Hurt
Crying was for pussies. Nothing, and no one, could make him cry, and Mello had damn well planned to keep it that way. All his life he'd been kicked down for his weaknesses, reminded time and time again that he was an orphan, unloved, unwanted. He was alone in the world, and everyone despised him, or wanted him dead. Friends were liabilities, no matter how close he kept them, and he couldn't let anyone know he was suffering; that was a death sentence. From a small boy being led into Wammy's orphanage, to the gun toting mafia lord he was now, Mello had clung to that knowledge, to the point where it just because easier to throw up a façade and watch the world burn, rather than let it see just how much he was hurting inside. Life was cruel, and you either let yourself get eaten alive, or you grew some balls and met it head on with a fist and barrel of lead. He was a firm believer in the latter, and so his tears were burned away, never to be seen or felt.
So why was he sitt
Lord-Azeran
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