Title: Anamnesis
Genres: Mystery, Supernatural
Summary: "History repeats itself, Amane. Don't you know that?" // AU, Lateshipping, Bakura x Amane
A/N: Written for Round 6 of the YGO Fanfiction contest. The pairing for this round is Lateshipping (Amane x Bakura), but this story also contains mild Tendershipping (Ryou x Bakura) and Amane x Ryou if you squint. This story is AU; set post-canon, with the characters once again being reincarnated, so that Ryou and Amane are not related, and Amane's last name is obviously not Bakura. This story contains some dark themes/material. When I use first-person narration, it is Amane's voice. I've had this idea for a long time, and I'm glad I can finally write it out with this killer (no pun intended) pairing.
Enjoy!
"And how are you going to search for it when you don't know at all what it is? Which of all the things you don't know will you set up as target for your search? And even if you actually come across it, how will you know that it is that thing which you don't know?" –Plato
Anamnesis
"So, is this what you were looking for?"
The landlord asked the question, but it didn't really matter; it was good enough for the moment. It was good enough for the check I'd cashed that morning. It was good enough for my new life.
"I'll take it," I said. He had the paperwork ready to go and I signed it on the laminate kitchen countertops with an almost-empty felt-tip pen. A dozen signatures later on the dotted lines, he had the first three month's payments in his pocket and I officially had a roof over my head.
"Try to sound more excited, kid," the landlord told me. "You're getting a great deal on this place."
"Yeah." I shrugged. "Fifth floor, and no elevator. I bet you've got buyers lined up by the dozens for the other unit."
"That's not what I meant, and you know it."
I was still unconvinced. "Because of what happened, right? They say it's haunted."
He jabbed one thumb towards his chest. "I say it's haunted. You're braver than I am, lady. This place has been empty for years. The whole floor, too. Don't say I didn't warn you."
He left me alone in a small, one-bedroom apartment that was completely empty. I walked to the window and pulled open the blinds. The cord caught near the top, and the gray light filtering in from the cloudy sky did little to brighten the room, but I saw what I needed to see.
Domino. My new home.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
A week later I had a secondhand sofa and a dated TV set, but they helped keep me sane through the piles of university work I had already accumulated. But this was the dream, right? Move to the big city, work hard, get a job, and stay healthy. Then maybe I wouldn't end up like my parents—
—dead, smashed bloody on the streets from a car wreck, the drunk driver in the other vehicle walked away with barely a concussion—
—leaving me; young, helpless Amane, to fend for herself with the meager income from their even more meager life insurance settlement and the money from selling nearly every possession they'd ever owned.
I cringed. The noodles I was cooking over the stove started to burn, but I didn't even realize it until the smoke started to fill my lungs, and I coughed, moving the whole mess to another burner while I tried to salvage my dinner. I'd still have to eat it, but burned noodles would just teach me to be more careful next time.
I sat the noodle bowl down on my coffee table, textbooks and medical journals already spread out on the sofa, and turned down the volume on the television. I winced at the first taste of charred noodle. Well, as soon as I could afford better food I could start eating healthier, real meals again.
Before I'd even realized it, I'd fallen asleep in the middle of my schoolwork and woke up the next morning in a cold sweat to the gray sunlight streaming in through the cracked blinds over the windows and the muted television playing the early morning news.
Everything's good in Domino, they seemed to be saying. Business was up, crime was down, and the city had nothing to complain about.
You know that feeling you get where you wake up in a dizzy sort of haze—completely forgetting whatever dream you just had—but then remember every minor detail with a kind of startlingly acute immediate perception that makes you wonder why you ever forgot it in the first place?
Yeah. That's me, right about now.
The building is clean, and empty. Amane leans over the railing at the top of the fifth floor. It looks…different, somehow—it is nighttime, and all of the lights are on, all of the bulbs in the antique chandelier above her are working, and when she looks down she can see the way the grand staircase curls lazily around the perimeter of the entryway to the rows and rows of nearly identical doors to each nearly identical apartment unit.
