InsaneJournal

Mello woke and resisted the urge to groan. He didn’t want to wake and see his impressively furnished holding cell. He didn’t want to see the inside of his insidiously pink queen-sized four-poster, he didn’t want to get up and look around a nine-year-old girl’s dream bedroom, he didn’t want to greet another sixteen hours of hell on earth, but he had to. He had to, because if he didn’t put up with the psychological torture, he’d have to put up with the physical sort, and if that left scars then he wouldn’t be allowed to have even the limited social interaction he was now allowed, and he was already fucking nuts with this lady’s games.

So Mello sat up, and didn’t groan, because there were cameras and microphones in the room, he knew from experience, and he swung his legs over the side of the bed, because if he didn’t wake up now, he knew he was going to be punished—tortured, he bit out in his mind, holding his head in his hands. When asked, he would plead hung over, which he was—drunk and the resulting hang over were readily available means to keep his insanely powerful mind out of commission, further locking him into his cage. All it took anymore was a pointed look from his captor, and a slight downturn of a corner of Her mouth, and he would drink as much he could while still being ‘polite’, because that look promised pain.

Mello finally stood and didn’t even blink when he found himself naked. He was forced in that mocking way to drink until he lost his memory, and he very well might have done something else to eventually pass out after that, and each morning, the clothes of the night before were gone. There was never an unaccounted for ache or bruise, so, Mello had to assume that all that happened was that he passed out, but as he had no memory, he’d never know.

He stumbled to the armoire that was a straight shot from his bed. He wanted so to sleep, to forget this place, to munch on chocolate until he couldn’t even hear the sound of his own heartbeat, but that would incur Mistress’ wrath—NO! Mello physically stopped as he rebuilt his mental roadblock. Not Mistress, not Master, not God or Goddess—This woman kidnapped me. What she’s doing isn’t right; it goes against every moral or legal code there is. I am the one wronged here, not her. She’s the devil, she’s the snake in the Garden of Eden, she’s Lucifer, she’s Delilah, she’s evil! It isn’t punishment, it’s torture—and I need to get that through my thick skull. Mello grabbed his head again, anything to help himself make his point, but it was useless: he was losing the battle. Because of the strict daily schedule, Mello had quickly lost track of time. He wasn’t entirely sure if he’d been here months or years. It wouldn’t be long before he allowed himself to call the woman in his head what she forced him to call her aloud, and then it was all over.

He pulled open the mirrored doors: as always, there was only one outfit, one garment inside. All he had time to register was pink before the door to the room was opened and then locked from the outside, and he knew it was one of Those Days—the days Go—Lucifer came in to play with her Doll early. It was time to play Dress Up.

“Good morning, Mello dear,” in this room like this was the only time he was called Mello—he seemed to have a different name to every person he met, depending on something Mas—the Devil called ‘breeding’. At one point, he realized it was to keep him associating himself with his previous life, as an added form of torture, but now he couldn’t think of anything of the sort. All he cared about was avoiding the physical pain. I’ll probably be branded again if I misbehave today, he thought morosely. The pain from that is starting to go away. It would be his third branding.

His thoughts and the brain-numbing pain of his headache had distracted him. “Mello.” He could tell without looking that she was starting to pout.

“Good morning, Mistress,” he chimed with false enthusiasm, straightening his posture subconsciously. Anything less would mean pain. He added Delilah to the end of the statement in his mind, and liked how that sounded. Mistress Delilah, then. It always felt good to name one’s enemies.

Delilah was standing next to Mello, stooping so that she could rest her head against his. “I’m so glad you’re awake, my darling. Do you approve of the outfit I picked for you today?”

She asked this, but there was only one answer for Mello to give. “Of course, Mistress. Mistress has the best taste in clothes.” Delilah looked to Mello, and Mello stared back with half lidded eyes despite the fact that his voice was raised an octave from its normal pitch, no longer caring that the expression was what Delilah wanted from him. Mello had always been on the higher end of tenor when it came down to his voice; this was getting into singing territory for him.

“Then let’s get dressed, shall we?” Her voice sent chills down his spine. He knew better than to make any movements unless specifically told to. The pink he had seen was actually a halter-top, knotted securely at the base of his neck, and it was coupled with a denim skirt on the short end of seven inches, that also had some pink details. Delilah loved putting him in pink. A familiar choker, the red fabric barely thick enough to hide his Adam’s apple, and he was looking at himself in the mirror. He couldn’t even look into his own eyes: the lackluster, apathetic look he saw in them made him turn to the mirrored gaze belonging to the snake. She was smiling prettily—at least, it would have been pretty to anybody but him. She was a beautiful woman, to anyone but him. She was smiling prettily at his reflection. “Don’t you just look adorable?” from anybody else, this would be a rhetorical question. Mistress Delilah didn’t ask rhetorical questions.

Silence, a pout. Pain, blood streaming down his face. “Always answer when I speak to you Mello. You won’t like the consequences.”

Mello smiled falsely, eyes glimmering as he held back tears he would have never thought could have existed. “Oh yes. Mistress knows just how to—” Mello almost stopped. He really did. “Make the ugly wretch she took in look presentable, even for something as simple as breakfast.” Mello had never cried, not once, but he was seriously considering taking it up.

Delilah smiled. “I know.” Her eyes glittered in joy as she soaked up the false complement. Shoes—also pink—and three knocks on the door, Mello following just a hair to the side and behind her. “Come now, let’s to breakfast. We mustn’t leave poor sir Arthur waiting. He’s your knight in shining armor, remember, Mello dear? He’s the king to your Camelot, isn’t that right?”

