Haku: Warning, very angsty and depressing fic ahead, to which the main character could be any character of the YGOverse.

Y. Haku: Also, there is a lot of blood in this fic, and what happens with said blood isn't always pleasant. so if there are young children present, I suggest they leave now. And the way the main character is designed is to make you think one person.

DISCLAIMER:

Would you really want Yu-Gi-Oh! To be full of angst and blood? Wait, don't answer that. Anyway, No own, no sue.

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Blood poem

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Why must you hate me?
Can I ever change?
Will you ever love me?
Am I insane?

I look about the cold room where I've recently taken up residence. Prying my eyes away from the small sheet of poetry in front of me, I am finally able to get a good look around. The bed, the one I took from my old home is much the same, except, instead of the fluffy and warm quilt, I had taken with me the oldest and most ragged blanket I could find. What it was doing in my home, I'll never know, it was covered in cigarette burns, and was cold and stained. The room in which I now shall live is even worse off than the blanket. There is a cold gust, that blows in from an open window, and there is a suspicious brown stain in the corner, one that reminds me so much of blood.

Speaking of blood...

I held my arm over the dazzling white of the paper, on which the beginnings of another of my poems had formed. My skin, disgustingly stained and dirty was covered in the same cracked substance that I believed was on the wall. The deep black of dried blood caked my wrists and legs, where it previously had ebbed, unhindered from the numerous pencil scars that raced my arms. I've had them as long as I can remember. My deep hooded eyes look over my arms sceptically, as if expecting something... more, but finding nothing. Maybe they were looking for the first signs of death? Hell, I wouldn't be surprised. against the dazzling and almost inhumane white, the rest of the room contrasted, in my eyes a dull grey that could not seem to leave. Pen poised to paper, I feel the next few lines of my poem embed themselves forever on the white page, soon to be tarnished and taken with age.

I bide my time in hell
I wait for you to come
Rescue me...
Impossible, but rescue me...

Maybe he would come to rescue me, but my foreboding mind leads me to remember what he has done. cold eyes peer out at me, and I gasp, turning to face... A mirror. I feel my low spirits fall yet again, absorbing me back into a drunk and depressed stupor. No, I could never be loved by one such as him, his blonde hair spiked back, at impossible angles, deranged lavender optics watching me, with scathing glances as yet again I make another bumbling, fearful mistake. I should be afraid, not so madly in lust that I feel whenever I turn my head to a mirror it is him, yet find myself disappointed as it is only I who stares back. I should be afraid, scared for my life, or seeking revenge for the pain he has wrought me, yes, that would be my usual style, imposed upon me by his undaunting figure. But, no. I can not kill, I can not hate, I can not feel the usual burning fuel inside me. My wildfire has gone out, not even leaving ash and embers in its path. Turning back to the page, I move my pen swiftly, fluently, wishing the letters and words could be written in my own blood.

Still, Should hell be able to hold me,
You'd never fetch me
Your cold heart spares no time for emotions.
Well, neither does mine.

My glance shoots back up to the mirror, and I see that face, that hateful face staring back at me. My face, and his, embossed over it, yet not truly there. A mad desire overtakes me, and in a fit of accustomed rage, I throw the blasted object across the room, with such a force that it shatters against the opposite wall. "WHY MUST YOU TORMENT ME? LET ME DIE IF IT BE YOUR WISH!" I run to the wall where the mirror had shattered, not caring for the glass shards that cut my feet, for no longer could I feel pain. No longer. Throwing myself upon the glass covered bed, and not noticing the shards that bit at my flesh, hungrily lapping up the blood that fell. I sat, and looked out a cold and broken window, broken in yet another passionate fit of rage. The dazzling white of the page holds my attention again, but now, now I don't want it to be white. Now I want it to be coloured red, red with my own blood. Using one of the shards from the floor, I prick my finger upon it, letting the blood flow freely from the tiny wound, nothing compared to the gashes across my chest and feet. Funnily enough, this one stung slightly, as I wrote, in my own blood.

Kill me dammit!
Let this blood that drips freely
Take my life with it's flow.
Because you don't care.

