AUTHOR'S NOTES: Re-post. Apparently, everything after the first page of text got somehow cut off. Hopefully, the full version is uploaded now.
This was written for the 2nd Project Yu-Gi-Oh! Fanfiction Contest where the topic was to write from the viewpoint of someone evil, could be a good guy that's "evil" or an "evil" bad guy that's actually good.
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Appearances can be deceiving.
There's some saying like that out there, isn't there? Well, whomever it was that came up with it never spoke truer words.
Aren't I living proof of that?
Friends, family – those who are supposed to be closest to me - they've never seen, never grasped the true depths of my heart and the darkness that lies within. And in not seeing, how can they possible think to know me, to get as close to me as they may think they have? Instead, their acceptance of the person I purport myself to be is the very thing that keeps us apart and continues to push me further away no matter how much I am with them in body. Perhaps the saddest, most pathetic thing is that they don't even realize that there is a vast distance that lies between us.
Maybe that's because I'm just that good at concealing, pretending, acting as I always do, as if I really am the loyal, reliable friend that they believe me to be. My body, my eyes, my facial expressions – all support my lie by falling easily into the role I play, it's so easy that it's automatic, effortless in the doing and getting others to accept it at face value.
They've never, ever realized.
And perhaps they never, ever will.
So whose fault is that?
Is it theirs for not piercing through the façade to the truth that lies beneath like I imagine true friends, as they claim to be, would? Or is it mine for continuing the charade and keeping them from seeing the reality of myself, preventing the chance that they might actually accept who I really am?
But then that begs the question – who am I?
I don't really know, it's confusing; I'm still searching for that particular answer though it sometimes makes my head hurt. So how is it then that I can blame others for not knowing me if I don't even know myself? I shouldn't.
But I do.
It's not rational, but then humans are frequently given to moments of irrationality, madness, aberration, insanity – whatever you want to call it. Their actions don't always match their intentions or the words that come from their mouths, hypocrites the lot of them and some of them don't even realize that they are.
At least I realize that I'm a hypocrite.
I know full well that what I do, what I say, don't match me or who others believe me to be. And though I may not know who I truly am, I do know who I'm not.
A moral person. A steady pillar. A pure soul. An honest, reliable friend.
An angel.
They're what I've been called since I can remember, back to my earliest memories as a child and up to the present times in which I exist. Why I persist in holding up these impressions of me that others hold, I'm not quite sure.
Confusing, confusing, confusing.
Did I do it to win affection by shaping myself to be what others wanted? Or did I hope that I would grow into the role assigned to me and end the need to search for myself? Perhaps it was just easier that way to conform myself to the expectations that were laid out before me without having to think of ways to explain myself were I to suddenly reveal my true nature. It's been so long ago since it began that it's impossible for me to pinpoint exactly why; every time I do and think I come close to grasping the answer, it seems to slip through my fingers, like trying to hold onto wind. Perhaps it's any one or a mix of all such reasons.
In the end, does it really matter why?
Thinking doesn't change what was or is; it only makes me feel worse, unsteady. And for sure, there's definitely less effort involved in following someone else's guidelines in life; it's easier to pretend I that I am all the things that my friends and family tell me I am and there's no thought required. When I think about it like that, it really is because of them that I am the way I am, concealing my true self behind the masks that want me to wear.
Sometimes I think I hate them for it.
The longer I play the roles, the more I resent it and them as well. Boxed into a corner, a rat caught in a twisted trap; partially my fault, I know. But it's their fault too for continuing to hold up the walls that cage me, trapped and screaming in a desperate cry that none of them seems to hear, within a dark dank prison that seems impossible to escape from. It boils and builds; the rage that comes from bending, breaking, conforming my natural self into the rigid boundaries that they gave to me.
It makes me want to laugh, though not in a pleasant way, to imagine their reactions if they could only have a peek at what lay in my mind. Their image of a pristine angel would have to be shattered then.
After all, a true angel would never, ever crave darkness.
"Anzu?"
The voice – low, rough, and husky touched even now with the faintest hint of threat – slides over me in a thrilling silken rush and has me turning to face the source. And there he is – the only one in my entire life who has ever managed to get so close to me, the real me, in such a short amount of time.
I don't know whether to be thankful…or scared.
I know that if the others ever found out, they'd think I'd gone insane. But that's because they don't know me; they don't know what I really want, what I need.
What I crave.
If they knew, they wouldn't think it so strange.
No.