“Knight Arthur,” Mello parroted obediently, barely loud enough to be heard.

“Madam?” The guard behind the locked door asked.

“It is me,” She responded. If Mello could think, he might have memorized her voice for later when he tried to escape, but his head was pounding much too hard to be capable.

Delilah looked between Mello and the taller blond boy just outside the door, this one wearing a suit. “Melissa,” she had such a creative taste in names. “You’re being rude.”

Mello panicked, not showing a lick of it, of course, and turned to the older male. He curtsied slightly, although he never wore a skirt quite long enough for it. “Sir Arthur, good morning. Let’s to breakfast.”

“Miss Melissa,” Arthur bowed slightly; Mello could never see even any vague signs of the she-devil’s punishments, so he had to assume this was a boy of the ‘good breeding’ Delilah was so fond of. Arthur gave Mello his elbow, and Mello took it like he was supposed to. Then came the long, silent trek down the hall.

Struggling, pulling against the pressure on his wrists. “Let go! This is illegal—don’t you get that?” The flick of a match. Soon, white hot pain against his midsection. “Be quiet in the hallways, my pet. This is an office building. You don’t want to interrupt anyone’s work—you didn’t know today, so I’m letting you off easy. Don’t continue to misbehave.” Cold apathy, twisting unpleasantly in his stomach. He’d never call Near an unfeeling bastard again.

Finally, they arrived at the big boardroom they always had breakfast in. The first time he’d actually seen it, about a week and a half after their first try of the hallway, he’d been awestruck. Until then, he hadn’t realized how high they were, how the building towered over its surroundings. Now he didn’t even glance out the window, allowing one of Delilah’s servants brush his hair as he sat, his legs crossed at the ankle self-consciously, hands in his lap. Arthur sat directly across from him, of course, with Delilah directly on his right at the head of the table.

The conversation was orchestrated, as always. Subtle hints and glances from Delilah told Mello exactly what she expected him to say, ask, do. Titter a little bit, Mello. That was a joke, this glance seemed to say. You haven’t asked him where goes to school yet, silly.

Mello’s hair was tied back with a bejeweled hair clip at Madam’s approval, and now Mello could eat.

Mello couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a meal. He looked at the—soup, was it?—ravenously and, as the brush ran through his hair almost comfortingly, his hand alighted on a spoon. A crash, a painful pulling on his hair, but that was Delilah’s hand, not the stylist’s. “Wait, my pet. Good things come to those who wait, and bad things come to those who do not.”

Breakfast seemed to pass all too quickly, and Mello didn’t really register if he actually consumed anything or not—he assumed he did, though, because other thoughts were particularly nasty.

They were back in his room, his personal torture chamber, and Delilah said something like “I’ll be out in an hour, no earlier,” and the door was locked behind them. “Come now, my dear, dear Mello, it’s bath time,” as always.

“What the hell? Like I’m going to take a bath with you!” First morning after they tricked him. Still wearing his regular clothes. A snap, pain, his arm at a funny angle. “Come now, Mel-chan,” no change in her voice. No emotion. “Look what you’ve done to your arm. I’m sure a soak in the tub will help it feel better.” Realization: he’s in deep shit now.

“Yes, Mistress,” Mello followed obediently to the overlarge bathroom. He stood still as the clothes he wore were thrown to the floor, lazily. Somebody else would clean it up. His shirt, his shoes, the skirt, those pesky undergarments, all thrown to the ground. He walked forward, looking down slightly, just to the edge of the already-full tub. It was huge, easily ten feet in diameter, and was the perfect size for this bathroom. Mistress—Delilah, fully undressed, pressed her front against Mello’s back. At eleven, perhaps twelve by now, Mello was no impressive height, and Delilah was easily two heads taller. She had to stoop mightily low to press her chest against Mello’s back, but the only thing he could think was cold.

She pressed him gently forward until they were in the water, almost simultaneously. She made herself comfortable in the water and he leaned his head against, not quite on top of, his shoulder, as always.

If it were anyone but him, her voice would have been entirely soft, comforting intonations that pleased the ears and calmed the soul. To him, the random musings sounded as the screeching of a howler monkey.

Mello didn’t pay attention to what she said, he already knew the gist: her plans for the day, his behavior of late (“could stand some adjustment”), random nothings designed to comfort and encourage. If the situation was even slightly different, or lasted much longer, he would enjoy the meaningless conversation. The thought would have frightened him had he been able to think it.

Eventually he was encouraged to the other side of the immense pool of water, against the wall where the various soaps were kept. He was washed, for a doll couldn’t wash itself, roughly, the washrag a ball of terrycloth that cut against his scars and skin with calculated indifference. Still he sat, not moving a muscle as he bled from a few of the newer wounds and had his head thrashed around under the pretense of shampoo.

It smelled like cherries. Not black cherries, which he could actually stand the presence of, either; his hair now smelled of maraschino cherries, like the kind that Matt would beg off of every table whenever Wammy House had sundaes.

Sorry squealed. She, like every other orphan at Wammy’s House, had her nose pressed to the window, standing on top of her friends as others stood on top of her, trying to see.

L had come to Wammy’s.

Sorry gave no thought to the fact that the second successor had been missing for over nine months, that Matt had taken total control of the blonde’s former role as the Scourge of Wammy’s, that even Near’s grades had been suffering since the boy’s disappearance until the teachers had been wrangled into the search, effectively canceling all classes. Sorry gave no thought to any of these facts.

There was a reason Sorry was ranked in the lowest twentieth of the school, and it wasn’t her age.

L stepped out of the dark car, with his head down. He was here on a mission.