Here it is- The very last chapter of The Wammy's House Boys. It will be continued in The Wammy's House Boys Part II- God's Lost Lambs. Thank you to all who read and reviewed, and please read part two :D
Oh, why you look so sad? The tears are in your eyes
Come on and come to me now
But don't, be ashamed to cry, let me see you through
'Cause I've been in the dark side too
When the night falls on you, and you don't know what to do
Nothing you confess, could make me love you less
1-ll stand by you, I'll stand by you
Won't let nobody hurt you, I'll stand by you
So, if you're mad, get mad, don't hold it all inside
Come on and talk to me now
Hey, what you got to hide? I get angry too
Well, I'm a lot like you
When you're standing
At the crossroads, but don't know, which path to choose
Let me come along, 'cause even if you're wrong
Take me in to, your darkest hour
And I'll never desert you, I'll stand by you
And when, when the night falls on you, baby
You're feeling all alone, you won't be on your own
The Pretenders- Stand by You
Anger consumed my every waking thought. It wasn't even merely an 'I'm so pissed off, I could scream' kind of anger. It was the kind that made you want to rip somebody's fucking eyes out, make them scream and make them suffer. Not anybody in particular- anyone would do to satisfy this burning, all-consuming hatred.
I'd felt anger before. I'd been furious, I'd thrown temper tantrums- I'm sure Roger was already sick of me and my violent outbursts. But it had never been like this- this was a monster eating away at my hear. Destroying everything I once was, until only anger remained.
Matt had watched my progression from sadness to rage, watching me from his bed with a worried expression, paying no attention to his game, afraid to interfere and turn my anger against him.
(The world of children was rough. Children always feel things in purer forms than adults, and the feelings linger…for so much longer.)
I trembled with fury, hot angry tears pouring down my face. I dug my nails into my arms, staring angrily at my blanket as I sat there in my anger. (Passively burning. My own personal Hell.)
My gaze shot up and locked on his. Matt pulled back nervously.
"…Why do you think they did it?" he asked. "…Attack L, I mean."
My eyes trailed back down to the gap between my crossed legs.
"…I don't know," I admitted. "It just makes me so mad…"
Matt put his hands over mine, giving me a small smile as a peace offering. I tensed up at the contact, but made no effort to push him away. I simply stared as our fingers tangled together.
Matt's hands were so rough, so calloused, despite being so young. I looked at the hundreds of tiny scars that covered the small surface, the ragged edges of his chewed-off fingernails, a testament to a lifetime of neglect and fear.
(Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Reactive Attachment Disorder. Histrionic Personality Disorder. So many complicated terms for what we really were- scared, frightened, lonely.)
Then, I saw that huge, raw, ugly scar. The knife wound. The worst of them all. It was a miracle he could still use his hand at all, really, with how badly it had been mangled.
I glanced down at the bandages, soaked with blood that Matt had wrapped tightly around his hands.
"Hey," I said, my tongue stumbling clumsily over an unfamiliar language. "What's…that over…your hand?"
Matt looked down before looking away, shame turning his face red.
(Matt was so shy back then…)
"Whoever did that to L," Matt said, "Is gonna pay for it. You just wait and see. L's gonna be fine…he'll be fine, alright?
I could tell that Matt didn't quite believe his own words.
Mello's hands were so soft.
We held hands all the time (Or, at least we did, before that…incident that left Mello unwilling to touch anyone.) But never before had I noticed just how soft his hands really were. So smooth, like a baby's skin. It was painfully obvious that he'd never been digging through the garbage before, or been shoved onto the sidewalk one too many times.
(I almost envied him. Then, I remembered just what he had gone through, and I felt that my life paled in comparison. At the very least, I had that one shard of my shattered innocence left.)
We stayed silent for a long time, our fingers tangled together. My hand rough and calloused, his hand smooth and perfect... My hand scarred, his hand flawless. My hand, rough and ugly; his - long fingered and delicate.
Our hands were so different, and yet our fingers fit together perfectly.
There are no faces on any of the pictures. Not a single one.
The floorboards creak under my feet as I travel down the hallways, to that door I saw the last time. Without fail, every single picture had the faces cut out. It was uncanny. Unnatural.
I reached for the door, turned the knob, and-
I always wondered why I woke with a jolt whenever I had that particular dream. Why I was covered in sweat and crying.
I got out of bed and was immediately hit by a wave of vertigo.
(Tip, sway, I'll be sick…)
I stumbled down the hallway and to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. The moment I got there, though, I found myself on the ground, retching and moaning, my hands pressed against the cold tile.
(Sick with worry. Sick with fear. One or the other…
I felt a hand on my back. I jolted and jerked my head around, but it was only Watari.
"You aren't feeling well?"
I shook my head, not opening my mouth or saying a word.
Watari helped me up and lead me back to my room, conveniently ignoring the acrid mess I left on the floor.
"It's alright. I'm not feeling too well, either."
The warmth of my bed and blankets lulled me into a state of warm sleepiness, wrapping me in security.
"You're running a fever," Watari said matter-of-factly, his rough, aged hand resting on my forehead. "I'll have you excused from classes tomorrow."
The simple gestures…the reassuring words…
This time, when sleep washed over me, pulling me under its inky depths, I dreamt of sunny fields, starry skies…and L's peaceful smile.