Shadow: EDIT: Forget my last comment; this is now a two-shot, not a one-shot.
Today is a day full of pain, ache and suffering, and tomorrow never comes.
Today, you beat me up again. You stand above me, snarling over the steadily dripping blood of your coated hands. "You're pathetic; you're better off dead," you hiss out. I stare at the blood - my blood - and don't answer. I never do. Because really, what do you want me to say?
Your voice alone is plenty enough.
You never stop talking, and heck, I think I've heard just about everything you'll ever say. It's always the same line. You threaten to kill me day after day, but it's nothing more than a broken record stuck on repeat by this point.
I can predict you words by now, you know? "You deserve to die," "I'll kill you," "I'll snap that pretty little neck of yours." I've heard it more than enough times for it to echo through my head. But as for death itself...
You're such a little liar.
All bark and no bite, are you? You can beat and beat and beat me to a pulp, but yet you never follow through with you words.
"I can slice you up so easily, you'll be dead before the night is up,"you'll grin manically.
So I endure my wounds and hope for the best. But when the clock ticks past into yet another new day, I breathe in the new air and hate you all the more for the lie. Because today is a day full of pain, ache and suffering, and the death promised for tomorrow never comes.
I don't know if I should be happy or not about this fact.
You've made me hysterical you know? You've made me unable to separate my actions from the sane and the insane.
Sometimes I feel the need to laugh in your face bubbling out from inside of me like an overflowing pot. Sometimes I want to tell you of all your stupid little lies, and your stupid little boasting. Of how you're all talk and no action. Because really, what part of alive is 'dead'? And then I can see you now: you'd growl and sputter, and I would laugh at your face, all purple and bloated in disbelief and shock at my audacity.
And, and ... I could do it. Honestly, I really could.
But why don't I say it? Well, I don't really know. I mean, it would be so easy to do. I could just open my mouth, and the words would come tumbling out without restraint. I've almost slipped a few times; they've almost flowed out of my mouth, only for me to clamp my lips shut at the last moment, the unsaid words building up in me like a vicious torrent tearing at my insides.
It's so hard to remember sometimes, when my head is just spinning in circles from the pain. Those words you say (die... die... die...) amounts to absolutely nothing - who could blame me for wanting to laugh back?
And you, you just look at me like I was going to beg for mercy, when my mouth opens and closes wordlessly as I hold it all in.
Mercy? Honestly? You don't know anything, don't you?
I've long been over something as insignificant as that. It's been a long, long time since the idea of living has meant anything to me.
...
I give a wet cough. A splatter of blood hits the floor as I work through the liquid to breathe another breath of air.
You time it just right; winding up your arm to give a second punch just as I begin to inhale once more. I sputter as the air leaves my lungs, having stayed in me for no longer than a second, and definitely not long enough for the oxygen in my body to be replaced.
I'm left huffing and panting on the ground. You take that as an invitation to hit me some more. "Is that all you can take?" you scoff.
Another punch, another splatter of red.
I watch as my blood drip onto the ground, red and vibrantly staining what was once a white carpet. It's like me; ruin so badly that no amount of bleach would ever be able to completely bring it back to its former pure glory. What is pure? I don't remember anymore...
If I think back far enough, I can still vaguely recall a time I used to wish you were more like Yami. He was kind, intelligent, and would do anything for Yugi. But me, I was stuck with the Millennium Ring – I was stuck with you. You were selfish, you were maniacal, you were a violent villain. You were evil personified. I did my best to endure you, hoping deep in my heart it would end soon, hoping that one day you'd change. I was a fool. What is hope? I don't remember anymore…
I don't remember anything anymore.
"Crybaby," you sneer suddenly at me.
I startle at the words, uncertain to what you're referring to. And then I touch my face. Tears are involuntarily leaking out of my eyes. My whole face is warm, clammy, and wet with all sorts of liquids. Is it really my fault I never even realized?
"Weakling," you continue in that spiting tone.
But the tears just continue to fall, even as you eye me disgustedly. Your nose scrunches up like I'm worthless trash.
"It's barely a cut," you mock.
