Do you remember when we first met? Do you remember that I was just five years old when my parents died and Mr. Wammy let me into the orphanage after I'd stumbled across it? Do you remember that you were the first person besides my parents to ever hear me speak? Do you remember that you were the only person that cared about me for the longest while? Do you?
My parents had just died, right in front of me, no less, and I did the first thing I could think of; I ran. I ran and ran and ran, until I somehow found myself on the front steps of Wammy's House for Extraordinary Children, cold, tired, hurt, and in need of a little sympathy. Just my luck, I had enough strength to knock on the door, but I blacked out before I could get a good look at who had answered.
It was you, Mello.
You were the one that saved me, you were the one that scooped me up and bolted to Roger's office, you were the one that demanded he let me stay, and you were the one that offered to give up having a room of his own for little old me. You didn't even know who I was, nor did I have the slightest idea who you were, but regardless of the fact you still did so much for me. You were the first person I saw when I woke up, and I'll remember the bright look on your face forever.
Two months after Roger let me stay, partially because you threatened him and partially because my scores were high enough, I was nothing but the geeky mute kid that sat at the back of the class and avoided contact with everybody. I got bullied and beat up and I know that you knew it, but I wouldn't tell you. It wasn't your problem, it was mine. It wasn't until you were walking down the hallway at the exact moment some of the older kids decided to beat on me that it became your problem, too. You stood up for me, and you fought for me, and I'm still thankful. When you helped me back to our room, I said quietly, almost inaudibly, "Thank you." I also told you I loved you, though you just brushed it off as friendly, five-year-old love.
By the time we were ten, I was starting to come out of my shell a little more, and that was also the year that everything turned sour for our quickly accelerating friendship.
Because of Near.
You were always the smartest, the coolest, and the most popular kid at Wammy's. Always number one, always, always, always. Until Near came along and evicted you from your well-deserved position at the top of the orphanage.
Right away, you didn't like him.
Neither did I.
For four years, you tried your damnedest to beat him, to finally become number one again, but it never happened. I kept telling you, over and over again, that you were always number one to me. You still are, but no matter how many times I told you that you were still the best to me and that I loved you, you continued trying to beat Near.
Then, in October of 2007, I left Wammy's.
I couldn't take it anymore; I couldn't take you obsessing over beating Near while I just sat on the sidelines, forever ignored. I told you this as I packed up my things, not even bothering to look at you while you screeched at me and called me an idiot. You couldn't stop me, and nothing you could've said would've changed my mind. After I'd zipped up my duffel bag, I turned around, grabbed you by the front of your shirt, and did what I'd wanted to do for three years.
I kissed you.
I tried with all my might to put every bit of love in my body, directed at you, into that one kiss. You didn't respond, but I didn't expect you to. You just stood there and let me kiss you, just stood there as I told you I loved you, just stood there as I gathered my bag and walked out the door.
You didn't bother coming after me as I walked out the front gates of Wammy's, never looking back.
Do you remember how many times in total I've told you I loved you? I do; it's 1,356. I counted.
And every single one of them wasn't returned.
I don't quite know how, but in December of the same year you found me in Los Angeles, doing hacks for money and stealing cigarettes. You told me that L was dead and that Near was going to be the new L, and I let you back into my life in hopes that you'd finally stop with trying to best him and go back to being my friend. But no, you still had to beat him, still had to find Kira first, like it was all a game to you. You never once cared about how I felt, and you blatantly ignored me and stormed out the front door of my apartment after I tried to tell you not to join the Mafia.
You did it anyway, and you even had the audacity to drag me into it.
I never wanted to be a part of the Kira case. I just wanted my goddamn best friend back, the one that I loved, the one that I told this to every single day and night, only to have my confessions fall upon deaf ears or be ignored.
This new Mello wore leather, killed people, sold drugs, and a whole bunch of other illegal activities. He wasn't nice, he didn't have friends, and he was a cold, unfeeling bastard. I didn't like this Mello.
I wanted my Mello back. My Mello was an angel, was smart, funny, stood up for his friends, and cared about me. He would make sure that I never got involved in something as dangerous as what the Mafia did, and he certainly wouldn't join them himself.
What the hell happened to my Mello? What happened to the carefree, spunky, lovable blond with a chocolate addiction I knew from my childhood? Do you even know where he went? Do you? Or are you just so fucking far gone nobody can bring you back now? Do you remember the short redheaded kid you gallivanted around with as a kid, or is the only 'Matt' you know the one you boss around constantly? Can you even remember that I'm your friend? Are you even able to speak a single kind word anymore?
I remember that one night years later that I pulled you from the building you selfishly blew up. You killed people, Mello. You killed a lot of people. You're lucky I bugged you against your orders otherwise you'd've died too. I was the one that nursed you back to health while you lay on the couch, unconscious and charred like a burnt steak. I gave up time, energy, and worry on you, and the first thing you did when you woke up was yell at me for bugging you when you specifically told me not to.
You just wouldn't shut up, so I kissed you, just like I did the night I left Wammy's. This time, though, you responded.
You pushed me away, muttering something about sodomy and distractions.
That reaction alone was enough to make the back of my eyes burn with tears I hadn't shed since I was five years old. Since you walked into my life.
You changed me, Mello. You made me into the person I became, every little bit of me. The good, the bad, and the fucked up; that was all because of you. The only reason we're even in this damn Kira mess is because of the shitty decisions you made in your life and your insatiable desire to beat Near. But this is life, Mello, and life isn't just a game, or a race, or a rankings sheet. It's real, and the decisions you made led to the deaths of many, many people.
You fucked it all up, and I'm not going to be a part of it any longer.
If you're reading this not too long after I left it for you, it's January 24, 2013. If it's past midnight, it's now the 25th. Either way, the outcome is the same.
I'm dead by now. I'm in an alley, in the front seat of my car, with a bullet in my brain. I killed myself, and it's your fault. It's your fault I left Wammy's, it's your fault I couldn't stand being around you anymore, and it's your fault that I couldn't handle all of this.
Some things are my fault, too. It's my fault I entered your life, it's my fault I fell in love with you, and it's my fault that I did nothing to try to get my Mello back. It's my fault I never trusted you enough to even tell you my real name, and it's my fault I never gave you a reason to trust me with yours.
I blame Near, too. It's his fault that you stopped paying attention to me, it's his fault you were unable to work with him after L died and instead came looking for me, it's his fault you wanna kidnap Kiyomi Takada, and it's definitely his fault that you're going to die. Because you are, Mello. You're not going to make it out of this alive, no matter what you do, say, or think. It's not going to happen.
You were a damned man from the moment you stepped past the threshold of Wammy's for the last time. Whether or not you pray your heart out, whether or not things go exactly according to plan, you're not immortal; you are going to die. I'd tell you to spare yourself and not go through with it, but I know you. You don't listen to reason, you don't listen to advice, and hell, you don't listen to anybody but yourself.
You think I'm lying about being dead, but I'm not. Before you run off in a mad dash to try to find me alive despite what I've written previously, I'll say what I always have, even though I know you don't feel the same.
I love you, Mello. I always have, and I always will. I love you, I love you, I love you. And I hope my death haunts you for whatever time you have left on this earth.
Will you remember that I love you, even in death and after all the shit you've done?