Author's Note: Alex (AKA Rhelle here at FF.net) was ever so kind as to write a Yami Malik introspective in dedication to me, not knowing that I think Yami Malik is a fuckface. Smart, Alex :P
However, because she was nice enough to write for me in the first place, I thought, "Eh, what the hell. I may as well be nice for once and surprise her with a Seto introspective." Besides, if she didn't have to worry about the legal punishment, I bet she'd make sacrifices to him. Thus the birth of My Reality.
Alex, you better like this, considering there is a certain part in this that I think you'd like VERY much.
WARNING: Contains an original character. Run. (Erm… if you can call a real person an original character, heh…)
Erm…anyway…
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All of this, everything known in my life, has been distorted, pieces of imagination. Pieces that when put together form the puzzle – me – or at least the me I thought I was.
What was as common to me as the back of my hand was never real. They tell me it was all a dream produced from my deranged subconscious self; a dream so complex that I mistook it for reality. They tell me that I can now awaken from the dream, for that is all it is, that there is no struggle to escape. "Forget about them. They're unreal. Fake. People you made up," they state for the tenth time. People who exist; people who are real, never vanish from one's memories. They remain. One must travel through grief to realize the thin line separating life from death.
"Forget about the events. They never happened. They, too, you made up." I know I made up the events. But let me tell you something: Once you act out lies for a long time, you no longer control them. They control you, first absorbing you, then replacing reality. And they don't become you, you become them.
It is impossible to dismiss people and events. To me, "my" people and "my" events exist as much as "your" people and "your" events exist to you. They are your reality, mine are my reality.
Mokuba wants me to let go of my reality. He wants me not to forget, but rather to perceive everything as memories. He selflessly devotes himself to me, offering in any way possible to cure me of my madness. But that is just the thing. He cannot cure me of my madness. I don't think anyone who has never been consumed by a separate reality is gifted with the ability to help those who have. I know he tries to hear, see, and feel what my mind has, and I thank him for that, although I wish he'd stop. He'll never be able to. No one with such sound and control, like him, would be able to break into dissociation.
Or psychosis.
Is that what I am? Psychotic?
"I'm here, big brother," he whispers, pulling my sleeve. He flashes a smile of hope as I gaze down at him. When he thinks I ended the gaze, I cannot notice but watch his smile collapse, his face now replaced with two dim pools of tears. I want to reach out to him and say, "I'm okay. We can be a family again." Instead, this escapes my voice:
"I'd be okay if you gave me the time to be okay. Why don't you just leave me alone?"
He nods, blinking tears. He leaves.
Shit.
Mokuba, I didn't mean to say that! Please, come back…
Always, since this began, it has been this way. But I know Mokuba is not angry or sad. I know he knows that I am unable to surface my real words. Even so, I despise the words that leave my mouth. They are cruel, degrading, disgusting. To have them unleashed on such a compassionate, altruistic child is beyond wrong. It's sin.
Mokuba tries to endure my silence, outbursts and irrationality. Times come when he wants to abandon it all, to focus on his own problems. I don't blame him. I want to abandon it all, too. Yet I can't because I'm the problem. I'm stuck with me. He isn't, but he stands by my side.
My reality took over me as a safeguard from true reality. The death of my mother and Gozaburo's abuse were all too much, and my final touch with true reality was used on protecting Mokuba from the evils of the world.
I have tried to forget my reality. That is the truth. To forget, though, is to forget everything I have ever known of peace and happiness. True reality is chaos and misery. How can I suddenly drop everything and go on with life like they were irrelevant? How can I erase the slate if there is nothing to erase with?
With that said, how can I experience what was lost to me while living in my reality? Or am I to live starting from now, a structure with no platform? "Your memories are false history." Tell me, then, is it possible to sort my reality from true reality, your reality? So many pieces of what you tell me clash with all I thought were the real pieces of reality.
"You little bastard! Stop it with your crying!" THAT voice screams from the back of my mind. Gozaburo's voice. "Damn it, I said stop!"
The voice grows stronger…
The memories engulf the last of my sanity…
A young Seto, at most age twelve, entered the vacant home. Streams of blackness were all to be seen.
He shivered, both in coldness and fear, and proceeded to make his way across the house to the safety of his bedroom. If he could, Gozaburo may think he had been home this whole time. Afraid of the man, Seto had decided to spend the remaining hours of daylight at the park. It was only until he could no longer bear the happiness of the children that he chose to go home… or what by definition would be considered home…
Once in his bedroom, Seto pulled from his bag a grilled cheese sandwich. Gozaburo never cooked, but not wanting to be endangered by social services, provided Seto with money for school lunches.
