his side, finding a spot on the pillow that isn’t yet soaked through with green ooze. He curls a little, involuntarily; the pain in his stomach, his chest, his everywhere, it hurts so much, but a little less like this. He misses his father terribly, Mello realizes, rather suddenly. He’d always tried not to - tried to forget about him, because forgetting what he’d lost didn’t hurt nearly as much as remembering. He wishes he hadn’t now. He wishes he’d gone to visit the cemetery where his father was buried at least once in the last six years, since he’d been old enough that his mother and Roger could no longer force him. At least once before he’d left town and run away to Los Angeles.
Mello wishes, suddenly, that he hadn’t stopped believing in God, even though he knows now he never truly did. He’d spent the last ten years telling everyone, including himself, that he was an atheist, that God wasn’t real, but Mello was able to admit now, to his dying self, that it was partly to spite Roger and partly because he was angry at God for taking his father away and putting Roger in his place. And he wishes he hadn’t, because he’s dying now, and he’s so incredibly fucking scared.
Mello rolls the beads of the rosary still clutched in his fist lightly between his fingers and thumb. The familiar, smooth surface of the black and silver metal beads is occasionally marred by the crusted sensation of the dried blood - green, no doubt - from the wound in the palm of his hand where the metal had pressed in too hard and broken the skin earlier, and Mello rubs the flakes of blood away, idly. The rosary had been a confirmation gift from his parents; the last time he’d held it this tightly in his hand was at his father’s funeral. Perhaps that was why he’d held onto it through the years of avowed atheism.
He’d prayed so long and hard, then, at his father’s funeral, and in the days after. He’d prayed for a miracle, for his father to return to him, for God or the saints or anyone to intercede and put things right again, and Mello knew it was selfish but he couldn’t help feeling and thinking and hoping and praying the way he did. Just one more thing he’d done wrong in his long fuckup of a life, Mello reflected, bitterly. He’d done everything wrong; he could see that now. He knew all along he’d been doing everything wrong, to some extent, and he’d told himself and occasionally other people that he didn’t care, being an irredeemable asshole was a lifestyle choice, so just fuck off already - but what Mello realizes now that he was dying is that he did care. He did; he truly did. Only now, when it was too late to do anything about it.
Something catches in the back of Mello’s throat, and it launches him into a violent fit of coughing that lasts for several minutes. Every muscle in his body aches from the tension of coughing and pain. Mello wonders how much longer this is going to last, how many more hours he’ll spend suffering like this before he’s finally finished.
What he’d told Light was true, Mello realizes - he hadn’t even tried to be a decent person. It was easier to give up. He had given up on God, and everyone and everything else. And for that, he was damned. Mello knew it. Light didn’t understand; L didn’t either, but Mello knew, somehow, with every fiber of his being, that this was his fate. He hadn’t had the time to think about all of this when he’d died in the horror film room, blind and torn to pieces by zombies, and it hadn’t even been real then, but now, dying this time, slowly, it was all Mello could think about. That, and remembering every awful thing he’d done in his pathetic excuse of a life in vivid detail - every horrible, hurtful thing he’d said, every cheap shot and every fight he’d picked, every careless thing he’d done. Somewhere, underneath the pain of his liquifying internal organs, Mello feels the sick, sudden, sinking weight of unbearable guilt deep down in his gut. And, for the second time in twelve years - for the second time since arriving at the mansion - Mello’s resolve suddenly cracks, and he sobs, brokenly, into his pillow, the green ooze from his eyes pooling into the fabric of the pillowcase.
It’s over fairly quickly. Mello turns back onto his side, sniffling and softly gasping. He’s lost, and he’s utterly alone, and he knows it. Mello gently unwinds the strands of the rosary from around his hand, shakily grasping the crucifix with the fingertips of his other hand. Maybe if he tries again, harder this time, he’ll remember how to pray. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep, ragged breath. How does it start? He knows this. He knows he knows this. So many years, but it’s still there, somewhere, in the back of his head. A sign of the cross. Mello makes the movements with one hand while holding the sharp metal points of the crucifix in the other. What are the first words? He murmurs aloud, barely a whisper:-
I believe in God ... the Father almighty ... creator of heaven and earth.