It's all your bloody fault! Why couldn't you just accept me? Why did it have to be the thrill of terror, the longing of fear that drew me to you? Why, through your madness, why were you so tempting? Why are you still? Even as the blood of regret flows from me, your face, it still holds fixated in my mind. Why can't I switch that vision off? Why is my head so clouded with lust that I can not see a foot in front of my eyes? The blood is slowing down, but I don't want it to. I want it to all drip out, for it all to go, vanish all the pain inside, emotional hurt. Physical pain, I could no longer feel that, but emotional hurt, through your absence, I feel it tenfold. You are a part of me, that wild part, yo somehow tame my emotions, control me with them. Yet still, I love you, even after all that. I stagger, and leaning up against the wall, digging shards of glass further into me, with dull grinds. Gasping, I step back, my bloodstain near that of the previous tenant of this disembodied room. One by one, I begin the painful process of digging glass shards out of my chest, but I do not worry about my feet, leaving bloody footprints wherever I walk, and I sit on a glass free part of the bed, watching with horror, or is it exhilaration? The blood that flows from my red chest. Momentary insanity grips me, my sadistic nature coming into play, as I cover my grimy hands with my own blood, and run them through my hair, staining the mass a deep crimson. Not a permanent dye, nor a pleasant one, but it will do, as I begin the laborious task of plucking the small shards out of my freely bleeding feet. I hope you walk in on me like this. I hope you find me dead, black with my own blood, as I sit down and write once more, my once white covered pen an eerie red.

You never cared,
dark are my days
You never cared
I am a fool.

looking over to the window, the idea to throw my battered and freely bleeding body from it becomes more and more appealing. I find myself judging the trajectories needed to survive, though with this blood loss, I doubt that will be the case, but I know the fall won't hurt me, it is only the landing that will. Smearing the blood of my hands across the broken window, painting them a sensuous red, I contemplate it, I truly do, but there is a click behind me, and as I turn towards the greying door, I watch it swing open. Who should stand there but you? Who should stand there, looking at me, not in horror, but in sick, demented pleasure? The thrill of adrenaline grips me as I watch your mouth curve into that sadistic smirk that fits you so well. Abysmal cold grips me, as you reach forward to brush a bloodstained lock away from my face, and then place it into your mouth, to suck the vile liquid from it. letting go of it, it returns now, to its original place, covered in blood, and saliva. I look at you, and find my heart beating weakly, my conscious slipping, and I watch. I do nothing but watch as you reach for each of my locks in turn, sucking the foul liquid off as best you can before turning to the next one. My eyes follow you, and I reach up to your face, letting my own blood smear across it from my thickly caked hand. You now turn to me, and I feel an exhilarating thrill at your presence. The coldness you emit is making me shiver with fear, and at the same time, longing. You turn your head away from my hair now, and start sucking my life force, still flowing sluggishly from my chest and feet, off my digits. Your demonic grin settles upon me, and lust burns in my slowly fading heart I want your love, I want you. I want the fear, the madness, the fiery passion, and for the first time, for the first time, I see you mouth wrapped around my fingers, a sultry tongue flicking over the bloodstained digits, making very suggestive gestures. And I realise. You want me too, though not for love. You want me for possession, to be your new play toy. Your bitch. I grin, and strangely, it mirrors your own, before I lean in, and with blood smeared lips, you capture my heart once again

For the first time, I find what my blood really does taste like. Copper, salt, and the bitter taste of alkali, though I feel that that is you, your lips and their burning passion, wanting only my body, and to my surprise, I don't care, for that's all I want from you. Not your soul, or your love, for you have neither. Your breath, smelling of my own blood falls across my face. And in this moment, your eyes sparkle with passion, that disappears in an instant. I am yet again but the slave, you are but the master, willing to do everything to keep me alive, but for your own sake not mine. With one last lick of your serpent tongue, you send shivers down my spine, and leave the room, for me to follow like the limp bitch that I have always been. Why do I follow you? Why do I come home from my freedom, short lived, and terrifying? Because I can not bear to be away from you, I can not bear to be away from one who exhilarates me, yet leaves me broken and whimpering at the same time. You will heal my wounds, and then, I will go back to being your toy, until I decide to run again. I will fall into regret, and you will come for me, find me battered and bruised, contemplating my own death, then you will save me.

Stepping into the cold night air, I watch you, as you prepare a small boat, to take us back to your personal one. I will be your toy, My blonde haired wonder, for a time, then when it becomes too much to bear will leave you again. I can not live with you, but my violet eyed siren, it would seem that I can not live without you either. I am doomed until I die, to be your toy.

And as we reach your exotic liner, I take out my familiar piece of paper, and write one line before I throw it to the wind

I am doomed forever for loving you.
Mariku...

It falls to the waves, the water disintegrating it before my very eyes.

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Haku: There we go, back up to my usual level of angst I am, and I feel so much better for having written this fic.

Y. Haku: Yes, she always writes angst when she feels unexplainably upset... Read and Review? And no 'Yuck! That's disgusting!" reviews, because we warned you at the start that it wouldn't be pleasurable.