Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh and am in no way making monetary gain from
this fic.
A/N: Merely a whim. Let the blood flow free; for love knows no boundaries, and vengeance; no ends.
Warnings: Mostly psychological. Little bit of flesh-eating. Enjoy.
__________________
Malik carefully inserted a third razor. With a bitter, loving tenderness, he rocked it back and forth, letting it take its swift little cuts into the tissue of his forearm, stretching it, twisting it, letting his blood coat it in a regal scarlet caress. Rivulets of crimson running from the delicately precise wounds dripped methodically onto the angel-wing white bed sheets, staining them a royal ruby that made Malik's mouth water, made stars dance behind his fluttering eyelids.
He raised his razor-adorned arm skywards, and the streams of blood changed course, slowed, running over his gold armbands, over the taut, convulsing muscles of his shoulder, all the way to the concave of his clavicle., where it rested in a minute pool. With his arm held out to the heavens, Malik felt almost like a fallen angel of sorts, waiting for some merciful cherub to catch hold of his hand and lead him back masterfully to paradise.
Stretching his arm out in front of him, making his muscles contract, squeeze ruthlessly against the flat of the razor, he judged his accuracy. They were aligned almost perfectly, wonderfully, in a precise fashion that cut the artery that lay beneath the thin mocha skin so tantalizingly. From his growing high, Malik shut his eyes and threw his head back in a fit of sweet, scintillating ecstasy. Shots of electricity ran through every bone in his body. He licked his lips, moistening them, half opening his glazed violet eyes to stare up at the ceiling.
He rolled his head to one side, staring out the window at the unenlightened world outside. There were neon signs flashing in the distance, advertising the commodities of strip clubs and booze; party drugs and a good time in general. Buildings rose up like great metal monsters, steel bones rigid and unyielding; their numerous glass eyes staring blankly ahead.
Cars passed by, their headlights casting moving shadows in the corners of Malik's secluded room. He could hear their engines roar even from where he sat, and he almost smiled. A motorbike sped past, it's great engine roaring like some untameable beast, the wind whipping at its sides, and the driver's shielded face. In and out of the traffic it weaved, unstoppable. And for just a moment; Malik wished that his own bike wasn't in the shop still, waiting for some part that had to be shipped from North America.
A lady was screaming, shrieking that all too human cry of fear. She cried out repeatedly for help, but nobody came. As she came into view-she was only across the street-she was grabbed on the arm by a man in a ski mask. The woman hit the man with her purse desperately, but he didn't let go. He whipped something from inside the folds of his coat, and a loud bang sounded. The woman crumpled to the sidewalk like a disfavoured marionette. The man ran off with the purse, scurrying off into the night like the rat he was. A moment later; police sirens could be heard in the distance. Too late.
Malik's hand shakily went to the bedside table, picked up the glossy picture that rested there in its frame. He brought it close to his face, gazing forlornly at the picture image that had been captured; destined to a be a worthless reminder of what once was until someone threw it away or forgot about it.
Immortalized on the glassy piece of paper was a smiling couple; their maniacal glances filled with caring and protectiveness. Bakura's arms around Malik's waist as Malik turned his head to kiss Bakura lightly. Their eyes both flashing at the camera lens, staring straight into it in shock, not having seen it until the second before the button had clicked. Malik stroked the glass that held the picture in the frame. Slammed it facedown, back on the table, hearing glass and plastic crack against wood.
Overcome by the urge, Malik bit his arm, right beside where a razor opened up his skin and tissue. The action caused the rip to widen, a faint sound of flesh tearing before blood began oozing from it. Malik buried his face in it, licking it, lapping up the liquid in fervour. Another roll of sick ecstasy hit Malik, and his back arched. The wound tore open even wider, and shreds of pink tissue found themselves in Malik's mouth. The fleshy tissue tasted oddly foreign, but Malik swallowed them anyway; not finding the taste all together unappealing.
"Ohhhhhhhhhhh.." Malik eased himself onto his back as his body convulsed once more. His arms bent at odd angles that twisted important muscles. His back arched like a bow being strung, and he shook terribly, his breath coming in shuddering gulps. He could smell astringent, taste it on his tongue as it bubbled back up from his belly, his body trying to rid itself of the poison. Malik swallowed it down, feeling the burning, festering sensation as his body's own acids singed the walls of his throat.
Perhaps he was overdoing it? Maybe he was taking this to a level that needn't be. But then again; his body had always been so resilient, so immune to pain and lethal things that Malik felt it only necessary to flood his body with harmful things. An entire bottle of Aspirin coursed through his veins, thinning his blood, drugging him, killing him with the aid of burning astringents, rat poison, and finally; the tender letting of blood. He would not survive this onslaught. Malik made sure he would not.