There are four units on each floor, Amane knows this. She wonders then why it's so quiet, and why the air is so heavy. It really shouldn't be this humid, it's barely September—and Amane shivers, despite it all, and wonders why she doesn't remember putting on this nightgown when it occurs to her that she just might be dreaming.
She smoothes her hands down the railing. She can feel the wood grain under her fingertips. Amane can't remember a more realistic dream; but then again, she can't remember a lot of things right now, like what she's doing there, or why, but before she can wonder any more a noise disrupts her.
She hears a snap and a thud, and glances to her left, where a door down the hall has just opened.
Out walks a man with long, white hair and dark eyes. He glances over at Amane once, but his eyes only focus on her body and Amane shivers again, unintentionally. He walks casually down the hallway away from her, pauses at the staircase landing, and begins to take the stairs slowly, one-at-a-time, the sound of his shoes on the wood echoing loudly in a perfect, even rhythm.
He's left the door open. Amane wonders whether or not she should close it when a thick curl of dark gray smoke begins to coil from underneath the door frame. In under a minute, the same smoke is pouring out of the apartment, and before long it's so thick in the air that Amane can neither see nor breathe and she coughs to try to rid her lungs of the smoke but that's all she can taste, see, smell, and feel—
After I wake up, and remember what I was dreaming about in the first place, it's all I can think about. His eyes—those haunting, piercing eyes—and that smile.
Lips curved up, sharp angles, glittering white teeth. Mocking me, warning me.
As I grab my books to run to catch the bus, I can't help but catch my reflection in a mirror by the front door as I check my hair to make sure it doesn't look too bad, and I realize one additional, somehow forgotten fact:
The man from the dream looks suspiciously like me.
This time, Amane isn't sure exactly where she is. She's standing on a balcony overlooking the same street her own windows face, but the street is completely empty. Normally, Domino can be counted on to have a fairly steady nightlife, at any hour, but the tall skyscrapers and other office buildings around her are all pitch-black inside.
Amane turns around. The door to the inside is closed, and she can't see inside at all; it looks as though the glass in the windows and door have all been painted black. She doesn't concern herself with that for very much longer, however, because he is standing in front of the door, arms clasped behind his back, and Amane waits for him to speak, or acknowledge her presence in any way, or do something, anything, but look at her like that—
"So, what is your name?
His voice matches his appearance perfectly. Crisp, clear, low in pitch. A bit of an accent.
"Amane," she responds.
"I see."
They go another few moments in silence, Amane waiting for his manners to require that he offer his name in return.
"And your name?" She finally asks, teeth gritted. He grins—again—and she is reminded—again—of his glittering, glinting, dagger-like row of perfect while teeth.
"You can call me Bakura," he says.
"Okay," she responds. Odd name, but somehow even more oddly familiar.
"What are you doing here?" She asks.
"Am I not allowed to be in my own house?" He says in return.
"Your house?" The thought never occurred to her.
"You're my guest here, Amane. Don't forget that."
She frowns. "But this is my dream."
"Is it, now?"
"Yes. Of course. What else could it possibly be?"
He smirks and walks the steps to close the distance between them. He takes one of her hands in his. His hands are freezing; hers feel numb.
"History repeats itself, Amane. Don't you know that?"
She wakes up.
I'd almost forgotten about the dream—about everything—when, to my surprise, I wake up one morning, nearly falling off of my futon in the process, and all I can see are a pair of dark eyes and a jagged smile in my mind.
He's back, I think.
Perhaps he never even left, I think after that. Is it my fault that I can't seem to remember my dreams half the time, and the other half I wish I hadn't?
I blame the malnutrition and too many sleepless nights spent poring over a medical textbook or my laptop, analyzing data or writing lab reports. It's all too easy for me to apply that knowledge in analyzing my own apparent behavioral patterns. It all started when I moved to Domino.
Correction: It started when I moved into this apartment building.
Amendment: It all started when I moved into this unit. Apartment 5102.