-Mello does believe. He does.-
I believe ... in Jesus Christ ... his only Son ... our Lord.
-What was the rest of it? Suffering. Died, buried, hell. Rose again. Judge the living and the dead. Mello only remembers pieces. Maybe it’s best to skip ahead and concentrate on the parts he remembers.-
I believe ... in the Holy Spirit ...
-He can’t remember what comes next, except “Amen.” Mello’s fingers slide up the chain to the first metal bead. Our Father, next. L had said it, earlier. Mello struggles to remember.-
Our Father, who art in heaven,
Hallowed be thy Name.
Thy kingdom come.
Thy will be done,
On earth as it is in heaven.
Give us ...
-He pauses. What comes next?-
Give us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our trespasses,
As we forgive those who trespass against us.
And lead us not into temptation,
But deliver us from evil.
For thine is the kingdom,
and the power, and the glory,
for ever and ever.
Amen.
-Mello takes another long, painful, shaking breath and collects his thoughts, inching his fingers again up the chain to the next bead.-
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.
-He coughs, weakly.-
Holy Mary, Mother of God ... pray for us sinners ...
-No, that’s not right. There’s more to it, in between the first part and the last, but Mello can’t remember what, exactly. He used to know this. Why can’t he remember it now?-
... now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
-Mello keeps trying. It’s all he can do, now.-
He knows this, even through the hazy, feverish half-consciousness of attempted sleep. Something about the way he feels, like his body is melting from the inside, tells him with absolute certainty that he is, in fact, dying, and there is no possible way to stop it from happening.
He's terrified.
Mello decides to give up on sleeping, for now. He slowly blinks his eyes open, rubbing away the crusted goo from his eyelashes with the back of his hand. He doesn't have to look to know it's a sickly shade of green - everything is green, lately. Everything he's coughed up, thrown up, leaked out of his body - all unnaturally green. His room is dark, and still. L is gone. Light left before. Mello is alone, and for the first time in a very long time, he is sharply aware of just how alone he is, and the knowledge pierces his decaying brain and heart with a bubbling mixture of overwhelming emotions - sorrow, anger, fear. Guilt.
What was it Light had said to him on the way out the door? "I love you"? That couldn't be right - surely Mello had heard wrong, or imagined it entirely. They hated each other, always had - Mello didn't understand why Light would say something like that. He didn't understand why anyone would say something like that to him. Nobody had in twelve years.
His father. The last person Mello had heard those words from had been his father. His mother had never been terribly affectionate in the first place, but she'd shut Mello out entirely after his father died, and Mello hadn’t understood why until one night years later, when she'd accidentally slurred a drunken, offhand confession: Can’t stand the sight o’ya, Mihael. Y’look too much like ‘im. His father, of course, that’s who she meant. The words rang hot in his ears then, and they hurt just as much now, years later, when Mello was too weak to fight off the memories he’d worked so hard to forget for so long.
Mello shifts onto his side, finding a spot on the pillow that isn’t yet soaked through with green ooze. He curls a little, involuntarily; the pain in his stomach, his chest, his everywhere, it hurts so much, but a little less like this. He misses his father terribly, Mello realizes, rather suddenly. He’d always tried not to - tried to forget about him, because forgetting what he’d lost didn’t hurt nearly as much as remembering. He wishes he hadn’t now. He wishes he’d gone to visit the cemetery where his father was buried at least once in the last six years, since he’d been old enough that his mother and Roger could no longer force him. At least once before he’d left town and run away to Los Angeles.
Mello wishes, suddenly, that he hadn’t stopped believing in God, even though he knows now he never truly did. He’d spent the last ten years telling everyone, including himself, that he was an atheist, that God wasn’t real, but Mello was able to admit now, to his dying self, that it was partly to spite Roger and partly because he was angry at God for taking his father away and putting Roger in his place. And he wishes he hadn’t, because he’s dying now, and he’s so incredibly fucking scared.
Mello rolls the beads of the rosary still clutched in his fist lightly between his fingers and thumb. The familiar, smooth surface of the black and silver metal beads is occasionally marred by the crusted sensation of the dried blood - green, no doubt - from the wound in the palm of his hand where the metal had pressed in too hard and broken the skin earlier, and Mello rubs the flakes of blood away, idly. The rosary had been a confirmation gift from his parents; the last time he’d held it this tightly in his hand was at his father’s funeral. Perhaps that was why he’d held onto it through the years of avowed atheism.
