Note: This story was written with a completely selfish reason of getting me across a writer's block on one of my original stories. It sucks. I hope you'll like it.

I'll be posting chapters weekly, most probably. All the others chapters will be longer, this is but a prologue.

Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-gi-oh, nor any of lyrics I use at the begginings of chapters. The authors are I think clearly specified in format Author – Title.

Thigs you may want to know: Contains angst, use of drugs, implied yaoi.

Prologue - All of them

Do you remember me?

And the kid I used to be?

Not the same I used to be!

Oh, do you remember me?

Apocalyptica – I'm not Jesus

The music is crashing down on him. Sometimes, he wishes he never heard it. It makes him think of things he doesn't want to think of. He remembers all too well. That's his main problem in life, remembering. If only he could forget, truly forget, never think of it again, but his past is always right behind him, whispering in his ears, clouding his vision. He used to try hard to supress it. But now, all seemed in vain. The future abandoned him, and he feels it was for good.

Even his fingers hold a memory of their own. Take the skin, crush the stuff onto folded paper, roll the filter, put everything onto skin, roll it up. He only did it once before, when he was high and couldn't quite refuse learning, but his fingers remembered all too well. He sighs, tapping the table with rolled joint. He couldn't quite bring himself to light it right away. Too much memories are held in that small portion of drug. He knows they will dissolve quickly in the smoke, but still lingers.

That's the problem with all the memories. They linger, they don't go away, and in whole his life, he found no weapon against them. A portion of THC will confuse them, make them illusive and unimportant even, but they will return. Alcohol solves nothing. Work only covers them for a while. Love creates more of them.

You will destroy yourself if you allow your past to haunt you, says one of the recalled voices.

How can I let go? I just … don't know what to do, he answered then, and the voice laughs in his head, a gentle, soft laugh. You must face them, embrace all the feelings in them, and tell yourself that it is past now, it carries no power. If you say it often enough, you will start believeing it, and then, you will be free. This is how human mind works.

He steps to the balcony. A little flame from his lighter brings the substance to life, and he nearly enjoys the pain in his throat and lungs. The head spins; the mind clouds; the body is overwhelmed with itself.

And yet, memories are still there. This time he knew they will remain, for he decided to allow them to. The voice in his head gives another tinkling laugh.

One day, you will have to face your memories, from the very earliest to the most recent, all your failures, all that you regret, all that pains you. Now, the image comes to him, the pretty face, the smile on her lips, the shape of them as she says, Here, have some … this is the best I have. You will see, some things are more easily done when life is distorted, but they somehow still hold stil as it clears up. Anyway, it can't do you much harm. And he nearly feels the small plastic bag in his palm.

Was that truly so recently? He feels it was so far away, back when life was still in control and the future spread in front of him like a fertile soil, ready to be sowed with his intentions, but now, it is hardly a burnt-out place.

His life lost its course. He saw two ways in front of him, one uglier than the other, so he chose the third, the destructive one. He didn't want to fight a lost battle. Tomorrow, his company goes over to his wife – after all, he married her for just that purpose, so that she will be able to take over if anything happens to him. She will try to persuade him otherwise, of course; one of her purposes in life was to prevent others from screwing their lives, even if she sucesfully screwed hers in the process. But this time, she shall fail. He will make her see that there is no other way. He can only leave his life behind, ease his pain with drugs, and let go.

He used to have everything. He was handsome, succesful, so rich he would be probably able to build another KC tower out of the cash, if he had it issued in small enough bills. He was married to a beautiful woman that loved him; the fact that she will probaly never be able to carry a child again after the incident last year never truly bothered him. What bothered him is that he never loved her back, not the way husband loves a wife. He feels guilty about it even now, at the verge of life. And all he created, all he was working on, all seems in vain for one action of the uncontrollable part of his mind.

He gazes up – her private appartement is on the floor above his, she has it even though it's of more use as a walk-in wardrobe than as an appartement. Was she home, she would come out by now, smile on him and tease him, What if Mokuba wakes up?, but she isn't home. She had that habit of coming and going as she pleased, and he last saw her three – or was it four now? - days ago. She probably found a new lover, another one that isn't worthy of the word. Sex toy, that works better. He doesn't care, he never did, while she measures fidelity in feelings, not bodily acts. In her eyes, he's less true to her than she is to him, even though she had … how many? Ten, twelve lovers since they were together? He lost the count. Not that he never had another woman, but there weren't as many.

She knew nothing of what happened during those three days with him. She will be thrilled when he'll tell her, the way no wife should be thrilled when he tells her what happened, that he's fallen in love, that they kissed, and he could nearly see her crest-fallen face as he'll tell her that he must die now, that there is no other way. Sometimes he allowes a small thought to exist, that things would be different if she was there, her perpetually optimistic mind would make something up, but it didn't matter anymore. He's made his decision.

But she will apprecate what he'll tell her next, that he decided to sweep his hauning memories away. After all, he did find love after all those years; it was only right that he does away with all past experiences on the matter, so that he will at least go with clear consciousness.

And he'll tell her that she was right all along about him. Then, she will cry. She does love him, after all, even if it's in that twisted way of hers. She loves him the way the traveller loves a home – a place to return to, not a place to stay forever at, and she respects that he never quite felt the same. Now, she will remain homeless. No man to return to. A happily-ever-after broken to dust. She'll have to take over a company she thinks way too dependent on the CEO, because that is his way of leading, while her way is more along the lines of 'go manage yourself, and if I catch you cheating, I throw you out the window, and I mean it'. She'll cry her eyes out, certainly, and she'll be snappy for days, but she'll get over it. She always does, that's her way. A survivalist.

Then, he will let her go. She will have to become past, the way all of them will have to become past.

All the screaming fans, slutty hired escorts, shy schoolmates, hot one-night-stands, and even her, the woman of his life, for the person he fell in love with wasn't a woman.

So, he must do away with them now.