Disclaimer: You know it, I know it, Ryou's ass knows it; I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh. I only own me.
And yes, this one-shot is indeed AU, because it focuses on a different and much darker viewpoint regarding my now discontinued fic: Halfway To Hell. (Don't worry guys, I'll rewrite it soon, but for now, this is what you'll have to read until then, besides whatever else I throw at you.)
There will be a Japanese glossary at the end; just a few words I looked up since I couldn't find any good Egyptian translations. Oh, and just so you know, the little part of the beginning in italics is a flashback, but it's being told in present POV, so that way it'll feel like it's happening RIGHT NOW... to the best of my ability. Oo
Anyways, as you may have already noticed by the rating of this fic, it obviously has things in it that skirmish people shouldn't read. What kind of things you ask? Well, just check out the warning below and you'll see for yourself! (Grins darkly)
Warning: NC-17, implied rape, mentions of self-mutilation, mentions of attempt at suicide, BDSM, and an over-all sadistic, mind-fucking Marik. Beware; I can be merciful or merciless. (Smiles her infamous half-mad smile)
Diary of Dreams – The Curse (I do not own; it just suits the overall nature of this story)
Plastic needles in my skin
Don't ask me what they're for
No clue, except for pain and shock
You tied me to the bed to mock
My eyelids kept wide open
So I can see all that you do
All this liquid in my eyes
Come inside my world, friend, if you dare... the curse
It's cold, I shiver while I sweat
Room without a glimpse of sunlight
My head is shaved, my body bruised
Can't feel my fingers, everything is numb... the curse
Your reality is twisted
It seems you just don't notice
That all that you do to me
Can never touch me mentally
But you can do all this to me
It's not like it would matter
Much worse than, so much worse than that
I can't get you out of my head
Where is that strong human will now?
Guess there are things you can't escape from
I don't know, but something isn't right here...
I guess what you expect of me is fear... the curse
I stare... but there is nothing that I can see
God knows, with only one hand I could...
Your giggles reach me from next door
I wonder what this is all for? ... The curse
Splash. Splash. Splash. Clang. Clang. Clang. Noises of pure terror echo soundlessly about the escalating-level-of-torment-and-pain-than-normal torture room decorated elaborately, maliciously, with splatters of crimson, just as trickles – and sometimes rivers upon rivers of my own lifeblood – of a diabolic redness are now oozing from within my frail body thanks to the recent appearance of two-colored bruises covering my face in sparing places, and the dark red filth gluing itself to my once unmarred, milky features.
My blood is coating my white flesh in a cold, almost mind-numbing and unbearable, layer of blasphemous sin, and I feel corrupted and vile because of it; above me, a man with alluring caramel skin lurks threateningly, taunting me in my currently incapacitated and helpless state with the silent promise and utter assurance of heartless, vicious, and unrelenting pangs of bloody anguish.
His tongue flicks outward in a swift motion and grazes his upper lip; a deep, crazed chortle coming from him as he watches while I struggle, trying to break free.
My efforts are in vain, however, because of the iron shackles juxtaposing to my wrists now bleeding a deep, darkening redness due to exiguous metal points which reap a nice six inches into my skin and flesh, the red-stained, abrupt ends nearly protrude from out the other side of my carpus'.
Saliva gurgles past my icy, pasty lips, sticking to the self-made gag he has forced into my mouth and down my throat, only allowing me to virtually suffocate on my spittle while trying to take even the tiniest gasp or breath of oxygen, which my lungs is therefore lacking of, and is aching for greatly.
He pauses, getting to his hunches and looms directly over my face, his lilac seas – outlined in dark markings – that bear no pupils no matter how long you take to gaze into them probe deep into my multicolored sights, now watering heavily; my unshed tears is something he looks forward to watching while they dribble silently, consciously or unconsciously, down my cracked cheeks spurting red and edge along my chin, tracing my jawline.
/Please... Please! PLEASE! M-Master! You... you wouldn't! Oh please, don't do this!/ I beg to him mentally.
//Oh, but I would do this to a pretty little thing such as yourself countless times, surely you know that by now, my dear; and you know that seeing you in pain excites me, don't you? No matter how much you beg me, I'll keep doing this to you. It's only just punishment you are receiving; you deserve it, after all.// He replies in a nonchalant tone, grinning madly all the while.
He pauses once more, this time in getting to his feet and standing to his full height, and glaring down sternly at me, then his characteristic smirk etches into his face and he maneuvers himself onto his makeshift 'bed' comprised of nothing but gelid metal, straddling my waist and looking down at me in a way that I have seen so many times as before it is like clockwork.
I gasp, swallowing my spit somewhat forcefully; a whimper quickly follows, and I retreat back into the miniature iron hooks that nip into my backside, barely holding back a piercing cry of distress that gnaws away at my tightening airways feeling the tiny stakes of blood-stained iron shaving the skin away, and permitting for tiny trickles of blood to gush out; dripping onto the concrete floor and sliding against metal, across my lower backside and blistered rump, making faint tap-tapping sounds when blood meets concrete.