When I pull back the blinds, I see that it's raining. I wonder why I couldn't hear the rain on the roof or the windows. I guess that's one good thing about this building; the walls are very thick. Fire walls, the landlord called them.
I can't help but notice the dark circles under my eyes as I leave the room that morning. I'm starting to not look like myself anymore, and even though I try, lipstick and concealer don't help much. At least I don't look like him, though.
I haven't worn my hair down in a month because of those dreams.
I'm trying to cook again one blessed afternoon without classes or work or anything else to be stressed over when I hear some loud shuffling noises going on in the hallway right outside my apartment.
I'm stir-frying vegetables, so the noise must really be loud if I can hear it over the sounds of sizzling oil or clanging pans. I finished up quickly, shoving the carrot, mushroom, and broccoli mix into a plastic container and turn off the stove before I open the door and walk into the hallway, keeping the door propped open with my feet as I watch my landlord giving directions to a group of men in dark-colored uniforms carrying large cardboard boxes from the staircase and down the hallway, passing right by my door.
"What's going on?" I ask.
"Someone's moving in next door," he tells me.
"Who?" I crane my neck to the side, but the movers have stacked the boxes vertically next to the door far down the hall, so it is impossible for me to keep the door open and get a glimpse of my new neighbor.
"Ah! Here he is. See for yourself."
Behind a cloud of navy-uniformed workers materialized a striking looking young man in a blue button-up shirt and neatly pressed slacks.
"—and this is Miss Amane." The landlord had conducted the entire introduction already while my mind was entirely preoccupied with the eerily familiar stranger in front of me. He looked so familiar, and I searched my mind for the reason, but I couldn't seem to place it.
"Please, just call me Ryou," he says, and I breathe a sigh of relief that I've caught his name.
"It's nice to meet you," I respond automatically, and shake his offered hand.
Our fingertips brush, and I feel that familiar impression again. It's just skin; it's warm and soft and everything that skin is supposed to be, but it feels comfortable, like we're not strangers at all. It would be unnerving if he didn't have such a great smile.
"You as well," Ryou replies before dropping my hand. He turns to my—our, I correct myself—landlord, handing him the thin stack of papers he'd kept tucked under his left arm. They were recognizable easily enough as the lease agreement forms just like the ones I'd signed a few months ago. I catch a glimpse of his handwriting before the landlord snapped up the papers; he wrote in a strange, curved script, very formal and very tightly bunched together.
"So—may I call you Amane?"—I nod—"I will see you again later, yes? If you'll excuse me, I should probably be showing the movers where to put things, you know."
"Yeah," I respond, and he offers me another cheery smile before turning and walking down the long hallway towards his door. I spent another few moments staring at the parade of navy-uniformed workers and identical boxes before it hits me, it's as though a tangible weight has forced me back against the wall and I let the door close with a dull thud.
Ryou, my new neighbor, looks just like the white-haired man from my dreams. Bakura.
I don't know why I didn't realize it sooner. There are differences, of course, but how many tall, slim, white-haired men was one bound to encounter in such a short span of time? The more I thought about it, they had more in common than just the obvious hair color—I still remembered the feel of Bakura's hands on mine, their touch felt exactly the same—and his smile. It's too strange, too bizarre to comprehend, and I internally berate myself for being so irrational. They can'tbe the same person, that would be impossible. Ridiculous. I was simply overreacting.
The room seemed a lot darker without the extra light from the hallway, and I feel strangely light-headed as I make my way back to the kitchen.
My food was cold, but I ate it anyway.
A week later I find myself in the landlord's office. I don't quite know what I'm doing here, but I needed to settle some things. Find some things out for myself.
I ask if the building keeps any old records. He asks what I mean.
"You know," I say, "building history, old tenant information…records."
He sighs. "I knew you'd come looking soon enough. You're here because of the rumors—which I had nothing to do with. Rumors don't sell, especially ones like these."
"I am not—" I start to say, but he gives me a look and I relent. "Well, maybe. Yes." Hesitantly, now. "It's not actually haunted, is it?"
