Doctor's Note: A darker piece than is normal for me, this is another one I've had in mind for years and felt compelled to finally write out. In spite of the gravity, I hope you might also take heart from the story as a whole. Thank you for reading! - Dr. MP
Warnings: Implied abuse.
Sam noticed his wrists first—pale, skeletal. At an age when all her peers (herself included) were swelling like balloons, this boy, who couldn't be any older than she was, seemed to be doing the opposite. Wasting away.
She noticed why she'd noticed his wrists—his suit jacket was too small. This shocked her, for the boy's father was easily the best-dressed man in the room—and this was an obscenely wealthy room. Was the boy growing after all, too fast for a tailor to keep up?
The light was so dim in the banquet hall that Sam had finished most of her main course before she noticed his face. She had to sneak a second look between bites of chicken caprese to confirm she hadn't imagined it.
Shadows lurched and flickered over them all as the ship they were on hit a bit of choppy water. The boy kept his head down and angled away. That didn't help. But he had to look up to take a bite or a drink—and sooner or later, he did.
Sam's chest tightened. She hadn't imagined anything. That was real, honest-to-goodness blood.
"Excuse me," the boy said abruptly, shoving his chair back and shooting to his feet. Sam set down her fork, feeling nauseous. Had he caught her staring?
The boy's father leaned back and appraised him for a minute, considering the request. The boy looked like he was holding his breath. Sam could see his face better now—could see that the blood trailed from a thin, jagged cut.
His jaw clenched when his father flexed his hand, which rested casually on the table. One large ring glinted in the shifting light. Sam's mind connected the dots before she could stop it.
"You're excused," the man said at length, with a light wave of that awful hand.
The boy almost fled the room.
Sam knew she was lucky to have loving and present parents in spite of their family's wealth and prestige. She knew, and she repeated this to herself as she raced out of the banquet hall, chasing after the shadow of the boy.
Yet Sam had never met anyone who'd actually been through the rumored horrors of the opposite—at least, not that anyone had shared with her.
But this boy hadn't shared anything with her. She'd violated his privacy by staring at him to figure it out. How meddlesome was she?
The boy led her down to the bottom level of the ship, past the engine room and equipment closets and out onto the deck. The wind that tore past the cruising vessel filled Sam's hearing, and it was even more shadowy out here. She couldn't tell if the boy had noticed her at all.
He hunched over the railing, his piano fingers clutching the metal so tightly his knuckles burned white in the shreds of moonlight and distant lights from the shore. She saw rather than heard him vomit overboard.
Sam approached him as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
"Sorry," was all she could think to say. He didn't react.
She took another step. Now she was only a few feet away.
"I'm sorry," she repeated.
"Why?"
He had heard her. So he'd probably seen her, too.
"I'm sorry I stared at you," she said lamely.
The boy still didn't turn around. "Right. Why are you sorry?" he spat. "I'd have stared at you." He tilted his head. "That's what he wants. It's his power play, his checkmate." In the darkness, Sam saw his lip curl in a phantom smirk. "Humiliation."
Sam didn't know how to respond. She didn't even really know why she'd followed him.
Then again, he hadn't told her to get lost. So she took more three steps until she stood by his side—his wounded side.
She examined his face in the moonlight. He grit his teeth and glared at her, daring her to say something about it. The wind sliced at his jacket and trousers, so powerfully that she couldn't tell they were too short just now.
"My mom still works part-time as a nurse," she heard herself say, quieter now that they were so close, protected rather than battered by the wind. "Do you want first aid?"
He scoffed. "I know first aid."
Sam only looked at him, conveying all the sympathy she could.
He crossed his arms tightly over his stomach. Then he said without preamble, "I get bad motion sickness."
Sam blinked in surprise.
"It's ironic because I—" he hesitated. He looked out over the water, knitting his brow, but there was no one out there to shame him into silence. "...because I design...I want to build amusement parks."
"That's cool," said Sam, and meant it.
"Not really," he rolled his eyes. "I couldn't test any of the rides. Maybe my brother when he's—" He lunged for the railing again and held there for a minute, but didn't vomit.
Sam sat down with her back against the railing in a gesture of trust. She waited.
"I want to be a sculptor," she offered, "I guess that's not so different."
He sat down stiffly, a safe distance away. Sam inwardly rejoiced.
"But our family's business is medical technology," she finished. "My sculpting is with clay and stuff. Not techy like yours."
He didn't look at her, but she knew he was listening. She rested her chin on her knees.
She added, "It's okay, though. My family's name is a good one—I'm willing to take it on."
The boy gingerly pressed the heel of his palm against his bleeding cheek.
"I'll hire you," he said—again without preamble.
"Huh?"
"I'll hire you to sculpt for my amusement parks."
"Um—oh. Well..." She stammered. She couldn't tell if he was making fun of her. "Um. Thanks—but I'm not that good—"
"And I don't have an amusement park," he said wryly. "Just be ready when I do."
She watched him brood and tug at his jacket sleeve. A tinge of green lingered in his complexion.
"Okay," she said. "Okay. I will be."
He nodded once. "Good."
Seto Kaiba found the page of his address book where long ago he'd taped the crinkly scrap of paper.
Samira Karin. They had the same initials.
Would she have any recollection of this? Was this altogether stupid?
Seto would've thrown in the towel long before now had he not mentioned this to Mokuba, who unsurprisingly demanded he make good on such a friend-like agreement.
"Call her—it'll be perfect! I'll bet she's a really great sculptor by now!"
"I don't think she's even twenty years old yet."
"Neither are you."
"That's fair."
He dialed the number.
Sam sipped her tea and stretched her legs. It had been a long morning touring the unopened Kaiba Land with young Mokuba Kaiba. They now relaxed in the Grand Atrium of the park's train station.
"Do you get to test the rides?" she asked the boy.
"If my brother thinks they're safe enough," said Mokuba.
"Then you don't get motion sickness?"
"Nope!" He grinned. "I'm lucky."
She watched him—the ease with which he moved, the clothes that fit him just right. He was around the age his brother had been when Sam had met him, and worlds apart. He was lucky.
Just then, Seto Kaiba approached their table. He took the seat next to his brother. Sam saw that his sleeves were the proper length, as well. His hands were still thin; he wore no rings.
"How has the morning gone?" the elder Kaiba asked both of them.
"Really good," said Mokuba.
"Yes, Mokuba's been an excellent tour guide!" added Sam. "I can picture exactly where I'd like the dragons to be."
Mokuba beamed and blushed. Seto looked at her, cool and confident. It struck her as bizarre—she had only two, wildly different impressions of him. She felt as though she had missed a great deal.
"You did it," she said without thinking, but she had to say it.
"Did what?" said Seto.
"You built an amusement park."
Seto's brow creased a little, and there Sam glimpsed the frustrated young boy she'd once met.
"Of course I did," he answered, proud and nonchalant. But Sam sensed a glimmer of warm, genuine pride beneath the surface. Mokuba's expression told her that he sensed it, too.
Mokuba leaned against Seto, who instinctively put his arm around his brother. "See? You're awesome," Mokuba said. "And one day you'll finally believe me when I say it."
"The park hasn't opened yet, kid," he countered.
Mokuba shrugged. "So what?"
Seto rolled his eyes.
Sam couldn't help but stare, for there was so much love in this moment. And Seto caught her again—and again, he understood.
End