"Sweet, sweet Hikari." He purrs, a hint of delectability is laced about his words when his left hand reaches down and violent, biting spasms course insanely round my body as his fingers run smoothly through my blood-caked hair, roughly wrenching my thin, red-stained, filth-ridden tresses at perfect lapses in time, smirking in satisfaction hearing the occasional stifled whimper that comes from me because of his actions.
"Puriti koishii." He murmurs, leaning forward and still gripping a hold of my hair, he smiles, or at least his mouth is inclined in a manner to make me think he is smiling, when in a horrid dosage of reality he is actually sneering, and then he brings his face down nearer, planting a surprisingly gentle, almost loving, kiss on my lips.
He remains for three seconds, yet it feels like an eternity, and finally he breaks away, his mouth still set in a grim smirk as he looks down at me; his smoldering lilac eyes burn into mine like white-hot coals for a couple of fleeting moments, and my heart skips a beat in fear.
/H-hai, Teishu?/ I ask by way of our mind link.
//Hush now, my sweet, innocent, little Hikari. Be a good seibetsu no dorei and keep still, will you Hikari?//
With painstakingly slow reflexes, twin faint clicks are heard as he turns the tiny silver key in the remaining locks on shackles adorning my ankles, stroking the side of my face with his left hand when he is done; I dare not move even an inch for the shackles on my ankles bear tiny pin-points of iron welded onto the insides of them, and since my wrists are already throbbing and bleeding more and more with every single movement I make, I wish to not experience more agony.
//I'm so lucky to have a pure, innocent, sweet little Hikari, aren't I? Beautiful, luscious Hikari; my pretty, honeyed, good little Hikari.//
I blink, feeling a bit confused: why is my Yami's persona cleaved in twine?
//Filthy little Hikari.// Tears fill to the brim in my eyes again, in shock: he changes his mind so easily!
//Mortified, repulsive, bad little Hikari.//
He chuckles darkly and, eventually, loosens the unyielding grip he has on my hair, his left hand still caressing my face while his eyes scour across my blemished, blistered, and bleeding lightened features; I can only watch him as his deceased, yet beautiful lilac seas flicker down southward, lingering on my quivering chest that is exposed to the freezing draft wafting in from a six inch by ten inch wide gaping hole in the floor.
It happens sooner than I would like, but soon I find myself staring back into his eyes.
"Now then... my beautiful Hikari... shall we begin?" He asks, inching his face in closer to mine; his features becoming wild, untamed, as his eyes luster. He wastes little precious time in placing the dagger's edge directly over one of the main arteries on my forearm, and pressing it inward slowly, teasing me, taunting me, for he is about to do far worse to me.
Merciless steel slices into my malleable flesh until it finally strikes against something hard and resistant, I feel the flesh breaking and the bones snapping as he presses it deeper still. My skin, fleshy tissue, blood, and bone tearing around the implement that is causing the irreparable damage; crimson once again striking the bare, cold floor, painting it in a heavier coating of red.
I try to choke back the high-pitched shriek of mindless agony, but my aching throat is much too sore from my relentless begging earlier, and he laughs in my face seeing my seas of color widening slowly in sheer horror, a strangled sob slipping past the gag.
"Scream for me, pretty Hikari... like I know you want to."
The gag restricts me from properly screaming in his face, but I suck in a shaky breath, doing as I am told, shrieking as loud as the gag permits me, screeching so that only him, and God, can possibly hear me, can only pity me and my poor, unfortunate soul.
His face distorts into grotesque lust and satisfactory mull, a sound of nauseating pleasure comes from him as his lips pull taught and sneers down at me while my face convulses in pure panic.
O-O-o-o-O-o-O-O-O-o-o
I shot up in bed and awoke from the dream like a tired, adolescent child just learning how to swim, and reaching the shallow end of the pool. My porcelain features drenched in cold sweat; mouth gaping open in a soundless scream; looking wildly about my lowly room and breathing harshly, gasping for air that would never enter my damaged lungs properly.
Sighing, I ran my clammy hands through my less-than-clean hair, closing my weary eyes and scowling to myself feeling the filth-ridden tresses rubbing sinisterly against the pads of my fingers.
Sighing again, in mild distress, I reopened my eyes and immediately regretted doing so whence tiny slivers of sunlight filtered in through the dark silken curtains, momentarily blinding me, and my eyes twitched in irritation; anything other than darkness rendered my vision virtually useless for I had been living in eternal darkness for such a long time, and my eyes had yet to grow accustomed to anything but blackness.
The dark, dank, and gruesome room was a sight I had grown used to seeing after waking up, and the even more benighted covering from allowing any more natural light to seep in, signaling the end of yet another sleepless night. A night of terror. A night of blood and screams. A night of–
It took just seconds, and my mind strayed back to him.
It had been thirteen years since he'd woken to life, horrifyingly dominant and unyielding with his first breath. So many long nights, and even longer years, have passed by since he became a part of me, of my body, mind, and soul; although he no longer is the spiritual unenlightened half of me, the painful, harsh, mind-blowing reality of what remains of the past I detest so comes with each day that dawns anew like an ever-shifting ray of hope. Hope. I no longer believe in it.