"Of course not!" The landlord answers, but whether he was answering honestly or as a professional proprietor I wasn't sure. "Just continual bad luck. No one seems to want to stay in one of the fifth floor units for very long. I think we had a tenant about a year ago who stayed for…about a year, I think. But that's been it. And people complain about all sorts of strange noises—well, if the heating duct is any indication, all of the maintenance space is on the fifth floor." He shrugs. "And, there was the fire—"
"Fire?"
"You don't want to hear about the fire," the landlord insists.
"Yes, I do."
"Don't say I didn't warn you," he relents. "It's all in the third drawer of that cabinet, against the wall on the left." I move towards it.
"Yeah, that one. It's all we could find after, ah, the fire."
I pulled open the door. It was creaky and a little rusted in places, but the documents inside were organized fairly well. Books with charred edges, papers sealed in plastic, copies of paperwork, even a few old photographs.
"So, what exactly happened?" I began to leaf through the contents.
"It was in 1996. That's a long time ago, and I wasn't here then, so I don't know much of the truth, but I'll tell you what I know. A fire started on the fifth floor—the unit adjoining yours, but it quickly took over. We did get a firefighting team in, and we tried to evacuate the building, but it was too late—one young woman was caught in it, and one young man, too."
I found the fire report and pulled it out for closer inspection. "It says here only one body was found."
"That's right," the landlord agreed. "The woman's, I believe. Such a shame."
Paper-clipped to the report was a faded color photograph of the building taken from the street. The entire roof was on fire, and I quickly turned it over to read the rest of the papers, which contained the coroner's report and tenant information on the two casualties. The paper was old and the ink smudged, but I could make out the initials R.B. and A.B.
"So now they say it's haunted?" I was still a skeptic.
"Something like that. The rumors say that the spirits of the dead never left their apartments—why would they do that? It's not like they're staying at the Ritz." He rolled his eyes. "Got any more questions for me?"
I sifted through the rest of the files. "So, what apartment did the girl live in?"
A slight hesitation. "Yours."
I closed the drawer. "Thought so. Do they know what caused the fire?"
"Faulty wiring, I think," he responds. "When we rebuilt, we made extra efforts on the fire safety—that's why the fire walls are so thick. If it helps any, too, we re-numbered the rooms after the repairs were done."
It didn't really help, but I didn't say it. "Thanks for your help."
"Don't mention it. Really."
"You're adorable when you're angry," Bakura says. Amane crosses her arms; half because she's cold, again, and half because she doesn't want to give him the verbal satisfaction that he's right about her being angry.
"If you're cold, I can help with that." He moves closer and wraps his arms loosely around her waist, the fabric of his sleeves brushing against her bare arms. It's not even an embrace—he's completely relaxed, but the expression on his face says otherwise.
"I bet you're the reason it's so cold." She doesn't know why she says it, but the words are out of her mouth and his mouth forms another smile.
"I knew you were smart." He leans forward and bumps his forehead against hers. He has bangs, and so does she, but it still hurts, slightly. "If you were smarter, you'd be running from me."
She ignores the disguised compliment-insult. "What are we doing here, anyway?"
"An excellent question," he says. She looks deep into his eyes and he stares right back. "One that I will give you the answer to….now."
With that he inclines his head closer and kisses her, deeply and without reservation, and by the time Amane's mind catches up to what he's doing his arms have tightened around her to the point where she could not move away from him if she wanted to.
Amane pulls away as much as she can. "No. Stop. I can't be here with you, like this."
Bakura looks indulgently down at her. "No?"
Amane leans backwards to get further away, but he only follows her movements in reverse.
"And why not, my dear?"
"I can't." It's the only answer she can give.
"Then it's a good thing that I don't care about what you can and can't do." He offers her another wolfish grin before sealing his lips over hers again. He is demanding and unrelenting, and mumbles something every few seconds that she can't quite understand, until he whispers it once in her ear and Amane goes numb.
"Mine."
It doesn't matter what he does to her after that, because it's all a dream and dreams aren't real, but each of his kisses on her neck feel anything but fake.
"Mine, mine."
