Disclaimed, and all that sad stuff.

Some effer took the only two stories I was actually working on, off. I'm going to do a shyteload of editing, then upload them again. I'm probably going to revise this one completely – and no, it has nothing to do with the taking-off-ness. Not really.

When I opened my eyes for the very first time, it was to noise, flashing lights, the musky, suffocating air filled with smoke, drugs…sex…and death.

It was inevitable, really; I could not control when or where or how my parents met and made me, which was apparently at the dark corner of one of the more unpleasant bars. She was drunk, he was drunk, and in their drunken screw up came the result of the mistake, which was me. They didn't even rent a room.

I know this because I was born in that same corner: my future 'adopter', who I will explain later, told me that he saw my mother yelling obscenities at my father – a man who apparently frequented that corner with his multiple whores – for getting her pregnant. Alas, a pregnant whore was not a good one, and though that was obviously not the message he should've received from her rant, it was, to him, an important one. Men crowded around her, staring at between her open legs, and laughed loudly as I came out. My mother and I – all white hair and red eyes and shaking in pain, covered in blood –

They just laughed harder.

They finally stopped when my mother became unresponsive for too long; she wasn't moving. She couldn't smile at me, knowing full well I was a mistake, unable to embrace this horrid disease of a child that she and a monster had spawned. Maybe, maybe she would've picked me up and laughed, if she had opened her eyes to see a child that reminded her so much of herself: a dying, pale, freak.

She wasn't breathing.

They stopped laughing, because she was dead.

They left me on the cold, dusty floor, between the legs of her corpse as they turned to leave. Death was inevitable, that much they understood, and she reminded them too much of the only destiny they knew they were to carry out. Maybe next week, some kind man or the local janitor would come and throw her rotting body in the sidewalk dump.

And maybe someone would get me, too.

Wishful thinking.

-

My adopter didn't really adopt me; he was a pleasant young man who had recently divorced with his wife. He wasn't the type to go to that bar, or to any bar at all, but it was the closest one to his one-day residence in his low-on-gas car. He had planned to drown all his sorrows like everyone had heard everyone else do, but as a first time drinker he couldn't take the strongest and ran into the bathroom to retch. By the time he came out, the laughing group had disbanded, and all he heard was a baby crying like the most annoying thing in the world. He didn't particularly like children, but being the kind man he was he realized the severity of the situation and rushed out to get me medical attention. As nice as he was, he was a complete idiot, and still numb from the incident with his wife he failed to remember where to start. He had a cell phone in his pocket and a phone booth right beside him, but in a moment of panic and frenzy he forgot his about his car and took me home running.

He wasn't the best makeshift-father in the neighborhood, and with all his accidents I might have as well died. He had taken me to his previous home, and luckily his wife wasn't there – I would've probably died for real. Apparently his little escape to the streets was futile, as his wife had abandoned the house. She didn't even lock it.

I grew up there, as illegally as you can get, and registered at school with a fake identity, fake father and fake everything. Not that there was any real base, anyways. I took a his new last name and made mine on the spot, having seen the cherry blossoms outside the window. They were beautiful, and though boys weren't supposed to admire flowers or give themselves a similar name to one, it was the first thing that came into my mind.

When I was old enough to understand the way to spell archeologist correctly, my adopter became one. He was constantly away, and as an eight-year old I went crazy. I stopped going to school when he went on digs, and spent my days playing with an artifact that he had gotten me for a made up birthday.

It was a freaky little thing, to be honest. A huge chunk of gold, shaped like a donut with a triangle inside it. There was an eye in the middle of the triangle – looking at me? – and on the first few days of having received it I turned the piece so the eye faced the wall. Around the bottom were dangly spikes – and randomly I'd wondered if he sent it for me to kill myself. I was naive back then, and since it looked like something that would belong in a museum I was unbelievably happy. I thought that I had finally meant something to someone…

Once before he got home, I had baked him a cake. It wasn't that nice tasting, and no matter how long I'd sat there watching it bake, it never seemed to blacken. The metal against my chest was ever-so-cold, and I'd even pressed it to the oven surface for a few minutes, but its temperature stayed the same. Freezing.

When I heard the keys jingle, I was immediately excited, and hurriedly reached for the dial, planning to get it out before he came in as a surprise. Before I was able to turn it, though, he burst inside, grabbed my wrists with one hand and tried yanking the ring off with the other. He was choking me. The spikes dug into my shoulder blade, into my cheeks – he was staring, frantically, but even with the amount of concentration he gave, the blood went unnoticed.

"Bakura," he'd said, "that thing is cursed! I know how much you like it, but please, you might be possessed already!"

Stupid father and his stupid claims. Doesn't he know I don't believe in magic or the gods? I've stopped believing, ever since I was born. For what reason would I start now, as I bleed by my savior's hands?

-

I really had no idea what I was doing, coming back here – to trash up the place, to avenge my mother's death? She died of childbirth. The mistake was hers when she had gotten drunk, and his when he had. She would've probably disowned me by now, if she had lived, or killed me herself. It was more than evident she would not have wanted to leave any connections to the bastard alive.

