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Twisted Religion
By Miyamashi
Miya's Note: Well, to start, this story was originally intended to be one VERY long chapter, but after nearly hitting the 40-page mark and realizing that I probably was gonna overshoot my 50-page limit by ten or more pages, I decided to split this up, for ease of reading, which I, honestly, should have done from the start.
The first few "Chapters" (they're more "sections" than anything), are relatively short, but they get progressively longer as they go on. I currently have most of the story written, and hope to be able to write fast enough to post a section approximately every two days, and get done quickly enough that I don't catch up with myself too fast, and can keep that pattern up for you guys until the end without stopping. We'll see.
There will be exactly 10 "Sections".
This is quite possibly my favorite of my writing to date. Even. Above. BAU (which, for those of you who don't know, is an FF7 fic that took me 3 years to complete).
This fic explores almost the entirety of Mello's life, from the age of six on. It is, in a lot of ways, a personal experiment, and is an exceedingly special story to me, because a lot of it has grown very close to my heart. I am very excited to finally be starting to share it with you all, and I hope you enjoy reading as much as I've enjoyed writing it from the beginning.
By the way, I know practically NOTHING about Catholicism. I've only had one experience with it first-hand, and this was not a time where I was there to study the religion, so if I make any mistakes, please do kindly correct me. Thank you.
WARNINGS: Some MelloXMatt, a little one-sided Hal/Mello, and spoilers galore. Mello may seem really OOC at the beginning, because he starts out very different than he ends up, so don't freak out thinking I'm butchering him (plus, if you can hate Mini-Mello, you are a cold, heartless being). The Mello that we all know develops by the end. Also, there are a lot of very dark ideas and some disturbing imagery.
Oh, and since I can't read Japanese, I haven't read the book "Another Note", since it's not out in English, yet. I have pre-ordered it for February, but I wanted to finish before then, and I'm hoping that nothing in this story contradicts it, but though the book's considered canon, it's not written by Ohba, so it's pretty much just published fanfiction, and you could probably consider anyone's view as valid as it is, including mine.
This will be my only author's note at the beginning of a chapter. The only other note from me will be at the very end. Enjoy.
OUR FATHER,
Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us…
Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.
Amen.
Mihael Keehl, however, clutched at his rosary, tears streaming down his cheeks like they hadn't in years, the last of his voice choked out by his own foaming saliva and chocolate-tinged bile.
"I…believe in…God…Father Almighty…."
The Keehls died in church, during service, in a bombing by a radical anti-Catholic group, who in the news later claimed that they had been doing God's divine work in destroying the "idol-worshipping heretics".
Their son had snuck away from them in the midst of the Hail Marys and they hadn't even noticed, their eyes closed and their minds absorbed in prayer. The young boy of only six had hidden away in the confessional, crying because he had snapped the chain of his small new birthday-present rosary and was ashamed, thinking that God would punish him for destroying such a holy relic; thinking he had sinned because it had been from his parents, and the commandments had told him to honor his mother and father, whereas he had broken their gift instead.
It didn't matter that it had been an accident, thought Mihael. They would be mad at him for sure. He held the tiny cross to his chest, staring down at the snapped thread that held together what were now one-too-few prayer beads.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," he, his voice small and shaking, began not to the priest still in the main chapel, but to the Father of All Things. But when God did not speak back as the priest usually did with his kind "What is it, my child?", he chose to pray in silence, instead.
"Please, God, don't be angry with me…don't let Mama and Papa be mad…"
But, it seemed, God had forgiven Mihael, because his parents would never know.
The explosion shook the building--caused the thin wooden walls of the confessional to shiver and creak and the child inside of it to scream. The fires painted glowing fleur-de-lis on his face through the ornately carved air-holes in the sinner's cage, and though gaping cracks in the walls of the cathedral let in the cold winter air, the fires themselves caused those winds to thaw and burn, making the child's eyes sting and skin crawl. The steeple bell broke from its supports and crashed over fifty feet to the ground below, ringing even as it cracked down its side.
The sound of shouts and wails as the cathedral burned were how Mihael had imagined Hell, and indeed it seemed as if the boy had been transported to Lucifer's kingdom itself. Still, he thought, the earth was far worse, because, here, it wasn't the sinner who suffered, but everyone he held dear.
As the screams began to fade away, new voices filled the air. The beating of feet on the ground and the rushing sound of pressurized water slowly took away that of crackling flame. Mihael, by this time, had crouched back into the farthest corner of the confessional, underneath the wooden bench. The smoke had begun to make him light-headed, but still he prayed to the broken rosary in his hands, "Oh, God…make it stop…Mama…Papa…I wanna see my Mama and Papa…please don't let me die!"
Even at the age of six, God had always listened to the prayers of Mihael Keehl. The door of the confessional burst open, and strong, adult arms circled his tiny body protectively. The boy, as the firefighter carried him out of the cathedral, could see over those arms that the entire church had become rubble, save for the confessional. That, itself, was burnt only slightly and covered in ash, and a piece of the stone wall that could have easily crushed a six-year-old was balanced precariously over its ceiling.
The firefighters said that he had been lucky. Mihael thought to himself that it could have been nothing other than faith, because his prayers had been answered exactly as he had said them: He was alive, and he saw Mama and Papa once more, right before men zipped the body bags over their burnt faces.
From the age of six, Mihael Keehl was a God-fearing man, thinking of the Father as akin to some sacred, fickle genie from the "blasphemous" and "wicked" tales he had read behind his Papa's back.
"Be careful of how you word your wishes, because they'll come true."
Mihael held his own broken rosary in one hand and his Mama's miraculously unmarred one in the other, and wanted to hate God, but could only hate himself.
"I broke it…this is all my fault…if only I hadn't snapped the chain…"