He steals another kiss from her lips.
"How much are you going to take from me?" Amane whispers.
"Everything," he responds. "Until there's nothing left."
She implores him once again, and once again he refuses her appeal.
"It doesn't really matter, anyway," he says nonchalantly. "It's not like you'll remember any of this when you wake up."
"But…I do remember," she insists.
"Do you now? Tell me what happened yesterday."
"I didn't dream yesterday," she says. "I haven't dreamed all week."
"Are you sure?"
I've brought Ryou a housewarming present. It's only polite, after all.
I knock, and I hear his muffled voice on the other side of the door and the turning of a few deadbolts. Before long the door opens and I see Ryou's smiling face.
"Hello, Amane." I wonder how he can be so cheerful, with the weather as it is. It's raining again—that's all it ever seems to do in Domino these days.
"I brought you something." I hold up the gift bag. "Housewarming present!"
He looks surprised, and I wonder if any of the other residents had stopped by. Considering I didn't receive any housewarming presents myself, I doubted it.
"Come on it." He closes the door behind me and I wander into the living room. It was nice—a lot nicer than my apartment—and the room was enormous, with several full sofas and a dining table that seated eight. I was surprised by the amount of artwork on the walls—old oil paintings, black and white photographs, even a nighttime cityscape of Domino hung opposite a desk. I was staring at one—an old movie poster from the mid 1900's—and remarked to Ryou that he had very old-fashioned taste in art.
"Makes it feel more like home." He shrugged.
I was still amazed by the sheer size of his apartment. "Do you live alone?"
"Not at the moment, no," he says.
"They why do you need so much space?" I ask with a laugh.
"I combined the other units on the floor. I had the construction done six months ago, but I haven't been able to move in until now."
"You bought the entire floor?" I can't help my surprise. "Why? Are you some kind of philanthropist?"
"In a way," he concedes. "But I needed the space, and I love old buildings like these with history. And besides, it was a good deal." His tone turns playfully accusing. "Why did you move in then, hmm?"
"It was a good deal," I echo lamely. "And it's close to the university."
"Ah, so you're a student! What are you studying?" I open my mouth, but he cuts me off.
"No, let me guess…" he taps his chin in thought. "Aspiring doctor? Lawyer? Businesswoman?"
"You got it right the first time," I say.
"Fascinating." He looked like he meant it, too. "Any concentrations?"
"I just want to be a general physician. But at the moment I'm studying cardiovascular health and a little psychiatry."
"Really?"
I nod, before remembering the gift bag in my hands. I hand it to Ryou.
"You didn't have to do this for me, Amane," he says.
"No, really. I wanted to."
He opens the gift bag and pulls out the bottle of champagne inside. "Thanks, Amane."
"Thought you should break in the new place properly," I reply. "That's what I did, anyway."
"Are you enjoying living here?" He asks. It sounds like an innocent enough question, but I pause to consider it.
"I suppose so. This is my home now." It would seem strange to answer in the negative, but as it stands I really had no definitive opinion.
"That's good," he says. "I think I'm going to like it here too."
She's dreaming again, and his arms are around her again, and the only thing she can think of to tell him is, "I know someone who looks like you."
"Did you meet a mirror lately?" He smirks in response. Amane ignored him—she knew she'd never win, in a battle against him. It didn't matter what the wager was—words, physical contact—he would never lose. It was just his way—she'd never known anyone like that before.
"No, a boy…named Ryou."
His eyes narrowed for only a second, but she caught it. "Do you know him?"
"Yes," Bakura hisses. "I know him quite well. Better than you do, I imagine."
"What can you—" She begins, but Bakura cuts her off with a finger to her lips and a soft "sshh" sound.
"What have I told you about wearing your hair like this?" Bakura says.
"You haven't told me anything," she whispers, but he's already moving his hands to the back of her head and pulling her ponytail free. The elastic snags and she winces, but after he tosses the hair-band to the side he combs his fingers through her hair, fluffing it around her face and neck.
"Much better," he declares."You should wear it like this from now on. I'll let you remember this one, just for that."