Every day I'm amazed with what father Hell managed to hurl up, to retch and spit back in my face, forcing me into subtle coercion, and heed any warnings or commands he gives to me.
After thirteen years of emotional and mental abuse, he is finally free; finally able to rid himself of that pathetic, vile, and useless shell of mortal flesh that he once had to cling to in order to survive, to live, to breathe, but that's all in the past now; a yesterday that doesn't seem to exist anymore.
Thirteen long years ushered in a flurry of blurred memories into my head, striking me at full capacity in the face while I resided within the rare sheltered moments he allowed me to have so as to 'think of what you've done'.
Sometimes I wonder if he meant to say 'think of what you've created', but I could never muster up enough courage to ask him that question; he would never permit it, anyway.
My body is of no further use to him anymore, once in a time far removed from today he had to keep my body in physically ripe condition to assure of his own survival, and whatever outcomes fate throws at me today, whether it be horrendous, life-threatening, or otherwise he doesn't care. Unlike the 'good old days' when I actual held some matter of importance, the same bodes for my life; that was once needed is no longer required, and he could just as easily as snap my neck rather than making me go on living.
The mere thought alone stings me, hurts me, in a surprisingly awful, and emotionally traumatizing way. I'm merely a provider of sadistic pleasure and nothing more.
A solitary slave that had lost her strong will and resistance; given all that she had to her master while he robbed her of sanity and innocence.
A slave forced to dance to his demonic tempo. I meant nothing to him. A filthy, wretched Hikari whose life had lost all purpose. Daily and nightly role-playing sessions, him the master and I the obediant slave.
Occasional whore. Masochistic slut. Submissive wench. Master's playtoy and bedslave.
Not even in my wildest dreams did I imagine myself longing, craving, for my past to return and shred me from the inside-out, wanting those days where I would huddle in fear and hide from my father who looked down at me as though I were the vile scum of mother Earth; a blasphemous child born out of a loveless marriage, and a living factor of just as an encumbrance of a pregnancy that he had never wanted, yet he let me live, let me suffer through the bouts of pain.
I believe people would deem me a 'child of lust' nowadays.
Never did I think that my bleak, unpleasant new future would be so terrible as for me to want to relive those days of dissociation, of being teased and mocked at school, of returning home in the late afternoons to a man who was no better than the Devil Himself.
I sighed for a third time and stared blankly at the gray colored walls covered in unidentifiable stains that greeted me each day, their dull color contrasting with the dark stains splattered across their once immaculate surface. I grimaced at the thought of my bodily fluids sliding down and in plain sight in my limited range of vision, disgusted upon seeing that still the dreaded, irksome smudges lingered on the walls, covering my surroundings on all fours.
I didn't bother to clean up the mess he had made from the previous evening, it wouldn't make much of a difference as I had learned from past experiences – it would take a superfluous effort to get even an inch of the filthy smears removed, an unnecessary effort that I had no strength left to spare.
Everything in the room was dirty, unclean, wretched, and so much more; not even the most heinous of words could describe the current state it beheld. An ever-lasting stench of blood wafted off the floor, walls, and sparing places on my makeshift bed, the cold perspire that blackened my soiled bedsheets mingled strangely well against the glistening coats in comparison to the blotches of white crème that was a result of him being 'in the mood'.
I'll never forget that night; it shall replay over and over in my nightmares. The night when he came into my darkened, loathsome dwelling of a cell-like room, a dagger in one hand, a choker attached to a thick chain in the other, and lust in his eyes.
I had envisioned my first time on numerous occasions, but never did they end in the outcome that night brought to me; the last remaining shred of innocence, of virtuous dignity I possessed was stolen from me; my first time had been rape.
Since then, I still had yet to grow accustomed to his arrival in the dead of night, carrying those damned torture trinkets of his in hand, his eyes glinting with demonic lust, a frightening smirk curling his lips.
For every time he chained me, gagged me, and pinned me down on the bed, for every night he came into my demented, lowly room, taken my wrist, twisted it around my back in the most painful position imaginable, and shoved my face down onto the stained and torn pillow, I would be cast into a full-blown panic, resisting mindlessly.
A muffled 'no' always came from me, but my body would convulse in a sick, demented content as it screeched 'yes' in response to his advances, opposing me in regards to what I wanted.
Those nights were always the worst for me; I rarely meant it when I screamed that single word at him.
The unfaltering reek of coppery water dripped steadily off the rusty pipes long from worn down and being irreparable, but stains that give off a odor fouler than the ones on the walls remain on the floor, spots where I had been reduced to using the besmirched floor as a bathroom of sorts, and I didn't have the proper utensils to clean up the bloody mess.
The only other object of mild interest in my room is the door that leads down to his 'fun room' – or, rather, his torture room, and another earthly hellhole of a prison for me – and every night before taking my body, claiming it as his own over and over again, he exhausted my all-too-vain attempts to break free.
