Disclaimer- I own no part of Yu-Gi-Oh. "Living With Ghosts" is the title of an album by Patty Griffin.
Spoilers- Reference to the events of the final episodes of the original series.
Living With Ghosts
Before that duel, the proverbial battle against myself, I thought that I knew what pain was. Certainly, I had been acquainted with some varieties of it: the shock of an assailant's fists, the torment of fear, the anguish of being a piece in a Shadow game. None of these, however, which overwhelmed me so utterly in their respective moments, can even compare to what I felt when his life points hit zero, and I realized that not only was there nothing left to say but "Goodbye", but that it was all my doing.
I know that I shouldn't have been surprised; I should have expected it. After all, what did I think we were working for, throughout most of our teenage years? Certainly, we didn't go through all of that trouble, face down all those enemies, so that Atem could sit in the Puzzle with his memories for company. That would actually have been crueller than letting him go on as he was, a being without an identity of his own, a trespasser in both my soul and my life. I like to think that I would never have been able to watch him suffer like that, that I would have done whatever it took to make him happy, but the truth is that, if it meant that he would still be here with me as I type this… I might have been selfish enough to hold onto him, no matter what the cost.
It hurts. I feel that it shouldn't, but it does. Every day, when I reach for the space the Puzzle used to occupy on my desk, I try to tell myself that he's finally at peace, that it was not only the best, but the only choice. And the words are comforting, to a certain extent; it does make me feel better to think of him on the other side, basking in the glory of belonging amid his old friends, his contemporaries. But, as I've said, I am selfish, and this consolation palls far too quickly. No words are going to heal the scar in my soul, which oozes fresh drops of separation anxiety with every breath I take. I'm beginning to believe that nothing will. Well, actually, that's not entirely true. The sight of his face, the sound of his voice, the closeness of his presence… those would make everything alright again.
That day, I lost more than my best friend. I lost more than a brother, or a guardian. It isn't that he wasn't all of these things to me, because he was, but none of the words seem to capture the nature of our relationship precisely enough. How can I describe what it felt like to weather a particularly intense crying session, and notice his arms, transparent and weightless but infinitely comforting, around me? How can anyone understand how I looked up to him, as the version of myself that I've always wanted to become? How can I let go of the certainty that, no matter what happens, my king is going to ride to my rescue? How can I ever let go of these ghosts of him, and most importantly, how will I ever be able to grow up if I don't?
People often say it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. I used to think that was true, when all I knew of life was loneliness and ignorance, and maybe in a way, it is. Certainly, I wouldn't trade an instant of the time we spent together for anything, except the chance to do it all over again. But this pain, however bittersweet its fusion with my memories has made it, is enough to make me understand why people can seal themselves away from the world, why someone would choose oblivion over being forced to witness another sunrise. Hatred is quick to fill the void left by a great love, and most of the time, it's impossible to redirect or dispel.
My friends have tried, of course. They've noticed that something's wrong, and they've done all that they can, become the model of compassionate human beings. I adore them for this, the effort itself as well as the love behind it, but I can't really appreciate any of it. It doesn't resonate deeply enough to dislodge the weight of my memories, or intensely enough to overpower the stubborn tenacity of my love. No matter how hard they try, they'll never exorcise him, and there's a very simple reason for that.
I don't want them to succeed. I don't want to be saved. If holding onto every shred of our time together, every moment of our shared past, means that I'll be destroyed, I'll die euphorically.
Sometimes, when I begin to think like this, and the pills and knives become all too tempting, I feel him watching me, like he's never left, as though his soul is still hanging around my neck. So far, this sensation has stopped me from going too far, from trading the pain for the off-chance that death might allow me to see him again, but even this, the spectre of his disappointment, is beginning to lose its power to restore my will to live. I know, instinctively, that it won't hold me back much longer, but I will keep fighting to the end, if only out of respect for the duelist's honour he left me. No matter how excruciating it gets, I will do my best to live, to draw joy from the fact that I got to meet him at all. I won't give up, but I can't lie to myself either. Knowing him taught me to know myself, and I know that, finally, I have stumbled into a duel I cannot win.
I cannot live without him. That's all there is to it.