"So you're…" she struggled to make sense of it all. "You're in charge of my dreams?"
He lifted her chin so her eyes met his. "Of course. Who else could it possibly be?"
I'm trying to study about NPD and reading some of Freud's work about the ego-ideal for one of my classes when I start hearing a really loud thud sound.
At first I think it's just my imagination, but after I turn the next page I hear it again. I look up.
I know I share that wall with Ryou's apartment. Maybe he just dropped something? Maybe something fell over? I try to think of what could be heavy enough to make that sound.
I hear it again and I glance at my watch. It wasn't late, barely 9:00, but I still needed relative peace and quiet to get my work done. I left my textbook open on the coffee table, stuck my keys in my pocket, and left my apartment.
I hesitated before knocking on Ryou's door. I had every right to complain about the noise, so I knocked three times, as loudly as I could, and when there was no initial response I knocked again, but by the third knock he opened the door.
I can tell right away that something was wrong. Ryou looks…terrible. His hair is tangled and flat, and his eyes are red-rimmed with thick dark circles underneath, and his clothes are badly wrinkled. I can hardly believe it was him.
"Ryou?"
"Amane! Come on in." Even his voice is slurred, his speech slower. I walk inside, instantly putting two and two together.
The empty bottle of housewarming champagne was cracked against the wall of the dining room that adjoined the apartment. The broken remains of two of his dining chairs lay forgotten on the floor surrounding it. I turned towards Ryou.
"How much have you had?" I ask accusingly.
"Too few to mention," he responds, stumbling back to fall gracelessly into one of the barstools around his kitchen counter.
"Ryou." I can't help the sympathy. He looks awful. I can't leave him alone like this. "Do you need help?"
"What are you talking about? I'm fine," he insists, and as he leans forward I can smell the alcohol on his breath.
"Don't lie," I say. "You should get some sleep. I'll check up on you and bring you some medicine in the morning, ok?"
"I think I've had enough sleep for my entire life," he mumbles.
"Why did you get drunk?" The question is part rhetorical; I wasn't expecting an answer, but Ryou drunkenly provides one.
"I just wanted to forget," he says.
"Forget what?"
"Do you believe in ghosts?" He asks. It takes me a few seconds to understand even what he's said.
"No. That's ridiculous."
"Do you?" The question seems to come almost automatically.
"No…that's…what you said?"
I sigh. "So ghosts don't scare you?"
"What?" He's in a rare moment of clarity. "They interest me, certainly. What about you—how do you feel living in a haunted building?"
"Don't remind me," I joke sarcastically, but from the tiny frown that turns his lips it seemed to be the wrong thing to say.
"The rumors say a girl was killed here once in a fire, a long time ago," Ryou rambles, reaching for the empty champagne flute on the counter, and frowning when he discovers there's nothing left inside. "I think I know what killed her. Who killed her."
"Ryou, you're drunk," I remind him.
"No…it's important," he mumbles, before leaning his head down on the counter. Within seconds, I can hear him start to snore.
Great. Just great. What am I supposed to do now?
I struggle to pull Ryou's body across the room and onto a sofa. His breathing and body temperature was regular, and he didn't look in danger of alcohol poisoning, so I make sure to turn off the lights and close the door tightly before I leave.
"Amane," he whispers into her ear. She tries to elbow him away.
"Bakura, this has to stop," she tells him.
"I couldn't agree more," he says, turning her to face him. It strikes her as odd the moment before she wakes up that she can smell alcohol on his breath.
I put together another mini care package. A bottle of orange juice, a bottle of aspirin. I pause in front of the mirror before I leave; my hair is loose and sticking out a little at the top, so I spend a few moments getting it back into place, scowling. Is it my fault that all of my hair-bands have mysteriously disappeared? I try using rubber bands, but each one seems to break before I can even wrap it around my wrist. I've given up, but it doesn't look half-bad the way it is. If my hair was a little shorter I'd probably look exactly like Ryou from the back.