He taunted me when he relinquished his bone-breaking grasp on my hair or whatever other part of me his hands can reach, only to snag it back in place, and drag me – kicking and screaming – down into the gaping maw of pitch blackness below.
I absentmindedly shuddered and wrapped my thin arms fully round my undersized chest, bringing my blemished, marked thighs up to and hugging my breasts, burying my equally broken face decorated sinisterly with dry blood and lacerations between my knees; sheltering my most sensitive areas was the only thing I could bring myself to do; shield my unimpressive, blameworthy body from the cold, all I could do so to prevent my body temperature from plummeting down into the depths of utter discomfort where I would most likely end up freezing to death.
That was another thing that disturbed me greatly about the only place where I was immune, unharmed, guaranteed safety from his advances – sexual or sadistic – even if it was for just a few hours, or a few days. This awful hellish room of mine – my prison, actually – that radiated no heat, and the sunlight that filtered in through the window covered with dark, silken curtains was very little due to the filth staining the glass; I had been given not an ounce of clean water to drink, and no sanitary trinkets of the sorts; just a bed comprised of metal, and moldy blankets riddled with blood, sweat, and droplets of cum.
The frosty, supercooled, subzero breeze did nothing to help ease the biting pangs of irritation and physical distress; the only thing the winterly chill did was make the swelling and blood caked cracks worse, if anything. The only way of escaping my prison, my cell – my 'Blood Room' as I had dubbed it on occasion – was through the thick metal door, securely locked and bolted just to ensure that I remained trapped here between these loathsome walls.
I even came to the point where I wanted to be back in my lousy apartment; the decrepit foundation that threatened to give in at any moment often became infested with rats, roaches, and just about any other critter that came to pay a visit, but the landlord, an elderly gentleman, had been kind enough as to not force me and my temporary roommate to pay the monthly rent.
We were given a barely edible meal and, thankfully, a working shower that had hot, blistering water, but Chelsea allowed me to sleep next to her in bed – after she had run away from Bakura and Tozokuoh again – in exchange for a night on the town whenever she asked. I had been disobedient, and the current circumstances was my reward; I knew for a fact that Chelsea had it far worse than I ever would, for she had two dark halves whose minds were much vivid, bloodier, and sanguinary than his.
The pristine and chilly autumn breeze created a dull mist that skimmed over the frozen ground outside the window, signaling the beginning of the season I once cherished. I got to my feet, wrapping the smirched, bedraggled blankets around my nude self, whimpering to myself when my legs nearly crumbled and gave way, almost breaking under the sudden weight that overbalanced a thousand tonnes; gripping my side, wincing at the pain in my hips, I walked – or, rather, I limped – towards the window, looking out.
The sordid, frigid air filtering in through pint-sized cracks in the window did little, if anything, to help boost my damaged morale; barely thirty minutes had passed since I awoke from that hellish dream and already I was feeling uneasy, tired from lack of sleep, murmuring the dismal fortune of my malcontent, and very cranky because of the mildly severe glacial draft.
I stared back out the window again, watching the bare trees swaying lifelessly in the autumn's cooling breeze. As a child I believed that trees had souls, but now the only soul I wound up fearing other than his was mine. Melodramatic, but very true; like a soul wholesome and pure. My soul, pure? Heh, my soul is about as clean and untainted as the water I use to wash my hands in.
To me it was quite pathetic that I hadn't seen, much less felt, the sun's rays in over ten years, since I had yet to regain the privilege of wandering outside these obscene, shameful walls, or, rather, he still has yet to reveal even the smallest hint that he can trust me not to try to run away as Chelsea had done on many an occasion.
In my rebellious years as a teenager, I had done so, had tried to escape from my earthly prison in the dead of night, and without him being any the wiser; only to be caught and dragged back to my room, beaten and tortured within an inch of my life before he left me to hang tittering off the balance of death.
Although I knew he didn't care whether I survived or not, I was somehow able to do just that; able to draw one battered breath after another; my body sore and wounded, my mind in shreds as it replayed what had just occurred like a broken projector; my soul ill-tempered, and more than once I found that I was more than just keen on taking my own life.
I was desperate for it, longed for such blissful release, but I knew that if I ended my misery, then that would be sheer cowardice; the former attempts at bringing forth self-destruction to my undeserving, gray-colored soul can still be seen visibly if someone looked hard enough, many are fresh because of the masochist in me wishing, craving, to feel numb, to feel nothing, and every time I would gladly oblige without hesitation.
Of course he didn't even try to make my living quarters less nauseating of a sight, my living conditions more appropriate for getting used to; day after day; month after month; year after year. In fact, I think he's enjoying seeing me wallowing in my self-made pit of despair. No, I know he is.
Marik is his name. But I don't call him that, or, rather, I'm not allowed to call him that. My Master, my Teishu no Sadisutikku, would never permit me to refer to him as being anything other than either of those titles. He was a direct incarnation of my hatred, my jealously, my anger, and sorrow. A ferocious, ungodly, immoral fiend spawned out of whatever negative emotions and energies I had towards my father.
