Torture.

In Bakura's mind, that was the only coherent word he could think of.

Torture. Torture. Torture.

It summed up the entire experience quite nicely, actually. All of those sleepless nights, the anxiety, the fear, the pain, the sickness, the overwhelming guilt as each of his loved ones one by one fell prey to the spirit of the Millennium Ring, all of it packaged into that one little gut-wrenching word.

Torture.

Torture.

Torturetorturetorturetorturetorturetorturetorturetorturetorturetorturetorturetorturetorturetorturetorture—

Bakura's eyes flew open. Or rather, stayed closed. In all honesty, it didn't matter in the Shadow Realm.

In his mind, he wearily looked around through half-lidded eyes. What met them was the same image each time he regained a little bit more consciousness.

Wails of agony that swelled and ebbed all around him. And around him were shadows. Dark, chaotic, screaming shadows that formed split-second shapes then crumbled back into smoke. Deformed faces with mouths stretched unnaturally wide. Monsters that snapped their teeth and lolled their tongues. Instruments of pain, jabbing at him from every angle.

He was floating, yet he felt like he was standing. Certainly his feet were slipping and sliding across something. It smelled sickeningly like blood. Something else was holding his arms up at the wrists so that he hung from his bonds and his legs flopped beneath him.

Something tickled his foot. Almost lazily, he slid his eyes downward to see what it was. And nearly vomited.

A huge black scorpion, the size of his fist, was slowly making its way up his calf. Where its head should have been, the skin swelled grotesquely to accommodate the single, bulbous, bloodshot eye in the center, looking directly at his face. And there wasn't just one. Practically a hundred were emerging from the dark, all scuttling eagerly for the one sliver of white standing out in the abyss, like a beacon among a storm.

They'd been here before. Them, and more, shadows and monsters eager to feast upon his soul. Little by little they stripped away at it, taking shapes they knew would terrify him, teasing him with words they knew would deepen despair. The more he would scream, the more excited they would get. Then, when they had taken their fill (or perhaps they didn't want to finish him off too quickly) they would leave for a time, before returning once again.

Lately, the screams had left him. Now he simply hung there, and could only tremble as the scorpions opened their round mouths, filled with endless rows of tiny teeth, and once again dug into his flesh.

Help me, the tiny shred of Ryou Bakura that was still sane begged. Help…

No one would help. No one had come to help him in the entirety he had been trapped here.

He could try to escape...Yes, just like the many times he'd awoken to find himself back in this cursed realm, he had the option to bring himself out, to try and claw his way back to the surface. He could will himself to leave (if he still had any will left) and return back to his own mind.

But always, the Spirit...Ryou shuddered, though whether it was from the memory or the feel of hundreds of feet crawling across his skin, he couldn't tell. Always, he would be there. He would inevitably notice, and with knife-like malice would snarl until Ryou had retreated, cowering, back into the depths of Hell. Or, in other times, throw him there.

Better to stay put. Though, Ryou thought through the haze of agony, it really made no difference...Here was no better than anywhere else.

A hiss of breathy laughter began to rise from somewhere around him, growing louder as a malevolent ghost approached him, its disfigured skull regarding him hungrily. It slowed to a stop, floating before him, and reached out a hesitant bony hand towards his head. The fingers trembled, dancing about the air as if picking the best spot to dig themselves into, then suddenly shot forward to seize his hair and force his face upwards.

"Such a pretty morsel," it giggled, the triple cacophony of oily voices oozing from its jaws. "Centuries since I've had anything so pure...I think I'll start with your throat!"

The jaws descended, but somehow Ryou had regained just enough consciousness to become fearful, and in a surge of strength he jerked back, breaking the spirit's grip and its hand along with it. The spirit shrieked in pain and fury, but before it could lunge for him again, it suddenly dissipated in an explosion of shadows and dust. A demon this time, with an ox-like face and bird feet, snorted as it hefted its battle ax back over its shoulder.

"Puny wisp," it growled. "If anyone's getting that meal, it's me."