They'd be horrified – not of him, but of me.
It amuses me to think of it.
"Now there's a nasty smile. Dare I ask the reason behind it?"
"It's nothing," I tell him.
The bed shifts as he props himself on an elbow, staring down at me with an implacable expression that states clearer than any words that he doesn't believe me. And why should he? He's right, of course.
He knows me too well.
Perhaps I'd have said more in defense, but the wide expanse of bronzed bare chest distracts me and has heat unfurling throughout me in a delicious rush. That small part of me that isn't used to having someone so close to me might have been embarrassed if only I wasn't so engrossed in appreciating the view he presented and the effect that he has on me. It still surprises me sometimes, the way he makes me feel; it's the same as when I first laid eyes on him, like a shockwave, a charge of recognition that passes through me. I didn't realize what it was at first, but I do now.
Rightness.
Though others may not see it this way, it's right for me. I feel as if I'd been put on my proper path, as if I finally found a sense of balance that was missing before and keeps me from truly going insane. He's given me this. He's given me…
Me.
The real me.
Even if she isn't as pretty to think about as the imaginary people that I play, it's really me and I feel that I'm finally starting to get a grasp on her after all these years of wondering, searching. Oh, I know I'm still not completely there yet; I often feel as if I'm still on shaky ground that could crumble beneath my feet at any moment. Still I feel that I'm close, very close to being whom I should be. Though I won't end up being even close to the figure placed on a pedestal that the others imagine me to be; I know that, he knows that.
And he accepts me.
Him, when I don't think anyone else will.
He's been in my mind, literally, and knows me better than anyone else. My friends told me that he violated me, raped me in a way, but I don't agree; violation isn't welcomed and opened my mental door to him at first knock. Perhaps it was the only method, rough though it may be, that could ever enable anyone to get though. And after the initial fright that came with something so different, unexpected and strange, I felt relieved.
Of course, I didn't tell them that.
They'd be only too shocked and horrified at how easily I had fallen in with the enemy. Mind-control was only an excuse to exact a little of my own revenge over their role in squeezing me into the confining trap of their idealism of who I should be. And, deep inside where they couldn't see, it amused me to see their agony and torment as they faced the trials that I had a hand in leading them into. Petty of me, but revenge is often a petty thing to my way of thinking.
It's kind of annoying that, even after all my efforts, they still won anyway.
"Ouch!" A tiny pain startles me out of my thoughts, annoying me. "What was that for?"
"I don't like to be ignored."
His words make me shiver as draws away, his lips leaving a cooling wet trail below my collarbone as he shifts until he is smirking down at me. I follow his gaze to the red mark bearing the faintest impression of teeth that rested upon the upper swell of a breast.
A brand of possession.
It excites me, has things low and needy clenching tight within my body. It's a rush, like balancing dozens of death-defying feet in the air on a tightly strung wire only the thrill of this is a thousand times better. And as my eyes meet his, the feeling is intensified a hundredfold by the dark knowledge in that violet gaze that tells me he knows exactly what he does to me, how I feel and what I think.
I like it.
"Now, tell me," comes his coaxing command, "what were you thinking of?"
"Nothing," I say again.
"'Nothing' would not be able to distract you from me."
"Oh, really?" I smirk, baiting him. "Have a high opinion of yourself, don't you?"
"With good reason." His eyes narrow warningly. "Or do you need another lesson to remind you?"
I merely shrug.
"Tell me."
This time his words are growled, his eyes sparking dangerously with an inner fire that revealed his fraying patience. Though, truthfully, he never had very much of it in the first place, in my opinion.
Teasing him is always a risky thing, like tugging at a tiger's tail, never knowing when the beast will lose its tolerance and decide to go for the throat in a swift, deadly strike. But it was that edge of danger, of wildness, that he can never completely conceal no matter what guise he takes which first drew me to him and holds me fast even now. For even as a sense of unease snakes it's way through me, there's also…excitement, a sense of anticipation that thrills it's way in a tingling rush through my veins. And though the logical part of me shouts in alarmed concern for self-preservation that I should pacify this edgy tiger, the daring tease within me who I had never before felt so strongly as I do now just can't resist pricking at him that little bit more; unwise, of course, but irresistible all the same.
All it will take, I know, is one simple word.
"No."