He cannot perceive, nor understand, the human concept of compassion, sympathy, love, or to want to be protected or to be loved, and to protect someone who bears equal value of your own life, and he most likely has never heard of anyone speak of them.
If he has heard of such things, then he probably spits on such fathomless ideas that only the 'blasted Pharaohs and their simple-minded Hikari' could ever comprehend to the fullest. So he can only reject even the briefest inclination of emotions that he deems to be useless.
I smelled bacon and eggs, but that didn't discern my weakened body into walking towards the door. Once, it might have. But I knew better. The food wasn't for me, and even if it turned out he was preparing it for me, I wasn't in the mood to eat, and if later I was hungry, I only needed a little nibble here and there; after living on barely nothing for over a decade, I had grown used to nearly starving to death, and so I only needed to consume enough food to prevent that weak feeling in my knees from returning.
The same couldn't be said for him, not really, not in a sensible way; he didn't need to eat. For thirteen years I had never seen him consume or drink anything that wasn't my tears, blood, nectar, or sweat that oozes my fear within my pores, and it is understandable; he doesn't need to eat to feed his hunger, but his definitions of hunger fall into two categories – sexual or sadistic.
The sudden urge he felt whenever he wished to shed my blood, lap it up with his tongue while I writhed in agony, while I cried and begged for him to stop, but my efforts were always wasted; his arousal only heightened to a bloodthirsty, uncontrollable climax.
I sighed in dismay and walked back to my bed, feeling the metallic points prick into my rump when I sat down, but I ignored it, wrapping the sullied sheets tighter round me; I gradually got used to it over time, and didn't cry out like I did as a child. I looked up at the door and frowned to myself hearing distant footsteps coming down the hall, the aroma of well-done food nearly suffocating my nasal area; my stomach growled abruptly in anticipation at the prospect of finally being able to dine on food.
The door creaked open and he stepped inside, that infamous smirk he so casually wore plastered on his defined features, and he edged near to the bed, setting the tray littered with food on the aged night stand on the side of the bed. I didn't glance at the food, as he most likely expected me to, but rather I snapped my attention to look at him.
He stared back at me with an unreadable emotion in his eyes, his seas of poisonous lilac that seem to lead to the doorways to Heaven or Hell depending on his mood, and right then they seemed to point directly into the darkest and dankest pits of Hell.
Sometimes I wondered to myself what he meant when he told me that my eyes leaned more towards Purgatory than either of the spiritual realms, but then I'd begun to wondered what he thought whenever I told him of the opposing matter; how he thought regarding my statement, of his sights leading to either Heaven or Hell, then I always go back to scolding myself for thinking such childish thoughts.
Much like what I was doing while groggily reaching for the tiny cup on the tray, my attention directed at the colorful liquid swishing around in the glass, looking back at my reflection, trying not to direct my observant expression at anything else in the room.
More importantly the objects stained with brazened and intact blemishes of crimson.
He had killed so many, many times before, forcing me to watch, to observe as the screaming and thrashing of his victim heightened, and then he would set his sights on me, giving me whatever torture instrument he was holding, and telling me – no, ordering me – to finish what he started.
But I never could summon up enough self-confidence to take someone's life.
In the end he would always have to do it, and still forcing me to watch idly by as the person was put out of their misery; once that was done, his attention would shift to me, and leave me lying on the floor afterwards, limp as a sack of bones for three days.
I remember the time when he returned home in the middle of the night, roughly roused me from a deep, peaceful slumber, and half-dragged half-carried me down into his torture room; once there I saw that Chelsea, her face bearing fresh bruises and cuts, Bakura and Tozokuoh were there waiting for us; the latter persons were somewhat impatient while Chelsea appeared more disconcerted, more cheerless, than ever.
They each, in turn, directed our attention towards a young woman huddled in fear, prohibited from any ounce of movement because of the shackles locked onto her wrists; tufts of reddish-blonde hair fell over her face, blemished heavily in bruising and blood, the remains of her clothes lay in tatters over her body as she whimpered in the softest when Bakura took the first calculating steps near to her, and that's when I noticed her abdomen stuck outward in a noticeable way.
My eyes had widened in sorrow: surely they wouldn't bring harm unto a woman and her unborn child?
Sadly, as I quickly saw, that wasn't the case. They did in fact harm her, forcing us to watch and listen as the first screams of pain exploded from her cracked lips, as her blood was spilled and soon gathered in a thick puddle beneath her legs that stuck out in imperfect directions; obviously her limbs had been broken.
The three of them tried to implicate us into it as well, but we bluntly refused. Marik delivered the final blow to her: a quick jab to her neck, puncturing the juggler vein, and severing it. This became a routine for the two of us, a weekly ritual that we were forced into participating, but we never did get used to the screams of human agony, watching the blood stain the floor in yet another layer, yet another body added to their growing collection of victims. I believe some of her blood also stains the walls, alongside the red splatters belonging to not only her, me, and Chelsea, but also from their other victims.