I knock on his door again, but there's no response. I glance at my watch again; hee's probably still asleep, I knew I shouldn't have come over this early. I knock again, louder this time. From inside I faintly hear a voice call out, "Come on in!"
I try the handle. Unlocked. I open the door and let myself in, closing it behind me. The lights are still off in his apartment, and I look for Ryou. It only takes me a moment to find him on his sofa, exactly where I'd left him.
He's still asleep.
I frown. Well, that's odd. If he's still asleep, just who called me?
"Hello, Amane."
My body freezes. I know that voice. It's Ryou's voice, but it's also his voice. And Ryou's lips aren't moving, so I spin around, and there he is, leaning comfortably against the wall.
"You." It's all my shocked mind can come up with at the moment. "Bakura."
"That's me," he answers. "In the flesh."
"What?" My voice is faint and I'm feeling slightly dizzy; he can't be real—I've been seeing him in my dreams for months and that's just not possible—
He's beside me in an instant and before I know anything else I'm staring up at the recessed lighting in the ceiling.
"You passed out," Bakura informs me casually.
I realize he's got my head in his lap and he's been smoothing my hair out of my face. I try to sit up but I get dizzy again and Bakura's holding my shoulders down anyway so I can hardly move.
"You're not real," I mumble.
"What a rude thing to say," he comments.
"No…I must be dreaming," I try to convince myself that my words are true. Bakura's face fills my vision, and I can tell by his expression that he is anything but amused.
"My dear, you still don't remember a thing, do you?" Bakura looks almost disappointed. "I've never forgotten it, you see…but then again, I didn't really die that night."
"What?"
"Maybe you'll remember, maybe not," he says. "It's far more fun this way, don't you agree?"
"What?" I still feel dizzy and weak. I glance out the windows and wonder how it could be so dark when it's mid-morning. It's dark outside, with thick, gray-and-purple clouds, like it's about to storm really badly, but Bakura twists my head back towards him and my eyes burn from the strength of the ceiling lights again.
He just stares at me for a moment and then we both hear Ryou start to wake up. Bakura looks pleased, and pulls me to my feet, looping one arm around my waist to keep me close to him.
"Ryou!" Bakura calls. "Look who we have here! Amane's back!"
Ryou sits up and looks at the two of us. "Amane?" He turns to Bakura. "How much does she remember?"
"Less than expected," Bakura says lightly.
"Remember what?" I try to disentangle myself from Bakura's grasp, and he lets me go. "What's going on here? What do you two know that I don't?"
"A great many things. Your memory has more holes in it than a piece of swiss cheese," he snaps. "This is the second time I've caught you…but fate keeps giving us chances, you know. But in-between…I wait. I've waited for you for fifteen years! I keep your apartment ready for your return…and if anyone tries to take it, I'll simply take their life instead." His teeth glinted in the dull light.
"Why me?" I have to know.
"Why not?" He shrugs noncommittally, before encircling my shoulders with one of his arms and Ryou's with the other, pulling the three of us together tightly so our foreheads touch lightly. "Don't we make such a happy family?"
I looked from Bakura's self-satisfied grin to Ryou's passive unconcern. I hear Bakura again, his fingers sharply clenching into our shoulders, whispering the same word over and over again: Mine. Mine. Mineminemine…
He's got to be joking. They all must be. I meet Ryou's gaze and he shakes his head softly. The apartment is almost pitch-dark now. It's so much more unfamiliar now that it's cast into darkness. The curtains blow from the open windows, the floors creak with every motion and each door seemed to lead into an increasingly mazelike realm of corridors and doorways, and I can suddenly see all of them at once, cloaked in a deep, hazy fog.
"It'll be over soon." Bakura's voice is thick with false comfort.
"It's easier if you don't run," Ryou advises. "Or hide. He'll find you. He always does."
"It doesn't even matter if you scream." It's Bakura again, feigning sensibility. "It's the fire walls. They're supposed to make up for the faulty wiring, but they'll do just fine in keeping everyone else from ever hearing us."
