I have never been particularly fond of writing letters, nor am I what some would refer to as eloquent. However, here in this letter, I will make my best attempt to correctly convey my feelings towards you at the moment. I wish to say-
Screw it. I thought if I kept it formal, I could keep my feelings at a distance. But what's the point? Especially now. No more formalities, Mello. I'm going to honest with you. Honesty, a concept that I'm sure means very little to you.
I hate you Mello. I really do. You know what people say, that hate is a strong emotion, and blah blah blah. But hate is the perfect way to describe what I feel for you. It isn't indifference, or animosity, or lust, or fear, and it sure as hell isn't love. It's hate, plain and simple.
Another thing I've heard repeated often enough in my lifetime is to hate the action, not the person. But I believe that it is what we do that defines who we are. You can't separate a person from their actions. You can't do horrible things but still claim to be a good person underneath it all. If you were truly a good person, you wouldn't lose yourself in the compulsion to do those things in the first place. Now I know that no one's perfect. Everyone, at some point or another, feels the desire to hurt others. But most people don't act on those desires. That's what makes them decent human beings. You, though, you're all action.
So yes, hate is what I feel when I think of you, and what you've done. How many people you've killed. Do you even remember? I doubt you ever even stop to think about the lives you've ruined. The families you've left broken.
I do. I think about it all the time. You see, while you most likely have no clue how many people you've ruthlessly gunned down in cold blood, I know them all. I know their names, their faces, their families. I know where they grew up and their favorite hobbies and what kind of music they liked to listen to. I know because I make it my business to know. To make sure they are remembered, if not by the man that killed them, then at least by the man that stood by and let it happen.
Because as much as I hate to admit it, I was there. Mello, you have never committed a murder that I was not present to witness. I was always there, in the back, averting my eyes, pretending I didn't see it, or that this time, maybe, they deserved to be killed. But they never did. No matter what you or people like Kira say, no one truly deserves to have their life taken away by someone else's hand.
I suppose I am as much to blame as you. Perhaps even more so. Even though you were the one who actually took lives, you never considered it wrong. You never feel pain for your actions. If anything, you are painless. In that twisted world you made for yourself, you were just doing what had to be done. Which makes it all the more sickening for me to think about, because then I realize how little you care. God, you don't feel even a twinge of regret, do you? I, on the other hand, feel it all. My own regret and what should be yours. I bear that as well. Because I knew what you were doing was wrong. But I let it happen anyway.
I still remember the first person you ever killed. I doubt you've thought about it once since it happened. I'm sure it barely even registered to you. Even at the age of fifteen your morals were practically nonexistent.
Since you most likely have no clue who I'm talking about, I'll refresh your memory. He was young, much younger than us. Only five. His parents hadn't been dead more than a month, and Wammy's was still a new and terrifying place to him. He didn't know his way around, or which teachers were lenient, or which bathroom was always flooded, or how to sneak out the window with the broken lock. But most importantly, he didn't know to stay away from you.
And the worst part was, he didn't do anything even remotely wrong. He simply stepped across your path when you were in a particularly bad mood. (The newest rankings were out, and Near had beaten you yet again.) I remember, you beat him bloody, yet the whole time he was screaming and crying out in pain all I could focus on was the glint in your eye. I had never seen it before. How could I know that it was your killing glint, and that I would have to bear witness to it every time you pulled a gun on another unsuspecting victim?
Roger came by eventually, attracted by the noise. I heard him in the hallway, and I warned you to shut the kid up, or he'd find us. I hate that I helped you that. You told him to be quiet but he wouldn't, and hitting him only made him yell louder. So finally, you just knelt on him, pressed a knee into his sternum to shut him up. At the time, I lied to myself. I told myself that you didn't know, couldn't possibly have known that you were putting too much weight on his chest. That you didn't realize until it was too late that his tiny, five-year-old sternum would crack under the pressure of your body weight and that his ribs would fold like toothpicks and that he would suffocate. And worst of all, I convinced myself that you were sorry.
So you see Mello, you and I, we have to make amends. We have to pay for what we've done. Although I think you may have already done that. You see, I sat down ten minutes ago to write this letter to you. Right after you called, I found a pen and paper and scribbled down these words. Ten minutes. Hopefully, I still have time to get there before the flames find you. You said they weren't that close yet, but I could hear it in your voice, how scared you were of burning.
You see, Mello, I'm writing this letter even though I know you'll never read it. I'm going to go to your hideout, the one you blew up not even fifteen minutes ago, and I'll find you amid the rubble. You called asking for my help. Asking, just like you asked me to stand by and watch those people die by your hand. I intend to stand by and drop this letter just out of reach, so that hopefully when the flames reach you, they burn it as well. My words will burn with you.
And I hope to God that you are still conscious when I get there. As sick as it is, I want to see the fear in your eyes when you realize that I am not going to help you. Not this time.
I am not like you Mello. I will not kill.
But I will do what you've trained me to do. I will turn the other way and let someone die.
After all, why does it matter if your blood is on my hands, if they're already soaked?
Reviews? I'm working on my first person writing, and would love some feedback. =]
A few house-keeping issues:
1)This is part 3 of the Mae series
2)New multi-chap fic called Can't Be Saved on my profile. Go give it love.
3)Go read anythign by Lucidique. She is amazing.
4)Beta-ed by Emo-Nerdy-Insane-Writer.