Afterwards, I couldn't stand the sight of Chelsea being degraded enough by Bakura and Tozokuoh to clean up the mess, and had gotten down on my knees, emptying the contents of my stomach into the bucket; I'm sure her innards and the fetus still float in the dirty bucket as well, the very bucket I cleanse my hands with, only to be far from being filthy, and so I try not to clean my hands very often.
"Did you enjoy seeing her die? Did you enjoy seeing someone other than you or Little Sea bleeding?" Tozokuoh had asked me.
"I enjoyed it well before you and him came along; as Marik told you no doubt. Chelsea would agree with me if she wasn't so busy being your fucking maid and cleaning up the mess you three made, Tomb Robber." I replied; if my head wasn't leaning down into the multicolored mess, I'm more than certain he would've seen my smile.
"You're a poor liar. Never did you enjoy it; neither of you did. Admit it, you don't know the first thing about Little Sea, or yourself. You'll keep lying to you and to her; you will never enjoy watching others die before you."
We dreaded it more so whenever they brought home children. Toddlers to elementary year boys and girls; my heart stung whenever I listened to the little girls' shrieks; they were just as awful to hear as the boys' yelps and cries, if not more.
Then came the night when Tozokuoh brought Melissa.
Melissa was the Hikari of the Rurouni and the Hitokiri, Kenshin and Battosai. She was treated in a class altogether separate from Chelsea's and mine; she was treated with respect, kindness, and sympathy, always had someone there to cheer her up when she was depressed, or needed a shoulder to cry on. She was treated like royalty, like an empress' daughter, and I couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealously – perhaps even envy – when my thoughts wandered on her relationship with her 'dark' halves.
"There is no way but one to fully break a woman, dearest Hikari." Marik had whispered in my ear.
Again, Chelsea and I was forced to watch – Bakura holding her, and Tozokuoh holding me – as he stripped her, holding her body that was eerily limp and her glazed, doe brown eyes that seemed to focus on no one or nothing in particular; a catatonic-induced physical state because of some drug. The glossy sheen her brown eyes beheld didn't last once Marik twisted her lithe body at an impossible angle, then staked her hands to the floor with rusty nails and a hammer, then her mouth opened and a high-pitched scream came from her; another bout of painstakingly harsh screeching followed once Marik did the same to her feet as he did to her hands.
"Finish it."
I hesitated, then stumbled a little when Tozokuoh shoved me near to him, taking the knife his right hand was offering me. I turned and looked down into her brown eyes that silently begged me not to do what Marik had suggested of doing; bowing my head low, I turned slowly around and faced Marik, hoping he would be gullible enough to come within an arm's reach of me. He did and, taking a risky, calculating move, I evaded his hand that sailed to grab my wrist and jabbed the knife straight into his stomach, not stopping until the blade had embedded itself fully in his body.
Needless to say, afterwards, he showed me what fear and pain truly meant, but my gamble proved useful; Melissa had managed to escape, with some assistance from Chelsea and myself, before we were caught and brought back to our 'respected' homes. I do not know how bad Chelsea's punishment was; since that incident, I hadn't seen or heard from her for several days, but I knew neither of them would kill her; in their eyes, she was their beloved 'Pet', their precious 'Little Sea', and she was just another possession for them to own, but in human form.
Looking back on my childhood now, I can safely say with certainty I believe that, ultimately, my father caused his own demise. He was nothing but a ruthless brute who couldn't feel even the smallest hint of compassion, not even reveal a speck of kindness, to his own flesh and blood. For as long as I could remember, the first thing I had witnessed as a toddler was him butchering a young teenage girl and, worse, eventually took the life of my own mother, and I had bore witness to her death as well.
I had seen my father kill others more times than I cared to remember, but no one's passing afflicted me – damaged me, hurt me – with misery, sadness, and hatred than my mother's death, who had vanished from within reach of my hands far too soon, gone from my childhood sooner than expected; the one person who seemed to care for me, to show love for me, was gone forever, and I never did forgive him for doing what he did.
If the loathing I withheld from my father in the aftermath results of that incident could be measured, it would be virtually impossible. My discontent would be immeasurable, but he – Marik, my dark half – despised my father even more than I did; probably because he felt that only he could inflict such pain on me, and that anyone else who harmed me that wasn't himself deserved to be punished, dealt with in the most strict, violent, agonizing and torturous manner imaginable.
I wanted to slaughter my father. I wanted to stand over his bleeding carcass and laugh; laugh at how he was no longer living, no longer breathing, no longer permitted to hurt me or anyone else anymore. I wanted nothing more than to sit down in a pool of his blood, point at him and laugh and laugh, then look down at him and laugh some more; laugh until I was on the brink of losing my mind, laugh until I ran the risk of losing my mind and his. But I was too weak to do it; too much of a cowardly little girl to take the one life I felt was mine to steal.
And, for the first time since I was a toddler, I didn't bear witness to someone's death, for I had been 'temporarily insane at the time', as psychiatrists would likely say if my mental state was evaluated at the moment of his passing; Marik had killed my father, had murdered him in cold blood and without a second thought, killed him out of spite and hatred.
