Matt looked around the dim, gloomy, junked up hell that was his apartment

Matt looked around the dim, gloomy, junked up hell that was his apartment.

The ashtray on the table was over-flowing so much that the table was the ashtray.

But Matt didn't care; he lit up his fourth cigarette in the past hour.

Matt had turned 19 just eight days ago; it had been four and a half years now since he'd seen Mello. If anyone besides himself had walked in, and witnessed the condition of the apartment, and then the state of Matt, they would've turned around, and walked out before it infected them.

Matt took a drag off of his cigarette; he looked worn-out, and world-weary.

Underneath his orange-tinted goggles, his eyes were cold, untrusting, and bloodshot from all the sleepless nights of losing himself in electronic fantasies.

His breath, hair, clothes, and the entire apartment, oozed the scent of cigarettes.

The floor was littered with wires; they ran into various gaming systems and computers.

Matt wasn't living he was merely surviving. His life existed only in this prison; he only left the house to pick up cigarettes, and toilet paper. When his body gave him the choice between eating or dying, he used what money L had left him to have something delivered.

Matt grabbed his laptop, and sat it on his knees; tapping the keys to take it out of stand-by mode, he went to his e-mail inbox. There was a letter from Roger.

Amazing. The old man had found him in only three years.

Matt scowled, and opened the letter; he was already guessing what it said.

As soon as the text appeared, he began to read.

"Matt," it read. "Please come back to Wammy's house; I understand that L's death, and Mello's departure took a heavy toll on you, but you need to come back, and let me help you. You're very depressed Matt, and though it may not seem like it, there is hope. Come back Matt, and please don't do anything-" Matt slammed the laptop shut; rage vibrating through his entire body.

Help?! He didn't need anyone's help! As far as he was concerned, Roger and his 'help' could take a train ride to Hades. Help…what an idiot that old man was.

Matt grabbed the bottle of beer he'd been drinking from; genius could get you anything, and hacking skills had gotten him a fake id. Matt smirked; he loved America, almost ever street had a place to buy cigarettes and booze. As lost as he was though, there was one line that he refused to cross. Drugs. Matt was sick, but the thought of doing drugs made him feel even sicker.

"Mello…" Roger's stupid letter had reawakened the pain.

"What would he think if he saw me now?" Matt thought. "If he could see-" he smirked, but it fell off his face in an instant. "I hate you, Mello." He said in a hard, choked voice. "And I hope I never see you again."

Scowling, Matt put out his cigarette, and finished his drink. Throwing his laptop onto the coffee table, he got up, and stumbled off to his dark room. He collapsed on the bed; it was time to sleep.

Mello walked through the dark streets, pain shooting through his body.

He had to find Matt. He only hoped that his friend hadn't become his enemy.

A/N: I'm going to take a vote: Do you want the story to end here? Or do you want me to continue on? You decide.

Thanks for being so patient ya'll! I've been swamped with schoolwork.

Happy October 1st, lol! -Bre