The first time I held a knife, I was twelve years old.

To this day, I'm not quite sure what possessed me to do it. If my memory serves me correctly- which, nowadays, I honestly can't be sure it does- I didn't acquire the Millennium Ring from my father until around a year later. But somehow, when I felt the cold, metal object with the wooden handle, everything about it felt right. The way it so easily fit in my grasp as my fingers curled around it, it was as though the handle was custom made for me. As I ran my fingers over the sharp metal that made up the blade, my lips curled upwards. It was so strange, and as I was still a child, I couldn't quite put my finger on the exact feeling. It was just… right. Fitting.

Perfect.

Of course, I could never do anything. As I stated before, I was but a child in those days. At the time, it seemed as though it could be nothing more than an isolated incident. I went about my daily life. I attended school, although it bored me. I played with my friends, although none of them ever satisfied me. And I spent time with my family, although my father was almost constantly away on business. But as lackluster as my life seemed to be, I was happy.

My father brought me the ring on my thirteenth birthday. It was an ancient Egyptian artifact, he told me, and there was not another anywhere in the world. It quickly became my treasure, the one thing I cared about.

The day that my mother and sister left this world, their lives stolen by an unknown driver, was the day I first started to experience the blackouts. For a long time, I didn't know what caused them. No one else seemed to notice them, so I had assumed that they were unimportant. Small lapses of memory caused by stress and nothing more. But somewhere down the line, things started happening around me. People were getting hurt, sometimes even dying. It started with the bullies down the street, the ones that had always thought of me as an easy target. Then, when there was no one left to mock me, my friends began to be hurt, too. I had recently become interested in a game called Monster World. But it was strange. Almost every time I tried to play it, one of my blackouts would inevitably occur.

And when I woke up, they would be unconscious. Months would pass without them waking up. After a bit of time had passed, I was all alone. Nobody wanted to be with the strange boy who sent his friends into comas, after all. Not even my own father.

That was when the voice first talked to me. I was terrified, that day. I had just started at a brand new school, where there was another strange boy with a pendant, extremely similar to my own. Do I remember what exactly he said to me, that first time? Like I said, my memory isn't always the most reliable. But that was when the demon claimed me as his own. He stuck those needles into my skin, and from that day forward, I was no longer Ryou Bakura.

I was simply Bakura.

I was his vessel, and as long as he needed me, my body would do his bidding. The first days, I was terrified. I didn't want any more people to be hurt because of me. But at the same time, I had found a sort of closure. No longer were those strange blackouts a mystery.

Now that I think about it, even before we first spoke to each other, I was carrying out his plan. He never told me exactly what it was. I did try asking a few times, but he laughed in my face. I was too worthless to understand something so grand, so amazing and genius, and he had absolutely no trouble telling me this.

As soon as his "plan" began to take shape, I found myself in control of my- no, our- body for a shorter and shorter amount of time. But at night, sometimes he would still speak to me. He would brag about how successful he had been. Those were the easier nights.

Sometimes, his plans didn't go as he planned. Those nights were full of fear. When we were asleep, and neither of us possessed our physical body, he would creep up on me as I lay in my soul room, surrounded by old photographs. He would grab one off of the pristine white walls, and throw it to the ground, shattering it into a thousand tiny pieces as he screamed to people who weren't there with us. I learned quickly not to say a word, as whenever I did, even as a comforting gesture, he would pierce me, first with his eyes. Those narrow, sharp brown eyes, so similar to my own while remaining so different. Then he would attack me mercilessly until he was satisfied by my screams, my begging and pleading for him to stop. The entire time, he would yell out the name of my closest friend. It was as though he was in some other reality, one where he truly was still getting revenge on the pharaoh.

Even in the daylight, in the true reality that I never got the opportunity to see, he took advantage of me. He stabbed me and cut me open, all while, I'm sure, he gave others the exact same fate. There were so many atrocities carried out using our body- no, my body, that's right, it's only my body now- that I could only watch, from the comfort of my soul room.

Still, he did have his good points from time to time. The only one that others would know about was the day he rescued me from Slifer's attack. Even if it was only to protect his "Weak and pathetic host," it was still one of the nicest things anyone had ever done for me. That was the day that I first began to trust the spirit.

And after that, under the guidance of the spirit, at age sixteen, I held that knife again. Even after those few years, I was amazed at how well it still fit in my hand perfectly. He showed me how to run the blade over my skin; lightly, but just deep enough to draw blood. He told me to never tell anyone, to do it where no one could see it. And because I was so alone, so desperate for the approval of anyone- even him- I did it. I carved into my own flesh, leaving scars that still linger even today. And for the first time since my personal hell began, I felt a sense of relief. I wanted to do it, more and more, but at that point, I suppose I still had a shred of sanity left. Or at least, enough to stop me from continuing until I bled to death.

That same night, he brought me out into the city. Together, we found someone. He was useless, the kind of person people laugh at and mock when they see them on the street. Drunk all the time, homeless, an overall burden to society. And he told me exactly how to sneak up without anyone noticing, pull out the knife still coated with my own blood, and bring it ever closer to that useless human being.

I remember the first time I saw it. The life of a fellow human being, slowly draining away right before my eyes. His blood pooling around him from the slit in his throat, maneuvering its way around my feet. I suppose that first night I may have felt a bit of remorse- this was murder, after all. I had just committed the single most disgusting crime a human could possibly perform. But he gave me his acceptance. When I ended the life of an innocent civilian, he gave me praise for the first time in our twisted relationship. And really, that was all I wanted.

But at the same time, I loved the act itself. In fact, after a certain point, I began to crave it. I craved the rush I got as I saw them beg for mercy during what we both knew would be the last moments of their lives.

After a while, the spirit disappeared, along with the pharaoh. The people I called friends told me this with a bittersweet smile, as we sailed on a boat from Egypt. But by that time, the spirit had impacted me in more ways than any person could have known. I was going to keep his memory alive, and in every kill I made in the nighttime of Domino City, I could still hear his voice, telling me how well I had done, for a beginner. But still, I felt as though there was something missing.

Xxx

So, you asked why I'm doing this to you? I believe that everything I just said is a sufficient answer. When the spirit was still here, walking among you, his only goal was to kill the spirit inside of you. He was trapped in the ring for three thousand years, and he couldn't even avenge his family. I wonder if that's why I still hear him, sometimes. You and the people that I once called friends couldn't grant him his one wish because you were too damn selfish.

Hm? You say he was a demon, who deserved exactly what he got? Why, yes. He was a demon. I do believe I made that part clear.

I'm acting like him right now, then? A demon? It's funny, really. Even when there was still a shred of innocence left in me, when there was a difference, you and your stupid friends couldn't see it. You had your chance to save me, all of you. But you fell for his lies. You thought it was me all that time, but as it turns it out, the spirit happened to be a very good actor.

You're screaming again? I thought I told you hours ago how useless that was. I'm about ready to shut your mouth for you, and I would, if I wasn't so determined to see you suffer. And apologizing will get you absolutely nowhere. Maybe if you hadn't been too late, it actually would have meant something.

…you know what? I changed my mind. I thought that killing you slowly was the only way to go, but I'm starting to find your screaming quite bothersome. So if there are any words you would like to say before I bring down this knife against your skull, I suggest you say them now.

No? Nothing? I expected a friendship speech or something. Oh well, then if you really are just going to sit there shivering, I suppose it's time to say goodbye.

Xxx

That was really not what I expected when I started writing this. Still, I think it's alright. Reviews would be greatly appreciated, by the way~