Disclaimer: Yami Bakura stole me the copyright papers and whatnot, so I guess I own Yu-Gi-Oh now.
Scars
"Daddy, what are those?"
I stopped rummaging through my dresser drawer for a clean shirt and turned. My five-year-old son was standing on the bed, his small hands tracing the marks that laced my back. His innocent indigo eyes were wide, staring through his unkempt hair. I smiled. He had pale hair like mine, though his eyes were a little different shade. "Those are scars," I said softly.
He cocked his head. "Scars from what? I have a little scar on my knee from when I fell down the stairs, but it doesn't look like those."
"But you got your scars on accident. I got mine on purpose."
"You wanted them?"
"No. I mean my father wanted me to have them."
The boy twisted a little to look down the back of his shirt. "Then how come I don't have scars like that?"
"Well," I explained gently, "I got mine when I was ten, which means you have five more years."
"Did it hurt?"
Did it hurt?
The carving was one of my most vivid memories. I will never forget kneeling on the stone table, stripped to my waist, my back an unmarked waiting canvas. I could feel myself trembling with awful anticipation, barely aware of the draft that wound its way through the room. I couldn't look as they held the knife in the torch, heating it until it glowed red. When they were ready, my father made me lie on my stomach while he went about the bloody ritual. The stone was cold on my bare skin, cold until the hot blood flowed down my sides and warmed it.
I would have screamed as the designs spread across my back and shoulders, but the gag blocked all sound. Instead, I bit down as hard as I could and let the agony wash over me. The tears streaked over my face, salty like the sweat of my father's brow that fell onto my wounds. Everything melted into an ocean of pain.
I thought I heard Isis's voice, but that couldn't have been. She was shut away in some remote room; women were not allowed to witness the ritual. I saw the mother I had never known, the one I killed when I was born. I hadn't meant to, of course; I couldn't help coming into this world. She was there, her dark hair streaming in some unknown breeze, opening her arms to comfort me. I reached out to her, and she vanished. At that point, there was nothing I wanted more than to spit out that accursed gag and scream, scream until the stars knew of my pain and trembled.
"Daddy?"
I snapped out of my reverie. My little son was still there, looking up at me with his wide eyes.
"Yes," I told him honestly. "It hurt a lot."
He was quiet for a little. "Will I have to get those scars too?"
"Well…"
I hadn't thought about that. It was a family tradition, passed down over the generations. My own father would have all but slain me for hesitating when it came to marking my own son.
"I still have a while," he said, nodding his head sagely as if he sensed my indecision. With that, he slid off the bed and scampered from the room.
I found a white sleeveless shirt and pulled it on, reflecting silently.
The carvings had put me through more pain than I had imagined humanly possible. I couldn't understand why it had to happen. It made no sense that I could be punished for scrawling charcoal on the walls of our home, while my father could tear designs in my very flesh with impunity. Being only ten, I reacted as any child would to such purposely-inflicted pain: with anger.
This agony was wrong, demanding retribution. I couldn't lash back at my father for a number of reasons. The first and most obvious was that he was my father. Secondly, he was the one holding the knife and with silent accomplices to help him. Thirdly, I still loved and admired him, as a son should. True, he had a bit of a temper at times, but he could also be gentle and kind. Isis said our mother was devoted to him, and I could often understand why. His very person demanded honor and respect. And I gave it to him.
Confused and muddled with pain, I let them wrap my torso with bandages and wandered off to my room to try and begin healing. Rishid would be there, I knew, ready to see that I made it to my bed. He was there as I expected, shrouded in shadows with only the torch from the hall lighting him. "Rishid," I gasped, my hand pressed against my aching side, my head growing light from loss of blood. "Rishid, tell me…" I paused to catch my breath. "Who…" I drew in a sharp breath of pain. "…should I hate?"
He was silent.
"Rishid…"
He raised his head and I nearly lost my grip on the doorpost. Blood streamed down the left side of his face and over his eye.
I shuddered, remembering. He had carved himself so that I wouldn't have to suffer alone. My own words, so truthfully genuine, rang in my ears. Who should I hate?
The bewilderment and anger had only increased as my back healed. Every little pain that shot through me fed a dark brooding in my heart. I stopped favoring the tender skin and instead did my best to function normally, savoring each ache with a savage, vindictive pleasure. It wasn't a masochist-like enjoyment, though. The thought of inflicting pain on myself never crossed my mind; I viewed the fire on my back only as a reminder of my desire to return that pain.
I hadn't known it then, but that dark presence feeding on my suppressed fury eventually made itself known as my Yami. He took over and committed the acts I had never worked up the courage to do. I found then that I did not like what I had wished for on dark, cold nights. Sometimes I found the amount of hate inside of me almost overwhelming.
On a sudden impulse, I left my room and found my son where he was playing, dangling toys in front of his infant sister to make her laugh. I knelt down abruptly next to him and swept him into my arms, holding him in a firm hug. He wriggled, laughing, trying to worm away. "What's that for, Daddy?" he giggled, obviously not minding at all.
"It's because…" I stopped. This one gesture held so much meaning and said so much for me, but I wasn't sure how to put it into words. How was I to say why I would never give him the scars? "You're my son, and I never want you to have to hate. I never want to make you hurt," I told him quietly, although I was quite sure he had no idea what I was saying.
He was silent for a little, as if trying to piece that all together. "I love you too, Daddy," he said finally, resting his tousled head on my shoulder. He had understood after all.
Owari
R&R