Written a few weeks when it seemed like my teachers were ganging up on me, I was sick with a horrible variant of laryngitis, and I was just angry with the world in general.
Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh!. Ryou and Bakura's pain, however, are mine and mine alone.
--
my hands, like deadly butterfly-wings ghost over your body
I hit all the right spots, ever-so-lightly –
and you go limp in my grasp.
crimson adorns your brow – a cruel parody of a golden crown
and it coats your limbs like the royal finery of old.
you are in my power, as you have never been before, and I love it.
the silver shines – keening – as it slowly cleaves the air, and the swift flash of fear you display delights me
I grin.
You quail.
my smile, this feral grin widens, and I cut deep.
what do you think?
isn't it grand?
to have your flesh cut open – your very body scathed,
while you watch, powerless?
that's what I thought.
it's happened to me – too many times to count.
by you.
by your enemies.
and now this – this is retribution.
I bend down close, lick your blood off my fingers.
Good night, I whisper
and I'm not sure if you hear me.
I place one of those feather-sharp, razor-soft hands on you chest – press, silky-sharp, bramble-smooth.
something clunks
and I delight.
a rivulet of sticky-slow, wine-red traces down my arm as the hands are lifted, but I don't notice. your rib shows, splinter-white and bone-sharp
as a sticky-red river escapes your body through this newly-rough hole in your chest.
I touch you again – you shudder under my fingers, or try to – and I am gone.
I know you will heal.
You're too strong not to.
I look at my reflection, pale-grey and ghostly in the bathroom mirror.
my arm still drips – the palm pierced by your protruding bone.
I grin again. My face contorts – even such a simple gesture is tainted. All your fault.
but soon, I'll come and play again.