Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-gi-oh or any characters written about herein. If I did, the following certainly wouldn't happen, but speculation is always fun.
Author's Note: This is a rather dark, very short, Mokuba/Rebecca ficlet. Read, review, you know the drill.
Denial was like a narcotic – no matter how much was used, it only became an increasingly necessary part of every day life, required in larger and larger doses until the addiction became almost unbearable. Entire lives were lived and lost within bubbles of self-deception. It sufficed to cloak her during their almost violent arguments. It soothed her when she reached out her arms and found emptiness beside her in bed. It whispered sweet rationalizations of why the ring was still on her finger, why things hadn't fallen apart long ago, why she returned home day after day to an apartment grown cold and barren. It even covered her dreams in candy-coated lies, sending her to a world of bliss for only a few hours each night.
His own denial, more potent than hers, did the most damage.
She'd ignored the times he'd stumbled home stinking of another woman's perfume. She'd brushed aside their dwindling joint savings account and the gradual disappearance of wedding presents she held so dear. The empty prescription bottles flung around the bathroom floors escaped her clouded notice, the bills piling up despite his massive income. She was even able to overlook his "long nights" at the office. After all, he stood to inherit a multi-million dollar company someday.
She couldn't, however, ignore the sad look in his older brother's eyes. He, naturally, didn't shy away from reality, no matter how far she and her husband sank from it. He could have been her support, her rock, had she so chosen to seek him out for it, but he avoided her and she him, out of a mutual respect for one another's privacy. In a way, he understood the need for dreams and self-deception, and wasn't going to rob her of its scant comfort.
And she was simply too stubborn to admit she had a problem.
She also couldn't ignore or explain away the leaden silence that struck her in the face as she entered her – their – apartment. All of her – their – furniture was in its place, but the throw pillows were scattered on the carpet, books and trinkets missing from their shelves.
Only the hall light was burning, just as she'd left it that morning. After their breakfast and coffee and morning news and a rather silly argument about their anniversary trip to Tahiti. Three years that felt like an eternity.
Three childless years.
She understood the pressure he was under. Produce an heir, secure the line. His brother, the eternal bachelor, wouldn't do it, and the press would have a field day with the news that he was shooting blanks. Truly, she understood, but it had created that miniscule rift between them that had widened to an unreachable gap. The core of the disease, and yet the smallest part.
He refused to adopt, thinking that it was, somehow, cheating. Of course, he didn't appreciate it when she pointed out that he and his brother were adopted and doing just fine, and that the company was going to respect power no matter where it came from. He'd scented the threat beneath her words and hadn't spoken to her for a week, after loudly insisting that the problem lay with her, not him, despite the medical tests proving otherwise. After all, nothing was his fault.
Slender fingers brushed the light switch in the kitchen, blue eyes trying desperately to overlook how desolate it looked without the expensive artwork adorning the walls. She poured herself a glass of juice, a nightly ritual she'd followed without fail, fighting to keep the tear from spilling down her cheeks. Her armor was cracking, giving under the weight of dozens and dozens of cracks that she'd been unable to fill quickly enough.
The empty glass clattered in the sink and the switch depressed, bathing the room back in darkness. Her bare feet made barely any sound as she shifted from tile to carpeting, toes sinking into the softness. Then, before the door to her – their – bedroom, she hesitated, reflexive excuses chambered and ready.
She knew it'd be useless. The air clung to her with its sour stench of finality, and she allowed a few tears to escape. After all, there was no use in clinging to her denial, no matter how long and how well it had served her, after what he'd said to her that afternoon. Breath catching in her throat, she pushed the door open.
"You said you'd never leave."
His clothes, personal belongings, were all gone. The closet doors lay open, abandoned, and even the bed seemed to droop beneath a great weight. The curtain were drawn, windows open, letting in the fading light and lingering breeze.
"You said you'd always love me…"
Without coherent thought, she found herself in front of a massive dresser, absently scanning her reflection before dropping to the single photograph left standing. Her fingers reached out, tracing the fine engraving on the frame.
At least he'd left her that.
The couple in the photograph looked so happy, young and in love. They were clinging to one another as if they were the last people on earth, laughter dancing in their eyes. She in her pristine white dress and veil, a bouquet of flowers clutched in her hand, he in a traditional black tuxedo, hair neatly trimmed and face clean-shaven.
She traced the words again.
Mokuba and Rebecca Kaiba. May 2004.
Three short, blissful years.
Three long, tireless years of strife.
It felt like an eternity ago. It had been fine, in the beginning, almost picture perfect, like the fairy tale her life had never been. Her grandfather had lived long enough to see her happily married and promising him great-grandchildren to play with and tell his stories to. She felt relieved he hadn't survived to see her like this.
"You promised."
She gripped the frame tightly, knuckles almost turning white, before pivoting and slamming it to the ground. She watched it bounce, once, twice, then settle face down.
"Mokuba…"
She sank to her knees, ignoring the sudden, intrusive ring of the phone. She knelt before the fallen picture as if a supplicant, begging to be redeemed.
Till death do us part.