Summary: Bakura makes his light cut. What happens when Ryou has had enough? Blood, death, self-harm, no pairings.

Warnings: Blood, death, self-harm.

You watched me as I stood there, knife in hand. You smirked sadistically as my pleading eyes met yours, begging for forgiveness.

"I'm sorry!" I screamed. Your smirk grew as you motioned to the knife in my hand.

"Prove it," you ordered.

My eyes well up with tears as I pressed the silver blade to my arm. With a swift yank, I tore open my skin, staining it scarlet. I let out a painful scream; you let out a sadistic laugh. The tears fell, and continued falling, as I continued this onslaught, this masochistic attack on my arms.

You only laughed more, which drove me to slice deeper, longer.

Of course, I was in no danger; this was only the soul room, my body was only a fake. This is why you dragged me here: so you could enjoy my pain and misery with the satisfaction of knowing I was in no danger of death but still feeling all the pain I would if I were in my real body.

Time and time again, you made me do this. Your sick pleasure that you derive from my suffering made it worse every time. You love the scars that line my arms, the scars that only mark my soul. The scars that are invisible to the eye, but are so obvious to you.

Finally came the worst of all. The longest, most painful of all, with the sharpest knife. I didn't want to, but you made me. I tried to stop myself, but you drove me over the edge. I took the knife, I grasped it firmly.

I stepped toward you.

And before you knew what happened, I drove the knife deep into your chest. Your eyes widened, you made some sort of squeaking noise, as if you were trying say why?

Your pathetic expression only strengthened my hatred. I pulled the knife out and stabbed again, into the spot where your heart was. With one quick, weak look at me, you spat up blood and collapsed onto the ground.

I stared at your bloodied, mangled corpse as it continued to bleed onto the floor. It crossed me that this was your spirit; your true form that I had just killed. Murdered. It crossed me that you would never come back, that I would never hear or see you again. I dropped the knife and it clattered to the ground, splashing in the blood that was gathered at my feet. I sunk to my knees, covering my jeans crimson, and stared at your body. Tears well up in my eyes as I tried to comprehend what just happened. I gathered your body in my arms and held it close, sobbing into your sopping-wet hair.

"I'm sorry," I whisper to the body that could no longer hear me, "but you made me do this…"

Exeunt omnes