I consider it, deeply; running. He's crazy, I know he is, I've been studying his conditions in my psychiatry textbooks for weeks now—but Bakura and Ryou are blocking the door, and I wonder if I'll ever see my classroom again. I'm not an optimist. The probability is low.
I wrench myself from their grip and back up to the wall. I glance out the windows and spy a small balcony that must attach to one of his other rooms. For that second, my heart stops, because I recognize it and every single memory comes swarming back into my mind with the force of a tornado.
Those dreams…was I ever even dreaming in the first place, or was it all real? Is this real, right now? I can't help but feel like every single moment in my life has been carefully orchestrated to lead me to here—to him. To this. To my death.
Bakura grins. "You're in my home now, dear, and I intend to keep you here for a long, long time."
"What are you?" I ask.
"I'm both dead and alive." He moves closer. "I'm both the darkness and not." Another step. "I'm your nightmares and your dreams." Even closer. "I'm you." He touches my hair lightly. "I'm him." He gestures to Ryou. "And I'm me."
He pauses. "Does that about answer your question?" He offers me another razor-sharp grin.
I know what's happening but it still fills me with the kind of dread that weighs me down. I feel every tiny sensation—first his cold fingers tightening around my neck, then the panic sets in, I start to hyperventilate, and I know from my textbooks that doing so will only lessen the amount of air in my lungs in the end, but I can't help it. My vision blurs, but all I can see is still Bakura and I notice he's wearing an odd piece of jewelry I've never seen before, or maybe I have. Dizziness, hallucinations, elevated heart rate. I can't feel my fingers anymore. I'm not struggling anymore. Bakura's whispering something in my ear but I can't hear him. I just want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go h
"So, this is the place. Any questions?"
The landlord pauses by the door, paperwork inconspicuously ready by his side. His last pen finally ran out, so he's bought a new one. It's the same style—black, felt tip, ordinary—but he knows it'll last a hundred lease signings before it's done. He thinks this girl will buy the place. She looks the type.
"I really like it," she says. "It's a great value, and it's in really good condition. Did the previous owner do any renovations?"
"No, actually…it's really strange." The landlord shrugs. "One day I check up on the girl—rent's overdue. She's gone, and all of her stuff, too. Didn't even leave a speck of dust. Wouldn't you know it—same thing happened next door. The tenant left without a trace. Maybe they eloped." He shrugged again. "Not my problem. I gave them till the lease ran out, and that happened yesterday. You're in luck."
"Do you have the paperwork with you?" She asks.
"Right here." He hands her the papers and she signs them on the kitchen counter, dashing her name across the bottom.
"Thanks," she says, handing him the papers.
"You know what you're getting yourself into, lady," he tells her.
He left her alone in a small, one-bedroom apartment that was completely empty. She walks to the window and pulls open the blinds. The cord catches near the top, and the gray light filtering in from the cloudy sky did little to brighten the room, but she sees what she needs to see.
Domino. Her new home.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
End.
A/N:
1. Anamnesis is a philosophical term that says that the soul is immortal, and repeatedly incarnated; knowledge is actually in the soul from eternity, but each time the soul is incarnated its knowledge is forgotten in the shock of birth. What one perceives to be learning, then, is actually the recovery of what one has forgotten. You may have noticed that 'Anamnesis' is also an anagram for 'Amane sins.'
2. NPD is Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Amane successfully profiled Bakura for this condition (although that's the least of his conditions xD). The story assumes that Bakura is drawn to Amane and Ryou because of his narcissism—they look like him, and he loves himself, so he transfers those feelings to them.
3. The landlord is never named intentionally—it's an allusion to the fact that in canon Bakura calls Ryou 'yadonushi,' meaning 'landlord.'
4. Bakura/Ryou's apartment is a part of the Shadow Realm—hence all of the purple fog and bad weather. I picked 1996 as the date for the fire because that's the year YGO was first released.
5. Irony of ironies, I actually signed my first apartment lease today for the summer! =) Let's hope nothing like this happens, haha.
6. Reviews would be much appreciated and valued! Thanks for reading!
~Jess