The need to laugh at you bubbles in my chest once more. Assumptions. Don't make assumptions. You think I'm crying because of the pain? Because I can't tolerate it? Because I'm so afraid you'll soon cross the line? Don't make assumptions.
You don't know anything at all.
You're snarling inaudible words over me as you drag me by my hair with a blade held by my ear. You look so hatefully at my tears.
"I should just kill you; you're too pathetic to watch," you say, relying too much on your stupid assumptions, thinking those words would scare me even more.
There are still tears flowing down my cheeks, but you haven't made me more frantic with that line. I don't think you realise.
Why am I crying? Don't pretend you know.
Don't pretend you'll ever know. I cry because I'm in pain? Not voluntarily. I cry because I'm weak? That may be so. I cry because I'm afraid of death? HA, as if that'll ever happen.
Reality is far far from what you think.
Pain is just another unfortunate daily routine I have to bear, to endure. Nothing more, nothing less. Your punches, my pain; they're just another cog in life's melodramatic machine that must be present if I want the world to continue spinning on its axis. You are nothing to me.
Tears for pain signify that my nerves are still functional.
Death is something I've long stopped fearing. Death is something I've been promised again and again. Death is some far away dream that I'm longing greater and greater for as the days proceed. By now I just want to die.
Tears for death is nonexistent.
According for you, just by being myself there's more than enough reason to warrant my death. Yet, you refuse to kill me and get it over with already, and in fact come up with convoluted ideas that I'm actually afraid of it. So really, don't be so egocentric. You think you know everything, but that's one huge lie. Who's the pathetic one now?
All this time, and you still haven't figured out why. I pity you. I really do.
Your blade hovers over me, glinting light over its sharp edge. It moves in. I hold my breath. My breath hitches as the cold metal touches my skin, and then the metal moves out once more. It draw nothing more than a thin slither of blood across my neck.
I give out a whine in response that sounds too much like a whimper to you. You, of course, take it the wrong way. Again.
"Scared?" you hiss out, auburn eyes flaring up in annoyance.
Of you? No. And of death? Not any more – in fact, I'm yearning for it nowadays, but you'll never guess that.
Like everything else, I used to care about living - that's all we have to look for in this slow-burning, routine world, after all. But, there's nothing left for me... no hope, no family ... except for you.
You. Really, who'd want you?
Death is much more preferable.
...
Here I am, lying on the cold, hard, unforgiving ground. My lungs are gasping for air. My face is throbbing from pain. Blood blurs my vision and my sense of smell. My head spins as the world threatens to topple over me.
I know you like watching me squirm, but really, hasn't this gone on for long enough?
I WANT you to kill me. Is it really that hard for you? You of all people?
Life is overrated, to say the least.Now that I think about it, I don't think there has ever been any reason to live. And … well, perhaps you were right all along.
Life is the hardest game you'll ever play. Rules are fleeting, if ever constant. Death is the easy way out. Take it every chance you ever get. That there's my life's lesson in a nutshell. That's ALL you've ever taught me.
So maybe I had the better Yami all along. You'd feed me reality - untainted reality, hidden deep in this rosy tinted world of lies. Everyone else is oblivious, but I know. Oh, I know.
And I hate it.
I hate this world. I hate its lies, its fake happy smiles, its crumbling society swept under the carpet like it was actually possible to hide it.
Life? What life? How is this life?
I'm better off dead.
And yet, here, I'm still only inwardly pleading for you to fulfill your threats and warnings of killing me, never speaking a word out loud. I still let you believe your pathetic misunderstandings without correcting you even once.
It a bit counterintuitive, yes, I agree. But I don't say anything, because honestly, it's my little act of vengeance against you. Because here, even in the pain I can laugh at you stupidity, and at how badly mistaken you are. You don't know everything, Bakura. You don't know how stupid you look, Bakura.
When I still can, I want to inwardly laugh and laugh and laugh at you. One of these days, you'll eventually take responsibility. So, before tomorrow finally comes for me, I will make the most of my 'life', and if that happens to be belittling you, then all the better.