He’d prayed so long and hard, then, at his father’s funeral, and in the days after. He’d prayed for a miracle, for his father to return to him, for God or the saints or anyone to intercede and put things right again, and Mello knew it was selfish but he couldn’t help feeling and thinking and hoping and praying the way he did. Just one more thing he’d done wrong in his long fuckup of a life, Mello reflected, bitterly. He’d done everything wrong; he could see that now. He knew all along he’d been doing everything wrong, to some extent, and he’d told himself and occasionally other people that he didn’t care, being an irredeemable asshole was a lifestyle choice, so just fuck off already - but what Mello realizes now that he was dying is that he did care. He did; he truly did. Only now, when it was too late to do anything about it.
Something catches in the back of Mello’s throat, and it launches him into a violent fit of coughing that lasts for several minutes. Every muscle in his body aches from the tension of coughing and pain. Mello wonders how much longer this is going to last, how many more hours he’ll spend suffering like this before he’s finally finished.
What he’d told Light was true, Mello realizes - he hadn’t even tried to be a decent person. It was easier to give up. He had given up on God, and everyone and everything else. And for that, he was damned. Mello knew it. Light didn’t understand; L didn’t either, but Mello knew, somehow, with every fiber of his being, that this was his fate. He hadn’t had the time to think about all of this when he’d died in the horror film room, blind and torn to pieces by zombies, and it hadn’t even been real then, but now, dying this time, slowly, it was all Mello could think about. That, and remembering every awful thing he’d done in his pathetic excuse of a life in vivid detail - every horrible, hurtful thing he’d said, every cheap shot and every fight he’d picked, every careless thing he’d done. Somewhere, underneath the pain of his liquifying internal organs, Mello feels the sick, sudden, sinking weight of unbearable guilt deep down in his gut. And, for the second time in twelve years - for the second time since arriving at the mansion - Mello’s resolve suddenly cracks, and he sobs, brokenly, into his pillow, the green ooze from his eyes pooling into the fabric of the pillowcase.
It’s over fairly quickly. Mello turns back onto his side, sniffling and softly gasping. He’s lost, and he’s utterly alone, and he knows it. Mello gently unwinds the strands of the rosary from around his hand, shakily grasping the crucifix with the fingertips of his other hand. Maybe if he tries again, harder this time, he’ll remember how to pray. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep, ragged breath. How does it start? He knows this. He knows he knows this. So many years, but it’s still there, somewhere, in the back of his head. A sign of the cross. Mello makes the movements with one hand while holding the sharp metal points of the crucifix in the other. What are the first words? He murmurs aloud, barely a whisper:-
I believe in God ... the Father almighty ... creator of heaven and earth.
-Mello does believe. He does.-
I believe ... in Jesus Christ ... his only Son ... our Lord.
-What was the rest of it? Suffering. Died, buried, hell. Rose again. Judge the living and the dead. Mello only remembers pieces. Maybe it’s best to skip ahead and concentrate on the parts he remembers.-
I believe ... in the Holy Spirit ...
-He can’t remember what comes next, except “Amen.” Mello’s fingers slide up the chain to the first metal bead. Our Father, next. L had said it, earlier. Mello struggles to remember.-
Our Father, who art in heaven,
Hallowed be thy Name.
Thy kingdom come.
Thy will be done,
On earth as it is in heaven.
Give us ...
-He pauses. What comes next?-
Give us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our trespasses,
As we forgive those who trespass against us.
And lead us not into temptation,
But deliver us from evil.
For thine is the kingdom,
and the power, and the glory,
for ever and ever.
Amen.
-Mello takes another long, painful, shaking breath and collects his thoughts, inching his fingers again up the chain to the next bead.-
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.
-He coughs, weakly.-
Holy Mary, Mother of God ... pray for us sinners ...
-No, that’s not right. There’s more to it, in between the first part and the last, but Mello can’t remember what, exactly. He used to know this. Why can’t he remember it now?-
... now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
-Mello keeps trying. It’s all he can do, now.-