When I did arrive, though, I realized that all I wanted was a drink. I don't know what troubles I had, but I had to get rid of them – and quick – thinking back at home, by the nice, warm fireplace, the ever present smell of blood and burning flesh. Maybe I should take revenge, on myself…

I walked in arrogantly, a posture too habitual to break. Look forward. Shoulders back. You can kill them all. Don't break down… Though I had about a million scars running down one side of my arm and a huge piece of gold resting in the open on my chest, they were more interested in my pure white hair and glowing red eyes. I got angry. I don't even know why, but I did. You bastards, I screamed in my head to all the newcomers and old who had done absolutely nothing; do I remind you of someone? Don't I?! Clenching my fists, I vaguely wondered if her body was still there, and when I turned to that corner I expected to see her peeling skin and decaying flesh. Instead, I didn't see a corner at all; in its place was another wall, followed by a door, and on that door wrote 'EXIT' in a flashing red on rusty white.

I turned to head to a stool, wondering when I've become such a fool. It's really been too long –

At least they preserved something of hers.

-

I continued going to school, the same one he signed me up for. I continued living at that house, dumped portions of the coal-cake into the fireplace each day, as a late farewell present, and maybe a call for forgiveness. It was never answered, though, and I never really expected one. I might have begged once, I don't remember. All I know was that nothing ever happened.

I continued getting good grades, being at the top of my class from third grade to tenth. I had millions of honors, and each award and trophy I burned, coming home with all these gleaming pieces of excellence but with no one to see them. Sure, I had a lot of friends to congratulate me, but I had never been social until I let it slip that I was filthy rich. Pretended to. No one ever came here, no one knew.

"Hey Baku!"

I did have a friend, once. He didn't have a mother, but he had a sister and a personality disorder and this huge family, I thought I wanted it more than I wanted him. We were close, all three of us.

"I'm all pumped up for the race! No one is going to beat me…! Are you actually going to run this thing or are you going to come gut the gym teacher with me?"

"Shut the fuck up," I snarled. No one was there. I don't even visit their grave anymore. Sometimes, there's this small little tug at my heartstrings, making me wonder if I was trying to make myself feel a little of what they felt when I placed the knife on top of their shared heart and cut. It may have been guilt, I may have actually missed him, but one thing that I know for sure is that I didn't actually want to do it.

At eleventh grade, I dropped out. I was sick of all this bullshit; I've had enough of all this fakeness, pretending I had everything to fall back onto, pretending I was a sweet innocent child when it was just my personality disorder talking, pretending there was a personality disorder at all to speak to when I feel like I want to die. Nothing was real, not the dead half of my family or my friends, who wanted nothing more than my supposed amount of money, everyone wanted to get close because they thought I had something to give.

I don't.

Everything was gone a long time ago.

"Ryou" I whine, falling onto the thin covers and counting the dots on the ceiling. I already know the answer; I've counted them all years ago. I knew the number to all the ceilings in his house, all the dents in the wall and all the types of fungus when I was too down to clean.

You should leave the house and do something, Ryou suggests though I've asked nothing at all. Oh, wow Ryou, I've been thinking of that too. At the exact same time, actually. I wonder why.

Ryou mentally snorts at my sarcasm while I snort out loud. My stupid brain is not a good actor.

"Thanks," I tell him dryly, getting up to change, "I'll consider it."

Seconds later I had my secret collection of chains wrapped around my black muscle shirt and camouflage pants, heading out the door with inappropriate looking boots. I was thin to the borderline of anorexia, and the cloths looked horrible on me. Nevertheless, I wore them because they were the best ones I had - stolen, of course. I vaguely wonder how long it would be before they rot by my lack of a washing machine and dry cleaning skills. Ryou sighs in disapproval at my choice of clothing, and as I start to mock it he slips silent appreciation through our link. I snort again and slam the door behind me, not bothering to lock it. I don't even have a microwave.

Have some fun, Ryou urges persistantly, and I know I can make him shut up.

"Fun," I repeat dully. I stand outside the worn down doorway, trying not to look too suspicious when seizing people up for robbery. I wonder if walking is a good idea - I haven't stolen in two days, haven't eaten.

Fun, Ryou chirps, and I grimace at tempting the word sounds. I can't have fun. Be happy.

I can't help but snort again. "Happy," I reiterate incredulously, hating how the word sounded so right against my throat. I can't be happy, don't want to be happy. It's such a good feeling...I was happy when I baked the cake, overjoyed when I thought I could claim Marik's family as my own. It's not right...to feel good.

Reluctantly reluctant, I try to find the perfect place to hide.

It's all wrong...

Righttt, so here's ze edited version, and though it's called an edited version it's not really any better, damnit. My head hurts, I shouldn't correct things when I'm sick.

Review to make people you don't really care about grin like an idiot! Or, yanno, if you actually want a second chapter.