The word barely leaves my lips before it's replaced by a startled gasp that I can't hold back as the sheet that covers me is suddenly ripped away and tossed aside, leaving us both bare in the dim light of the bedroom. Blood singing in my veins, I'm struck with two simultaneous urges; to either immediately throw myself at him in blatant surrender of what was to come or to instinctively slap my hands over the more sensitive areas of my body in the lingering shreds of modesty that still clung to me.
But I follow neither urge as I lie there as still as a small prey hoping that a hungry predator would pass it by unnoticed as long as it didn't move, drawing attention to itself. A useless effort in my case, I know, but nevertheless my body trembles with the effort to restrain any sudden movements, leaving me feeling extremely vulnerable and exposed as he suddenly looms over me with a terrifying swiftness, his face so close to mine that he is all I see as I gaze back with wide eyes while he speaks in a voice frighteningly calm, belying the intensity in his gaze that burns like violet fire framed in a forest of long blonde locks so pale as to be almost white.
"So you want to play games, do you?"
Yes.
"No," is what I say in trembling whisper, breathless.
"Now, now. You know you can't lie to me, don't you?"
Yes.
"Then you know you should tell me." His smile is sharp, unsettling. "So won't you tell me now? Or would you rather face the consequences?"
Yes. It's only what I think, but with as much defiance I can muster despite the blood pulsing wildly in my body, I tell him, "No."
"Well, then." He leans even closer, his eyes glittering dangerously in a way that makes my breath hitch, touching me in places only he knows how to touch. "Looks like I'll have to give that lesson, after all, hmm?"
Yes.
The only words I can say are the ones in my head; my mouth too absorbed with him as he captures it with his. And then he begins to shift, his body moving over me, in me.
Yes, yes, oh, YES!
He rocks against me, a constant motion giving me other sensations to deal with as he drags me down to that place where all else is blown away, where nothing else matters but the existence of him and me and the things that he can make me feel as all my senses focus on him, and only him. And all I can do is scream his name.
"Malik!"
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Is it so strange that the one who strikes fear within me is also the one that makes me feel safest?
It's a question that wafts across my mind as I hover on the edge of waking and sleep, body still humming faintly with aftershocks that he had ignited within me, and curled against the relaxed heat of his body. Lazily I wonder if there are other women in the world who have ever felt like this. If there are, then they are very, very lucky.
I know I am.
It's not love – or, at least, I don't think it is. Love…it brings to mind images of sweetness, warmth, light, roses and gentle laughter.
And this is nothing like that.
Wild darkness, aching hunger, fire-hot heat – it's not mellow, it's not nice; it's untamed and all consuming, sometimes threatening to burn me up from the inside out, impossible to escape even if I wanted to. If love can be such an intensely edgy, raging thing as this, then perhaps I really am in love, after all.
Frightening thought, that is.
But it comforts me, soothes the fearful tension that idea steals upon me, to believe that he just might possibly feel the same. After all, though his initial intention was to use me as a pawn in his plan, my usefulness in that area came to an end long ago – and yet he still stays with me even when there is no longer reason for him to do so.
Perhaps he needs me as much as I do him.
It's a satisfying thought and I hope it's true. Though he seems to know me inside and out, even better than me perhaps, unfortunately I can't say the same. I believe my feel for his moods, his thoughts, has improved with each encounter between us, however, there are still many moments too numerous to count when I can't read past his inscrutable mask to what really churns away in that mysterious mind of his.
And I wonder - just what is it that he's thinking when he looks at me?
Someday, I'll discover the answer.
I'll have my own brand of fun, I'm sure, in the process of further discovering the complexities of him, me…us. But, for now, I'm content to simply be with the heat of him aligned along my length holding the promise of more to come in the near future. Despite my exhausted lassitude, I still feel a little thrill zing through me at the thought and a small smile curls my lips as a sense of peace, a rare thing to me until he came into my life, settles over me in a comforting blanket.
Will this come to an end one day?
That I don't know.
However, I won't give this up without a fight because, with him, I've finally found part of what I've been searching for. And though logic tells me that I can't prolong this without the others finding out one day when confrontations and explanations will undoubtedly be called for, for such things are never kept secret forever, I don't care. That day is not today and I'll take each moment as it comes and then deal with it when the time arrives, though I don't know when that time will be.
But I do know this – I'm not willing to give this up, to let this – him – go, wherever this may lead in the end. If I have any say in it, then this – the moments when it's just the two of us and no one else – will continue on as is for as long as I can make it last.
And, besides, there's really no telling how long I'll be able to keep this up, is there?
Because I will never, ever tell.