I learned the hard way at receiving one of life's most horrible and unmentioned lessons that day: If you can't summon the courage to do away with somebody whom you loathe with every fiber of your being, then create a schizophrenic, megalomaniac side of your outward persona, and have it take care of the problem.
Back to the present there remained one other problem. Marik was still in the room. With me.
I blanched as I raised the cup to my lips, feeling the mildly sweetening drink splashing over my taste buds, cringing my features in an all too noticeable expression of distaste, and put the drink back down on the tray.
"Drink. Eat. It may be your meal for days, Hikari." He told me with a smirk.
"I'm not hungry, Master." I replied, licking my lips to rid them of the sweetness.
"But I am."
"For what?" I know it wasn't my place to ask him such a question; only two possibilities are all too evident in his eyes, and if he is in a ecstatic and good mood, or a fiery and blistering rage mood, he will act upon both of them, regardless of my feelings in the matter.
That was another that I hated him for doing to me, what he reduced me to. Making me writhe in both pain and sexual ardor beneath him, nearing the point of begging him to do worse to me, scream at him to make me feel more humiliation and pain. He doesn't need a knife, chains, or shackles, a choker, a bed comprised of cold metal, and a self-made gag to tear into my body while suffocating me; his teeth, hands, and cock are enough.
The difference between a masochistic slut and me is nothing.
The smirk on his face shifted to a horrifying grin as his hands went to my waist, hauling me up off the bed and, inwardly, I felt the shame and grim aroused emotions rising within me while the ragged bedsheets fell to the floor; his grin widened and canines were slowly revealed, sun-kissed digits scraped across my hips as he laid his lips on my neck, sucking and biting gently; a surprise to me, considering who the person was marking my clavicle with 'love bites'.
"I want you to excite me in a way no other mortal can, Hikari. I want you to show me how violent and painful you wish for our session to be tonight; my teeth to gnaw on your skin, rigid with want and terror; my eyes to drink all that you have to offer me, consume and take in every ounce of agony and pleasure you can possibly release; my hands to carve my name deep into your white flesh and imprint it in your very soul, and deeper still, to hear you scream as your voice flows into my mind, like a graveyard mist."
With those words his hand grabbed at my crotch, and I tried to suppress a moan, but failed miserably, my hips ready to buck off the wall he slammed my body into, as he expected to.
But that's where I was going to stop.
Hissing through clenched teeth, I snatched the knife he kept for extra precautions off the bed side table, and sharply jabbed the weapon curled between my clutches at his throat.
Surprisingly, a soft melodious laugh rumbled deep within my chest as his body jerked forward, smashing every masculine crevice down upon my feminine nooks and cranny's, then the barely audible chuckle swiftly rose up and past my lips, laughing in his face and drove the blade in further; his skin breaking and his fleshy tissue tearing, the juggler vein made a sickening popping noise as blood squirted out from the wound, then the tip of the blade struck something hard and resistant.
Dropping to my knees, the bloody knife following suit after tearing it out of his throat, an uncharacteristic smirk tugged at my lips as I looked at his obvious arousal suggestively, then slowly raised the blade glistening with red and eagerly pressed it inward just inches from the tip of his manhood, digging it somewhere along his inner thigh, watching as his pants became stained in crimson; while doing this, my hysterical laughter seemed to only worsen – for me, or for him, it didn't make a difference in my eyes – for every inch by painstaking inch I drove the knife into his body.
Shocked, and taken aback for a moment, he grunted and snagged a hold of my wrist, forcing the knife out and then hauling me to my feet, looking down at me in curiosity seeing that I was still laughing even though he kept his grip firm on my skin, keeping his body pressed so close against mine.
"You knew I'd do it again sooner or later, Master Marik." I spat acidly in a fierce whisper once my fit of hysteria was over with, looking up in his lilac seas with a disconcerted gleam in my eyes, and a half-mad smile on my face.
He smirked, running the pad of his index finger across my cheek, his voice cracking a bit as more blood oozed freely from within the wound. "You know... you can't, Hikari."
I knew he spoke the truth; only a few seconds had passed, and already the wound was repairing the otherwise fatal damage on its own; the blood clotting over splintered bone, and the skin closing up, making it seem as if I had never stabbed him. Out of all the human ways of ending his life, it would take a blow from the most powerful man on Earth to make him even flinch, and there are only a few methods that can actually kill him; pain isn't something he feels easily, even if he does feel pain, he ignores it, and I ceased all ways to discover which methods would be possible to kill him long ago.
"You know what I desire, Marik. For once, it doesn't involve you; or what you may think."
He snorted. "You want what all mortals want. But... no matter how much you think you may want it, you'll never obtain it."
"You're wrong. I will obtain that which you deem is unobtainable; it's just a matter of time, and once that day comes, you won't be able to do anything to stop me. I've put up with you for thirteen years. I can stand it no longer; I'm leaving you and this place tonight, dead or alive."
