Girly wasn't a good word. And for Ryou Bakura, it meant bad. Girly resulted in horrid bullies, punks attending school so it was easier to "catch up" with him after class. They were big and destined for useless, draining lives as criminals or nutcases. Maybe both. Until he ripped out their souls. Unexplained comas. Shells of a dozen bodies following them as his father drove them from place to place. He was afraid for his child, the only one he had left. And now he was getting suspicious. Poor accursed Ryou could hardly explain that his gift was the opposite of blessed. After all he didn't remember.

If girly was bad, then sissy was sad. It reminded him that he no longer had a sister. It was because he had been a weak, little sissy-boy. He hadn't wanted to accompany his darling mother and dear sister to a ballet recital. If anyone had found out he would never live it down! He might not even live. This was a horrifying invitation and not in an occult way he would've enjoyed. He'd politely declined of course; even shock and shame couldn't strip him of his innate politeness. Would little Amane do well? He'd wondered and had a vague, fleeting wish for an Ouija board. Three minutes had passed since the departure to the ballet studio. But it was ten minutes before the telephone rang, and disbelief dripped from his father's voice, and Ryou was hustled out of the house with frantic, almost angry gestures. Questions were met with stiff silence and no answers were found until they arrived. But where were they? It was just a simple street, the intersection three miles from the house. But it seemed other cars had stopped as well.

Amane had worn a white costume; she was a swan in the cast of innocent woodland creatures. She had never made it to the show but the rivulets of red swirled in crumpled white were as much visual appeal as anyone could've hoped for. And his mother. Fingers hooked into claws, as she attempted to yank her daughter away from the deadly, oncoming idiot who dared to call himself a driver. Not calm in death, but frozen with the wretched realization that she shouldn't have let daughter sit in the front seat. She'd allowed it because she'd wanted it this to be a special day! Glorious. It was all set up perfectly! The drama, the lovely juxtaposition of red against pale, twisted, corpses. But, it wasn't beautiful. This realization spilled from Ryou's eyes and blurred the scene into screams and orders, white hair, a white costume, and blood. This was unacceptable, unmanly, to cry. But he didn't even wipe the tears away.

Effeminate was as bad and sad a word. It was a sophisticated word to be used by teachers and other adults. They would stoop to gossiping about him. That sad, pale child with absolutely no friends. Oh and did you hear? His mother died. Oh, poor dear. And he had a younger sister too. This was when the sympathy stopped. There were coughs and then a snide remark. They bet and reckoned on how he had probably looked exactly like his younger sister. A few chuckles broke out and then escalated to hearty guffaws. They were obvious and not sophisticated. And they were too stupid not to realize he listened. What else was there to do when he was alone and he didn't want to listen to the voice? So he took their words, not to heart, but kept them in mind. And pondered. Why were they laughing? Were the colors red and white funny when they spread across bodies and bits of shattered glass? Maybe it was that his father couldn't stomach the sight of him for more than two days every four months. Though lately, it was getting closer to five months. That must be it. Really he di— had looked just like his younger sister. Both of them tiny duplicates of their mother.

So he was this girly, weak, sissy, pathetic, effeminate creature whom was barely believed to be a man. These were words which defined him when he was shut up in his mind for an age. Maybe it was years, seconds, never or he was dead. He liked to believe he wasn't dead because he'd hoped he'd see his family again when that happened. Amane. Mother. Little sister and Mummy. At least his imprisonment was improving him somewhat. Their names hardly brought pinpricks of realization to his eyes anymore. He was feeling less and less the longer and shorter he was trapped here. Perhaps, it wasn't an improvement? The questions were all that were left. And then accompanying thoughts and answers. It was getting rarer for emotion to well up in him as well in this place where he wasn't sure anymore. Not certain of anything. He wasn't a voice because no one heard him. And he couldn't be light, if anything he was part of the palpable darkness all around. He wasn't pain either because he'd felt that once. A wet, good constant which showed him where his arm was. He wasn't pain, light, emotion or a voice. Maybe he wasn't good. Maybe he was pretty; it seemed pretty wasn't a good thing. Perhaps he was insane. Or maybe he was insanity. Now there was a thought. And there were other thoughts and questions he pondered to keep himself in the dark in what might've been a mind. They distracted him from that other voice which wasn't the voice. It seemed not even his mind was sacred anymore. Wasn't it cute how sacred and scared had the same letters? Cute, cute, cute. Scared, sacred, scared, words. They were better than some words. Girly, sissy, effeminate. Those words were stronger, they had memories behind them. They were part of what defined his pale outline in all that suffocating dark. But there was one word which made him. Yadonushi. It meant three things: Host, Landlord or King's Treasure. It was more fun to think about that last one; grand fantasies about belonging to a king. To have value of some sort.