Malik coughed, and a blend of poison and blood pushed against the back of his mouth. He rolled to one side, tossing his torso off the bed and vomiting into a small garbage can that rested beside his bed, full of papers and wrappers; bottles of Vaseline and dried up incense sticks. Thick strings of blood-pink saliva webbed his lips, and Malik sobbed, feeling vital things inside him shrivel.
His sandy hair, bleached from his time out in the hot Egyptian sun after his father's death, hung lank and damp, matted to his face by a thin sheen of feverish sweat. Violet eyes wandered the room restlessly; their impossible brightness gone; a glazed shine misting them, coating and glossing them. Through a dull haze, Malik saw a circlet of dead roses hanging from a nail on his wall. He smiled. Two weeks ago, they had been fresh and plump blood red buds; dewy and silky and perfect. Bakura had placed the circlet so delicately on his head, a display of one of the few, precious, and wonderful times where he was gentle and romantic. He had kissed Malik chastely on the lips and made him promise to keep it forever, until he died.
Dragging himself up from his bed, the tanned boy reached out a shaky hand to the circlet and picked it from the wall. A few dead petals and leaves rustled and fell to the ground, crackling almost inaudibly. Malik brought the circlet to his nose, inhaling its lingering rosy fragrance, along with that faint, delicious scent that was so dark, so extreme, so thick, so distinctly Bakura that Malik was tempted to eat the circlet just to taste that blend again. He licked a petal, moistening its decaying, dying ruby pigment.
Malik staggered back to the bed and collapsed onto it, accidentally falling on the razor-embedded arm. He hissed with a dull pain and examined the arm. Only the tips of the razors were visible now. They would be nestled deep in the flesh of his arm, his blood work, their metallic coldness feeding his hot blood. He rolled over onto his back and fondled the circlet absently. More petals broke loose, fluttering with a dead grace to Malik's gently heaving chest.
Delicately, Malik took one of the remaining petals on the circlet between his lips and tugged gently, breaking it off. He began sucking absently on it, his head rolling to the window once again, staring out into the inky depths of a night that, for all rights, was the same as any other. The police were still across the street, an ambulance driving away; it wasn't needed, the woman was dead already. A coroner's van moved to the scene, and a body bag was lifted into it. The police were interrogating a man who obviously didn't know what the hell had happened; he just lived in the apartment complex across the street from Malik.
Malik's body jumped, arched, pressed itself involuntarily into the mattress as he gasped for air. The rat poison was beginning to seep into his veins, being pumped in and out of his heart, killing him slowly. Blood trickled new paths down his cut arm; old dried up trails diverting newer ones. Clenching his teeth together to keep from screaming, Malik curled into a puerile position, wanting release from the agonizing pain. It would come soon enough, Malik reassured himself, his nails digging into his upper arms as he hugged himself, quaking and convulsing in spasms. Bakura would have his revenge for what Malik had done to him. Malik would punish himself for ever hurting his love; and this would ensure that he would never, ever hurt Bakura again.
A calmness; a soothing, peaceful coldness moved through Malik's body. It numbed him from the cold; felt like a thousand tiny needles injecting him with ice. A heaviness fell on him, and pushed him lifelessly into the bed, like a rag doll. Malik's face paled, grew slack, and the petal fell from between his pursed lips as they opened in a soft smile. Splayed out on the bed; as traffic sped by in the early hours of pre-dawn, Malik comforted himself with the fact that he would never harm Bakura again. Bakura had his retribution now.
Isis was pounding on the door. She had been for five minutes now, demanding that Malik let her in, at the very least to deliver his breakfast. It distressed her that her vivacious little brother was so utterly depressed over his break-up with Bakura, had locked himself in his room and wouldn't come out. Malik had to hear her pounding on the door. He didn't.
//Oh Bakura.I love you so much. I hope this is enough to ease you. I'm so sorry// Malik silently told his love, smiling bitterly. He vaguely wished he'd thought of writing a note. But it was too late now. Tears ran down his face unnoticed as Malik smiled, staring out the window at the small patch of clear, starry sky that the city allowed him. Malik's eyes slid closed, a smile still on his numb lips. Isis flung the door open, finished picking the lock.
She shrieked in horror.
Malik didn't move.
__________________
Well, that's it, I suppose. Or, it could just be a prologue. It's up to you. I'm content to leave it as is, but it's up to you; the readers. Finished, or only just begun? Review and advise.