"I'm so hungry…" the boy whispered to himself. As he drew the sandwich to his mouth, his guilt stopped him. "No, I can't have this… this is for Mokuba… he's little…he needs the food…"
…
"Where is Mokuba?"
Dawn risen on him.
"God no…"
He dived for the hallway, where he practically fell down the stairs.
Still nothing but darkness engorged the house. Gozaburo always had the lights off after realizing Seto's fear of darkness, which he had unknowingly caused.
"Mokuba! Mokuba, where are you?!"
Silence.
"Where are you, Mokuba?!"
Silence.
Now Seto was beyond worried. He was petrified. "Mokuba!"
Tears streaming, he fell to the floor. "Mokuba…"
"I'm here, big brother."
Seto's blood ran dry as he turned around, knowing his sibling was far from okay. They exchanged glances: The elder child, those of fear. The younger child, those of pain.
From the shadows walked the silhouette of a brawn, large man. "Where were you?"
"Nowhere… sir…"
"Don't give me that bullshit. I KNOW you didn't come straight home from school."
"I…"
Gozaburo seized Mokuba in his grasp, meeting eyes with Seto. "Tell me, boy, NOW."
His ultimate phobia overcame him at that moment. If he refused to answer, the other boy would be injured. "…I was at the park…"
"At the park? Why?"
"…To…to…"
"WELL?"
Seto choked on tears, trying to hold them back. "To get away from you! I hate you! I hate what you do to my brother! Hurt me all you want, but leave him alone! He isn't the hellish little demon you call him! Just because I am doesn't mean he is!"
Before he could react to the wisp of motion, Gozaburo lunged for him, thrashing his jaw, eyes; head smashed on the cement of the basement floor. He vomited blood, gagging on the metallic taste. It deluged down his lips, sheeting him in maroon pools.
Mokuba screamed, jumping for Gozaburo with feeble slaps. The adult simply flung him, and locked him out.
Seto attempted to stay conscious as Gozaburo made his way back to him, listening to Mokuba's shrieking and banging on the door.
"Seto Kaiba," he began. "You are the weakest, lowest, most pathetic thing I've ever stumbled upon." In a low voice, he added, "I refuse to acknowledge you as a human being. Hell, even as trash. How your mother managed to get fucked and have YOU as the result, I have no clue. I guess she must've got around. That whore."
That was it. How dare he mention his mother in such a humiliating fashion.
With the remains of his energy, Seto spoke, "You're a bastard. Rot in hell. That's where you belong."
As Gozaburo went in on him, he eyes locked.
When he first met Seto, he at least looked human. Now he looked…dead… His hair, once a rich brown shade, was now that of pallid tan mixed with strands of gray, along with brittle. The blue of his irises couldn't be made out from all the black eyes Gozaburo gave him. From the starvation, his skin was jaundiced, splotched with lanugo. His muscles deteriorated. His arms appeared as only skin and bones. His jamming collarbones could hardly support his neck, able to be snapped in half a second.
Gozaburo bent on his knees, lifting Seto's shirt. The boy simply lye there, too weak to react. Gozaburo began inspecting his ribs. They, like his collarbones, were plainly visible other than the tight skin stretched across them.
The man blinked several times, shocked.
Only to be replaced with a smirk. "Good. You got what you deserved."
With that he left him to fend the darkness.
Alone…
Alone…
I have always been alone.
Alone with these hellish memories.
Of true reality. Their reality.
Yet they continue to wonder why I have dissociated. Dissociation, the process of segregating oneself from reality in order to safeguard against traumatic events, is a natural coping mechanism. I fail to understand why they view this behavior as abnormal.
Somehow I managed to build a barrier of this dissociation. In return, my reality was born.
And so it comes again…
The exact shade of sun rays pouring through autumn leaves was that of her hair, he noted, as he held her close. Their eyes met – his, once pained, were now those of amity. Hers – always angelic, yet now even more so. Her skin, smooth to the touch, the color of ivory.
Seto ran his hands down her. Her breasts, although small, were rounded. Her perfect hips and legs.
At that moment, two souls became one when Rhelle breathed into him.
And Seto pushed her away.
"Seto?"
"No, it's not you… it's me…" He began to pull away, but-
"Stop," she said, taking his hand in hers. "I know what you're going to say…about that there is something wrong with you loving me, because I'm unreal…"
He stirred, waiting for her to continue.
Rhelle saw not the callous, amoral creature everyone had viewed him as since the beginning, but a child in search for empathy and belonging. Seto saw not a piece of his self-created reality, but a guardian angel sent from Heaven. His guardian angel.
Their lips met, painting unspoken words, silencing the pain they had before known, and ending all insecurities at themselves.
At that moment, like a caged bird set free from the bound of her surroundings, Seto was set free from the bound of his dark memories.
It was then that Seto's soul began to heal.