A long purple tongue swiped its rotting lips. "Don't move, meat," it said, suddenly turning its attention towards Bakura and pulling its leathery snout back to reveal black, razor-like teeth. It gave its ax a couple of experimental swings. "I want to make this cut nice and clean."

Bakura's eyes widened, and his mouth curved into a wail of horror. Suddenly his limbs, emaciated as they were, were forced into action. Feet scrabbling, he heaved against his bonds, willing with all his might to leave, to escape, forgetting momentarily of what would await him the instant he emerged. He bonds holding him were loosening, the burning sensation of his surroundings was fading...

And like that, he was out.

He panted harshly, his eyes wide but not making out what was before him. His body was frozen, paralyzed, and it felt so unnatural. He wanted to move, but he couldn't, he simply couldn't, and it was terrifying, for he knew that if he remained there any longer he would be violently thrown back into the dismal prison he had just escaped. His breathing grew shorter, and he was gasping, choking on his fear.

Move! he pleaded. Just move anything! Anything! It doesn't matter, just move!

With the greatest amount of effort he had ever taken, he managed to slowly drag his finger across the sheets.

With that, his paralysis crumbled, and he collapsed to the side, trembling. He weakly clutched the covers of his bed closer to his chest as he sobbed, or tried to sob, the energy to do so having depleted long ago.

One of his hands somehow found its way to his mouth. As he slowly pushed himself to a sitting position, his stomach lurched, and he struggled to keep its contents inside. If there were any contents to speak of, that is. Whatever was left, they were spilling up his throat, onto his tongue, and he gagged. Little strands of drool leaked out from the palm still clamped over his mouth and dripped slowly on the cloth.

After a few minutes he finally managed to regain some semblance of control over himself. His breathing came in heavy, ragged gasps, but it was steady. Slowly, carefully, he made an effort to push himself upright again. He did so awkwardly, but after several tries, he was sitting up.

He was free.

For the first time in…

Oh, he'd certainly lost count by now. He didn't even bother trying to keep track anymore of how much time would pass during his blackouts. Sometimes only a few minutes would zip by and he'd be in a store with no memory of having walked there, or he would take his first breath of fresh air after what felt like centuries of imprisonment and find that three weeks had gone by, all without him noticing what had occurred or knowing what he had done.

But he was out, for the first time in a long time. After suffocating in the putrid, writhing, stabbing bowels of the Shadow Realm, he was in control of his own body.

A smirk, sharp as the knife which lay before him at the foot of the bed.

'Control. Ha.'

Bakura's trembling stilled, and dread threatened to send him tumbling back into the darkness from which he had just surfaced. Frightened, quivering masses of gelatin (how could he call them eyes, when he no longer used them to see on his own?) squeezed shut, and his other hand fell upon his head to grip his hair. And now the sobs he had been begging for before, the ones he thought would give him relief, wracked his body in hopelessness.

The voice came again. 'What are you doing out, maggot? I thought I told you to go to the Shadow Realm and stay there until I called for you.'

"Leave me alone," Bakura whispered.

Red eyes narrowed in the shadows, and the spirit stalked forward. Though it shouldn't have been possible, one chalk-white hand shot out and seized a fistful of hair, yanking the unfortunate boy's head upwards. Bakura cried out at the sharpness of it, and he scrabbled fruitlessly at the spirit's hold.

The spirit leaned forward until he was right next to Bakura's ear. "After all this time, you actually bring up the nerve to try and tell me what to do?" he hissed.

"P-please," Bakura wept, his tears mingling with the snot and drool that dripped down his mouth. "J-just go, please…Th-there's n-nothing else you c-could use me f-for…I-I can't t-take it anym-more…"

"Insolent slug!" The spirit slammed Bakura's head into the dresser by his bed and walked away. Bakura fell to his covers again, clutching his wound with both hands. He could feel blood trickling through his hair, some of it dripping into his ear and down his face…but when he drew his hand away, he saw to his shock that his hand was clean.

The spirit reached into his shirt and withdrew the Millennium Ring. "I'm sending you back to Hell to rot," he snarled.

"NO!" Bakura shrieked, suddenly curling into a tight ball. His hands flew to his temples, as if trying to grab a hold of his mind and keep it in the real world.