A/N: Merely a whim. Let the blood flow free; for love knows no boundaries, and vengeance; no ends.
Warnings: Mostly psychological. Little bit of flesh-eating. Enjoy.
__________________
Malik carefully inserted a third razor. With a bitter, loving tenderness, he rocked it back and forth, letting it take its swift little cuts into the tissue of his forearm, stretching it, twisting it, letting his blood coat it in a regal scarlet caress. Rivulets of crimson running from the delicately precise wounds dripped methodically onto the angel-wing white bed sheets, staining them a royal ruby that made Malik's mouth water, made stars dance behind his fluttering eyelids.
He raised his razor-adorned arm skywards, and the streams of blood changed course, slowed, running over his gold armbands, over the taut, convulsing muscles of his shoulder, all the way to the concave of his clavicle., where it rested in a minute pool. With his arm held out to the heavens, Malik felt almost like a fallen angel of sorts, waiting for some merciful cherub to catch hold of his hand and lead him back masterfully to paradise.
Stretching his arm out in front of him, making his muscles contract, squeeze ruthlessly against the flat of the razor, he judged his accuracy. They were aligned almost perfectly, wonderfully, in a precise fashion that cut the artery that lay beneath the thin mocha skin so tantalizingly. From his growing high, Malik shut his eyes and threw his head back in a fit of sweet, scintillating ecstasy. Shots of electricity ran through every bone in his body. He licked his lips, moistening them, half opening his glazed violet eyes to stare up at the ceiling.
He rolled his head to one side, staring out the window at the unenlightened world outside. There were neon signs flashing in the distance, advertising the commodities of strip clubs and booze; party drugs and a good time in general. Buildings rose up like great metal monsters, steel bones rigid and unyielding; their numerous glass eyes staring blankly ahead.
Cars passed by, their headlights casting moving shadows in the corners of Malik's secluded room. He could hear their engines roar even from where he sat, and he almost smiled. A motorbike sped past, it's great engine roaring like some untameable beast, the wind whipping at its sides, and the driver's shielded face. In and out of the traffic it weaved, unstoppable. And for just a moment; Malik wished that his own bike wasn't in the shop still, waiting for some part that had to be shipped from North America.
A lady was screaming, shrieking that all too human cry of fear. She cried out repeatedly for help, but nobody came. As she came into view-she was only across the street-she was grabbed on the arm by a man in a ski mask. The woman hit the man with her purse desperately, but he didn't let go. He whipped something from inside the folds of his coat, and a loud bang sounded. The woman crumpled to the sidewalk like a disfavoured marionette. The man ran off with the purse, scurrying off into the night like the rat he was. A moment later; police sirens could be heard in the distance. Too late.
Malik's hand shakily went to the bedside table, picked up the glossy picture that rested there in its frame. He brought it close to his face, gazing forlornly at the picture image that had been captured; destined to a be a worthless reminder of what once was until someone threw it away or forgot about it.
Immortalized on the glassy piece of paper was a smiling couple; their maniacal glances filled with caring and protectiveness. Bakura's arms around Malik's waist as Malik turned his head to kiss Bakura lightly. Their eyes both flashing at the camera lens, staring straight into it in shock, not having seen it until the second before the button had clicked. Malik stroked the glass that held the picture in the frame. Slammed it facedown, back on the table, hearing glass and plastic crack against wood.
Overcome by the urge, Malik bit his arm, right beside where a razor opened up his skin and tissue. The action caused the rip to widen, a faint sound of flesh tearing before blood began oozing from it. Malik buried his face in it, licking it, lapping up the liquid in fervour. Another roll of sick ecstasy hit Malik, and his back arched. The wound tore open even wider, and shreds of pink tissue found themselves in Malik's mouth. The fleshy tissue tasted oddly foreign, but Malik swallowed them anyway; not finding the taste all together unappealing.
"Ohhhhhhhhhhh.." Malik eased himself onto his back as his body convulsed once more. His arms bent at odd angles that twisted important muscles. His back arched like a bow being strung, and he shook terribly, his breath coming in shuddering gulps. He could smell astringent, taste it on his tongue as it bubbled back up from his belly, his body trying to rid itself of the poison. Malik swallowed it down, feeling the burning, festering sensation as his body's own acids singed the walls of his throat.
Perhaps he was overdoing it? Maybe he was taking this to a level that needn't be. But then again; his body had always been so resilient, so immune to pain and lethal things that Malik felt it only necessary to flood his body with harmful things. An entire bottle of Aspirin coursed through his veins, thinning his blood, drugging him, killing him with the aid of burning astringents, rat poison, and finally; the tender letting of blood. He would not survive this onslaught. Malik made sure he would not.