He growled, narrowing his lilac eyes, outlined in dark markings, in a furious stupor; wrenching his overbearing weight off me, giving me a final token of his gratitude; a quick, yet expected slap across the face hard enough for my head to snap sideways; my cheek was blistered again and split open, a trio of rivers running down my face, but I looked up at him with no emotion.
"Go then and be damned to Hell!"
He turned on his heel sharply, leaving the room with a loud bang from the large metal door being its overseer. I was now free. Free of him. Free of the shackles that had once bound me to him. But where would I go? What would I do? I could just as easily run down the dark halls, go out into the world and be set free, finally gaining the freedom I thought was rightfully mine.
But the more I thought of it, the more impossible the likelihood of my soul no longer remaining imprisioned by his own, no longer my tarnished light growing more corrupted and violated with every passing moment seemed to be; I could never run from him; he was a part of me, a part of my mind, and no one can run from that, especially themselves.
The earth isn't that wide for a vile human like me to keep running blindly into the darkness!
Sooner or later I would be forced to return to him, and he knew it well before I had figured it out for myself, but why didn't he make even the vainest attempt to stop me, to forbid me from leaving him?
I frowned and took a long glance down at my hands that had bled my blood far too many times was drenched in his blood; driven by curiosity, I brought my hand up to my mouth, my tongue flicking out, and taking a tentative lick at the red liquid.
For the second time tonight, I surprised myself; I laughed in the darkness, walking over to the door and, confused seeing it opened, gliding down the hall and into the living room, silent as Death, without a shred of clothing on me.
He was sitting on the couch, not glancing at me. "I thought you were insistent on leaving. What more do you want?"
My answer was simple. "Freedom."
He smirked. "Impossible."
"If my chance for freedom is impossible, then tell me... what isn't impossible?"
The smirk remained on his face for the entire time it took him to get to his feet, walk over to me, place both of his well-defined hands on my shoulders and inch his tanned face in closer to my colorless features; I watched as his eyes sleeked over, glazed, radiating a light of emotion I couldn't directly identify.
"You are not impossible, my dear Hikari. You belong here with me. We were destined to come together like this; you were guided by a force out of your control to 'birth' me, to give me breath, and it is because of this fact alone you will never leave here; our connection, our bond would never permit it. You need me to survive; unlike yourself, I do not require you to become fully dependent on in order to ensure I live the next day. So unlike you, my dear."
I shook my head defiantly. "No, that can't be true! That isn't true!"
He laughed; cold, mocking, terrifying, and truly psychotic laughter, a canine snicker rumbled deep in his throat. "Yes, it is, Hikari. Admit it, and you'll be set free."
I blinked, feeling confused. "Set free? Of what? From what? From who?"
His answer only perplexed me all the more. "Yourself."
We shared a rather unnerving silence; then I glanced down at my right hand, smiling a little noticing that I was still holding the knife I had stabbed him in the neck and thigh with not too long ago, smiling at how beautiful the crimson staining the steel edge and dripping onto the carpeted floor looked so deceivingly appealing to me.
His lips curled in a way that was as close as he could come to smiling when he too inclined his gaze down at my hand; taking the knife from my hand, he raised the blade's edge to my lips, slitting them open and allowing them to bleed, permitting me to experience the tiniest ounce of happiness he gave me; my pain.
Then he slit his own mouth open; on bottom and top, cracking them wide apart, they bled heavily, trailing the sides of his lips and slicking over his canines as he grinned down at me; usually he terrified me when he bared his teeth to me, but it only made my smile widen.
"Yami oyobi Hikari... Haitou ato chi kisu motte touhou." He whispered huskily, pressing his forehead on mine, his eyes widening along with me.
I obeyed, pressing my lips against his with my easily-earned consent, moaning in his mouth in a drug-addicted climax only a dirty masochist could feeling his tongue slip inside, claiming dominance instantaneously, and growling in approval; a filthy, wretched, repulsive Hikari I was, a masochistic slut whose worth is nothing I was, and I knew I would mean nothing more to him than either of these titles of slavery, the shields that I had hidden behind for thirteen years.
But at that moment in my life, I didn't care for the outcomes the night would bring unto me; I would welcome his torment and sexual advances with open arms, a half-mad smile on my face, and my body awaiting to be delivered into an escalated haven of torture, pain, blood, ecstasy, and screams.
We were two sinners, converging on the road fate had guided us on, the very path I sought to destroy he had repaired, forcing us to come together in the most obscene of ways; intertwined with invisible restraints that connected my tainted light to his maw of darkness; a fallen angel captivated by the dark seduction her inner demon had made her hunger for.
I could never have wanted anything more than that.
Bleh... (Sticks her tongue out in annoyance) I don't like the ending. Anywho! Review please!
As I promised you guys, here's the glossary for you!
Hai – Yes
Teishu – Master
Puriti – Pretty
Koishii – Darling
Seibetsu – Sex
Dorei - Slave
Sadisutikku – Sadistic
Yami oyobi Hikari – Yami and Hikari
Haitou ato chi kisu motte touhou – Share a blood kiss with me