Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.

The Wammy Diaries: Mail Jeevas

Chapter 1: A Rough Start

A/N: From the moment he appeared in Death Note, Matt has been my favorite character, as well as one who didn't get enough time in the series. So, I've composed my own interpretation of what Matt's life was like.

Why I am writing this, I am not sure, but understand that the purpose of my notes are not to entertain, but to preserve my memory of childhood after I have long left this world. Although, like most people, I am unsure as to the exact time I will perish, I feel that I shall cease to exist in the near future. Assuming these premonitions of mine are correct. And that alone, I suppose, is reason enough for me to continue.

Though I highly doubt that anyone will remember me after I die, I am the eagle-eyed prodigy and third runner-up to succeed the world-famous detective known as L. I am Mail Jeevas.

I really don't remember much about my life before I arrived at Wammy's House, but I remember enough to assure you that it wasn't perfect. Since I was abandoned at a young age, I vaguely remember my parents at all. But I suppose that "abandoned" isn't the proper term in this case, as my parents were wonderful people. There's little I know of them, aside from their names and fragments of their faces, but they were snatched away from me far too quickly.

I was about four years old when I found myself alone in the world, and I know I was terrified. At the moment of my parents' untimely deaths, I remember we were walking out of a restaurant somewhere in Los Angeles. A typical family dinner. At least, that's how I imagine it went. A rambunctious little boy, far too excited to eat. A mother, trying to calm her son down. A father, doting upon him, insisting that he get to have a little fun before dinner. It seems like such a perfect scene, so, even if it isn't accurate, that's what I've come to believe.

It was dark out, cars whizzing by as I was led by the hand, struggling to keep my eyes open until we reached the car. My father hadn't even unlocked the doors when a man armed with a pistol began barking at us, commanding that both my parents relinquish their wallets and other valuables to him.

From what little information I've found from people who knew my parents, my father was a calm, level-headed fellow who worked at a local law firm as a well-renowned attorney. My mother, on the other hand, was the most wonderful woman I have ever had the pleasure of knowing, though she managed our home with a firm hand. With her, I got away with very little. I suppose that short time helped make me strong.

That night, I think my father attempted to reason with the man, as did my mother. Unwilling to relinquish his decision, the man continued to restate his demands, drawing nearer to my father with the gun poised before him. I remember tha my mother urged me to hide beneath our car and stay quiet so as to prevent our attacker from seeing and harming me.

Only moments after I had hid myself, I heard the frightening sound of a gunshot. Now, to those of you who have never heard one, I pray you never do. Especially under circumstances such as this. It's... chilling, really. I turned my head, and saw my father lying on the ground staring at me. With his last breath, he reached for me, and it was then I saw the life leave his eyes. Another one sounded, and my mother fell as well. She, too, looked at me with a smile, and quietly said, "I love you, darling. Don't ever forget that."

It was only then that I realized that my loving parents, Drew and Annie Jeevas, had been shot down in cold blood right before my very eyes. Being as young fragile as I was, there was little I could do but lie in wait until the killer fled the scene.

I crawled out from beneath my parents' car just as people began flooding from the restaurant to see what all the noise had been about. I crawled to my mother's side, staring into her still face as a crowd began to form. Before I realized it, I had wrapped my arms around her, only to begin crying my eyes out. I didn't register that there was blood staining my shirt, and I didn't care.

I have no idea how long I sat there with them, begging, pleading, and crying for them to come back to me, but I soon found myself being pulled away by a set of strong, gentle hands. I remember one of the police officers saying, "There's nothing you can do, son. They've moved on."

It was only then that I knew, at four years old, that I was truly alone in the world.

In the short time that followed my parents' murder, I was placed in numerous foster homes, only to be sent back to the orphanage in Los Angeles because I was "too quiet" or "too strange." I must have spent about a year at that horrible institution, being beaten and tossed around by older boys, before I came into contact with the famous inventor, Quilsh Wammy.

I was sitting in my room, staring at my parents' picture when one of the several student volunteers came in and told me I had a visitor. I blatantly ignored her, turning my back so I could face the corner by my bed. She came up behind me, sat down, and held me close.

"Come on, honey," she said. "There's a very kind gentleman who's waiting to meet you."

Reluctantly, I took her hand, their picture in my pocket, and followed her to the meeting room. When she opened the door and led me inside, I immediately spotted the kindly old man dressed in a black suit sitting at the table. The very instant I made eye contact with him, he stood and approached me, kneeling down and offering me his hand.

"Hello, son," he said. "My name is Mr. Wammy. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

I took his hand and shook it as best I could before narrowing my fierce little eyes and demanding, "What do you want with me?"

He smiled gently and reached inside his suit coat to pull out a flyer. "This," he said, pointing to the building on the flyer, "is Wammy's House. It's an orphanage for gifted children all over the globe. And I'd like to offer you a home there, if you're interested."

"Why me?"

I was confused. I couldn't understand why or how I would belong in such a place. Besides, I didn't think that I was all that gifted to begin with, despite what my parents had always told me. But that had been their opinion, not mine. After all, I'd been through hell already, and people had been telling me more and more that I wasn't fit to be in with normal society.

Mr. Wammy smiled again. "My boy, I've heard great things about you. The director of this institution is a very good friend of mine, and he's done nothing but insist that you are the most gifted child he's seen, and that you should be in a place that will benefit your abilities."

After thinking it through as best I could at the age of five, I agreed. I didn't want to be in Los Angeles anymore, anyway. Especially not after I had lost everything I had within that marvelous city. To me it really was a "city of angels." I just kept waiting for my parents, clothed in white, to show up at my window one night. Maybe, I thought, they would take me away.

The following morning, Mr. Wammy arrived and signed a number of papers before taking me by the hand and leading me out to his car. As we drove through the streets, I stared sadly out the window, perplexed that I was actually going to be free from the city that had become a part of my nightmares and fondest dreams.

Finally, I thought. I'm finally free. I never have to come back here again. I pressed my hand against the window. I swear, I'll make you both proud of me. I'll live a life that we can all be proud of...

I love how this came out. I've always wondered what Matt was like as a child and how he came to be the character we know from the series. Now I'm proud that I have my own interpretation of who he was before he died. Of course, as the story progresses, I'm going to try to stay as true to the character from the series. So, if he seems a lot like Mello, or even Near, right now, don't worry. He'll turn out.