Malik coughed, and a blend of poison and blood pushed against the back of his mouth. He rolled to one side, tossing his torso off the bed and vomiting into a small garbage can that rested beside his bed, full of papers and wrappers; bottles of Vaseline and dried up incense sticks. Thick strings of blood-pink saliva webbed his lips, and Malik sobbed, feeling vital things inside him shrivel.
His sandy hair, bleached from his time out in the hot Egyptian sun after his father's death, hung lank and damp, matted to his face by a thin sheen of feverish sweat. Violet eyes wandered the room restlessly; their impossible brightness gone; a glazed shine misting them, coating and glossing them. Through a dull haze, Malik saw a circlet of dead roses hanging from a nail on his wall. He smiled. Two weeks ago, they had been fresh and plump blood red buds; dewy and silky and perfect. Bakura had placed the circlet so delicately on his head, a display of one of the few, precious, and wonderful times where he was gentle and romantic. He had kissed Malik chastely on the lips and made him promise to keep it forever, until he died.
Dragging himself up from his bed, the tanned boy reached out a shaky hand to the circlet and picked it from the wall. A few dead petals and leaves rustled and fell to the ground, crackling almost inaudibly. Malik brought the circlet to his nose, inhaling its lingering rosy fragrance, along with that faint, delicious scent that was so dark, so extreme, so thick, so distinctly Bakura that Malik was tempted to eat the circlet just to taste that blend again. He licked a petal, moistening its decaying, dying ruby pigment.
Malik staggered back to the bed and collapsed onto it, accidentally falling on the razor-embedded arm. He hissed with a dull pain and examined the arm. Only the tips of the razors were visible now. They would be nestled deep in the flesh of his arm, his blood work, their metallic coldness feeding his hot blood. He rolled over onto his back and fondled the circlet absently. More petals broke loose, fluttering with a dead grace to Malik's gently heaving chest.
Delicately, Malik took one of the remaining petals on the circlet between his lips and tugged gently, breaking it off. He began sucking absently on it, his head rolling to the window once again, staring out into the inky depths of a night that, for all rights, was the same as any other. The police were still across the street, an ambulance driving away; it wasn't needed, the woman was dead already. A coroner's van moved to the scene, and a body bag was lifted into it. The police were interrogating a man who obviously didn't know what the hell had happened; he just lived in the apartment complex across the street from Malik.
Malik's body jumped, arched, pressed itself involuntarily into the mattress as he gasped for air. The rat poison was beginning to seep into his veins, being pumped in and out of his heart, killing him slowly. Blood trickled new paths down his cut arm; old dried up trails diverting newer ones. Clenching his teeth together to keep from screaming, Malik curled into a puerile position, wanting release from the agonizing pain. It would come soon enough, Malik reassured himself, his nails digging into his upper arms as he hugged himself, quaking and convulsing in spasms. Bakura would have his revenge for what Malik had done to him. Malik would punish himself for ever hurting his love; and this would ensure that he would never, ever hurt Bakura again.
A calmness; a soothing, peaceful coldness moved through Malik's body. It numbed him from the cold; felt like a thousand tiny needles injecting him with ice. A heaviness fell on him, and pushed him lifelessly into the bed, like a rag doll. Malik's face paled, grew slack, and the petal fell from between his pursed lips as they opened in a soft smile. Splayed out on the bed; as traffic sped by in the early hours of pre-dawn, Malik comforted himself with the fact that he would never harm Bakura again. Bakura had his retribution now.
Isis was pounding on the door. She had been for five minutes now, demanding that Malik let her in, at the very least to deliver his breakfast. It distressed her that her vivacious little brother was so utterly depressed over his break-up with Bakura, had locked himself in his room and wouldn't come out. Malik had to hear her pounding on the door. He didn't.
//Oh Bakura.I love you so much. I hope this is enough to ease you. I'm so sorry// Malik silently told his love, smiling bitterly. He vaguely wished he'd thought of writing a note. But it was too late now. Tears ran down his face unnoticed as Malik smiled, staring out the window at the small patch of clear, starry sky that the city allowed him. Malik's eyes slid closed, a smile still on his numb lips. Isis flung the door open, finished picking the lock.
She shrieked in horror.
Malik didn't move.
__________________
Well, that's it, I suppose. Or, it could just be a prologue. It's up to you. I'm content to leave it as is, but it's up to you; the readers. Finished, or only just begun? Review and advise.