"Don't send me back there!" the boy begged. "I can't…I won't last…I don't want to go back there, please don't send me back there, please don't send me back, please, please—"

The stream of babble was cut off when the spirit suddenly kicked his host off the bed, his face twisted into a sour grimace. Bakura merely resumed his position, whimpering, waiting for the inevitable moment when he would be cast again to the back of his own mind.

The spirit tched. The host's pathetic pleas were fouling his mood. It wasn't nearly as fun to bring Hell on someone already broken. He thrust the Ring back under his shirt and grabbed the knife from the bed instead. He roughly hoisted up his host by the collar of his shirt and held the blade against his neck.

"Then would you rather stay out here, with me?" the spirit growled.

The boy struggled weakly in his grip, and the spirit pressed the blade closer, slicing a few layers of skin. A malicious smirk drew the spirit's lips upwards, and his voice softened to a purr. "You know, sending you to the Shadow Realm is a kindness, really. In there, I can't touch you. And believe me, those Shadows are nothing compared to what I'm capable of."

There was a measure of falsehood to those words. There was a reason the spirit never took Bakura to the shadows himself; not even he wished to experience those soul-devouring hells. But what he couldn't match in mind games, he more than made up for in physical torment.

Bakura didn't answer, his eyes directed downwards as much as he could to the knife still held against his neck. The spirit's smirk melted, and with a frustrated snarl he released his host. Bakura gasped and clapped his hand to the wound, but when he lowered his hand, he saw again that there was no blood.

Moreover, the same knife was in his hands. For the first time he could see the dried blood which encrusted the tip and handle. Clearly blood from long ago. But was it someone else's?

The old guilt from before slid slowly into his heart, as heavy as the day he visited the spirit's first victim in the hospital.

"What did you do?" he whispered.

The spirit, who had his back turned, looked over his shoulder. His smile of pleasure confirmed Bakura's fears; someone had been hurt.

"You know, it astonishes me that you still have the room to care about somebody else," the spirit chuckled. He caressed the edge of the blade, holding it up to the light so that the blood glowed. "It's really nothing you have be worried about. You didn't know her, and if you want my opinion, the world's much smarter without her."

Bakura paled, and his stomach threatened to overturn again. Dry-mouthed, he asked faintly, "Who…Who did you…?"

The spirit laughed heartily at his horrified expression. "I take it back; this is much more fun than keeping you locked up," he sniggered. He gave a nonchalant shrug, carelessly twirling the blade between his fingers. "Well, if it matters that much to you, I'll tell you."

A cruel light glinted in the depths. "But really, you shouldn't be so bothered…"

The knife stopped blade up, and he pointed it at Bakura. His lips curled up to show fangs.

"…about the life of a simple elementary schoolgirl."

Bakura's breath hitched, and for an instant he could have been declared well and truly dead. For as the spirit's laughter echoed all around, he grew cold and still as death, and his mind shattered into nothingness. Even his heart jolted to a stop, and his chest didn't move for several seconds.

A child…

He murdered a child…

And in that instant, he could have sworn he saw the girl's body lying prostrate in the middle of the room. Her cap and bag, as pristine as when her mother gave them to her that morning, were still on her person. Her shoes, red and new, still untainted by mud, were set perfectly upon her feet. Only her uniform gave any indication that she was dead. The wound was not visible, yet at the very edge of her belly the cloth was ripped and red. The girl's face was turned towards him, eyes grey and lifeless, a trickle of crimson pooling at her mouth.

Finally Bakura screamed, and as he did so, he felt chains suddenly tighten around his limbs and chest. He turned behind him and saw a great gaping mouth, red and glistening with stinking saliva, getting closer and closer. Bakura shouted, struggled, and darted his terrified gaze back and forth between the dead girl and the monstrous mouth, where there was no bottom, only an endless chorus of wails.

With a final shriek, the mouth snapped shut, and both the great beast and the girl melted away into the shadows. When they cleared, Bakura was nowhere to be seen.

All the while the spirit laughed, once again the sole possessor of Bakura's body and the Millennium Ring.