Oh. My. Goodness. I can't believe I just wrote this. Seriously. 0o
This is officially my first angsty fic EVER.
I'm kinda proud of it, but you never know. Let me know, kay? Tell me any typo I made, anything to make it better, because I really like it and I want it to be perfect. =)
I'll stop talking and ruining the mood and let you read now.
Bakura had nightmares every night.
He knew it was the Spirit's doing. He'd learned quickly it didn't do much to question him about them, though; the Spirit was very good at ignoring Bakura when it wanted to.
After that incident (long story short, Bakura spent a good part of an hour in the back of his own mind nagging on the Spirit for answers, for him to admit what he had done, at least, and eventually he was forced into that state of unconsciousness he was so used to now), he resigned himself to living through a horror each night. He never got used to it.
The Spirit came up with all sorts of nightmares for him. Sometimes it was shadowy monsters chasing him; sometimes they even caught him. Sometimes it was having to get through a series of traps to obtain a needed goal (he always failed, of course). Sometimes the Spirit got creative (Bakura assumed it was boredom, for what else could possess him to do so?) and made a new nightmare on the spot, to watch Bakura despair over something unknown to him before.
Sometimes (only sometimes) he would find himself in a village of long dead, and be forced to watch the slaughter of everyone he knew, would know, did know, for a cause he did not understand. The last was a rarity; he suspected it was something of a nightmare for the Spirit, as well.
The most frequent (and horrible) one was the simplest, though. In this one, it was always dark. Not the dark of night, or of a room with the lights turned off. Just dark, nothing else. In those dreams he would be walking; just walking. Never could he see a thing, yet a small part of his mind knew that if he kept on walking, maybe (just maybe) he would be able to find light, or at least some company to share the dark with. An even smaller part of his mind knew that was a lie.
Soon he would start feeling the eyes. That was the only thing he could call it, that feeling. Always he would start to feel like he was being watched, like he was being followed, as soon as the hope to find light grew. The feeling would slowly press on to his body, sink into his skin, his bones. Soon after he would begin to walk faster; the feeling would get stronger. He would go faster; even stronger now. Soon he was running, trying to get away. The eyes dug into his soul, tearing at it, consuming it. He yells.
Then he wakes with a start, shaking. He can't move; the dream is too fresh. He still feels the eyes in the back of his mind. He realizes the eyes are actually there. He curls up into a ball.
Sleep, my host, sleep.
Still living in the nightmare, he complies.