A/N: Written for the Mega Prompts Challenge at the GX Writing Academy, sentence prompts, #28 – "He looked so small, so fragile, lying there with pale skin wrapped in scars and cheeks still moist with tears." The sentence prompts are supposed to be used directly; mine pops up in the first line. (No need for a disclaimer since I'm the one who wrote those prompts :D The line still belongs to me.)
This is a slightly extravagated take on the Yubel/supressing Judai's memories part of his life. It just popped out of the first sentence…somehow.
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Guardian Angel
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He looked so small, so fragile, lying there with pale skin wrapped in scars and cheeks still moist with tears. Gentle yet firm, she dabbed them away. They had no place there, on his cheeks, where only the lines of smiling should be cutting. But those lines had faded away; it had been far too long since he had last smiled at her, at them – at anyone.
She left her hand on his cheek; it was so hollow now too. How long had it been since he'd last eaten properly, slept properly. The hospital lights brought out the contrast of his skin all too well: the usual tan abnormally light, the shadows under his eyes abnormally dark. She knew they, her husband and herself, were rarely home because of their work, but how could they miss such obvious signs?
How could they let their flowering son crumble so much?
She felt a hand on her shoulder – her husband – and she gave him a wan smile. 'And we were worrying he'd get too fat,' she said, a falsetto of lightness.
Her husband said nothing, free hand tracing the light scratches that marred sagging skin. His silent thoughts rung loud: the same as hers – their guilt, their despair. Her free hand, the one not still resting on her son's cheeks, came up to rest atop her husband's. 'How did this happen?' she whispered, her voice grating in the heavy silence. 'Why did we let this happen?'
They'd just thought that, when they weren't around, Yubel would look after him…like a guardian angel.
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They hadn't been surprised when Judai first started seeing spirits. They'd seen them themselves from a young age, so it was only a matter of time. And it gave them all some solace; they didn't have to hover every waking moment over their child's bed, once crib. He could see when the troublesome monsters approached, when the nice ones came to play with him. And he made friends with those nice ones quickly; they defended him, made a circle of protection that kept the occasional wicked one at bay.
Of course, they were all low level monsters; the barrier between words was stable so the more powerful breeds could not sneak through before they caught them. But working day and night in that environment, constantly scanning the world for any rogue spirits that could be a threat to anyone, made them worry. Because their child was too young and too naïve.
They encouraged his duelling when they could. They encouraged him to bond with his cards, cards that became his friends and would protect him. They gave him cards as well, cards to solidify his deck, make him stronger.
And, eventually, they gave him Yubel.
She was the perfect headliner for his deck: a ten star monster with no attack and defence points. Most of Judai's monsters were like that: seemingly weak, but hiding some special power, some passion. His favourite was the image of Kuriboh on his wall, beside the poster with the King of Games and his Black Magician. But Yubel quickly rose to share that rank.
Judai loved Yubel, perhaps more than he loved his other cards. Maybe it was because she was older, more eloquent. She was almost a babysitter to him, a guardian, and when they saw how well she looked after him they were at ease. Her ability meant she could not be destroyed; her intelligence meant Judai would come to no harm with her. He would be safe, perfectly safe; they didn't have to worry about those long hours at work they spent away from him.
And Yubel did: she looked after Judai like they couldn't. She went with him to school, sat with him in class, at lunch. Played with him when no-one was home. Watched like a mother hen when he played with friends and neighbours – and that's where the problems took root.
Judai didn't get many chances to play rough; his friends were largely spirits, intangible. They played hide and seek more often than play-wrestling in the mud. So when the other boys wrestled with him they always pushed him to the ground, sometimes made him squirm in perfectly innocent pain – the pain of playing around. But the spirits didn't see it like that; they were protective of Judai; they didn't like the idea of someone causing him pain.
Judai tried to explain, but a child's logic was weak and incomplete and only the low level monsters were convinced. Yubel was not, and she would not stand for watching him hurt. At first, her interventions were small and inconspicuous; soon, they grew worse, and too often Judai cried, begged her to stop. She angered at that; she would not allow him to suffer on her watch, she said, failing to see her own actions were causing the most pain.
His parents feared as well, feared the spirit would eventually destroy their son regardless of her intentions. They even began to fear their intentions; as intelligent as she was, it may all have been a part of some greater plan of hers, a plan to take their son. Paranoia seized them; paranoia seized their son. He hid, afraid Yubel would hurt his family, his friends.
Eventually an opportunity came, and they sent her to space, where the gentle darkness could hopefully soften her soul and grant her understanding.
And then the nightmares had begun.
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At first, everyone went on with their daily lives, just trying to forget Yubel. Judai struggled the most in that, because his once-friends remembered, friends that had been frightened away by her actions. But that would fade, they'd hoped. Given time, the children would forget, forge relationships anew.
Maybe those other children did forget, after a bit. They stopped giving Judai a wide breath; they started coming close again. But Judai didn't. He dreamt of her every night, waking up screaming incoherently and drenched in sweat. Sometimes it was even worse; he'd be clawing at his face and hands, choking on words and trying, desperately, to tell them something they just couldn't understand. And he'd wake up the next day with a fever that would keep him ill and in bed for days after, with dreams coming still in between, refusing him respite.
Eventually, the scratch marks got too deep, the nightmares too much. They didn't know when it got worse though, when he stopped taking care of himself, started blaming himself. They didn't see the cheeks slowly sink in, or the skin above the stomach slowly sag. They didn't see the skin go slowly yellow and pale. They were too focused on spirits and the nightmares to see it until he collapsed in school one day and everything came tumbling forth.
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He'd been so bubbly and full of energy before, and they'd tried to keep him that way and he'd wound up like a broken china doll instead. She sighed, lifted her hand off her son's cheek and covered her eyes. It didn't hide the sight; nothing would ever hide the sight of a suffering child.
Even now, drugged and unconscious, the nightmares assaulted him. His skin was stretched to tight; his muscles were too taut. Spirits gathered around his bed: weak in level, but angry and chirping and concerning, eyeing the hospital and its equipment and the doctors and them with distrust. They'd been wrong; encouraging the Duel Monsters, the relationship with the spirits, hadn't protected their son; it had hurt him instead.
They had no other choice but to take it all away and hope the antithesis would protect him instead.
Footsteps came, but neither of them moved, both of thinking, remembering…regretting. It was only when the doctor's voice reach them did the mother release her husband's hand, did the father's hand drop from his wife's shoulder and his eyes leave his son.
'We're ready for him,' was all the doctor said.
The father nodded; the mother stayed towards her son, bent over and kissed him lightly on the forehead, brushing away some hair. 'You'll be better soon,' she said softly. 'I'll make you your favourite fried shrimp when you do.'
She wanted to say more, so much more, but none of it would come not. And maybe that was for the best, because they were trying to erase it all, bring back the toddler who'd run about the house curious about everything, who'd eat anything in reach if they didn't stop him and run and play by himself in the backyard until he was too tired to play anymore, and then snuggle into their laps and listen to their stories of work.
'Ready?' her husband asked her quietly.
She wasn't, not really, never really, but she nodded.