3. Sleeping Beauty
Delusional, I believed I could cure it all for you, dear;
Coax or trick or drive or drag the demons from you,
Make it right for you, sleeping beauty,
Truly thought I could heal you.
-- From Sleeping Beauty by A Perfect Circle
Clayton Hospital was like any NHS hospital – library-quiet, even when it was teeming with people, with orderly queues everywhere and the odd outburst from somebody who'd had enough of waiting. It had the same smell as every other hospital, too; that strange blend of antiseptic and old cabbage, even though very few of the meals that came up from the canteen had cabbage in them. Squeaky shoes seemed inordinately loud under the gazes of people who had to stand outside to smoke, shivering in their dressing gowns and holding onto the poles of their drips as though the thin metal and nicotine were the only things keeping them upright.
Ryou really wished he'd changed into shoes that didn't squeak so much. Still, there was no helping it now. It was three bus rides home, and he wasn't going all that way just so he could come back again. And besides, they knew him here. He and his squeaky shoes were almost as much a fixture as the bizarre statue of a naked Icarus the governors of the hospital had commissioned for the entrance – to mark the Millennium, they said. Ryou wondered what message they wanted to send, presenting the sick and helpless with the image of a man whose own arrogance got him horribly killed.
Ryou waved to Shirley, one of the receptionists who worked the dayshift at weekends. She waved back, returning his smile. As Ryou dodged between the closing doors of the lift, he heard her speaking to the woman next to her.
"Here, Beth, see that 'un? That's Ryou Bakura, that is. Lovely boy. In all the time. Anybody'd think he was a porter. Best get used to seeing him."
'Beth' was obviously new. She frowned. "Shouldn't he have signed in?"
"Nah. No need. He only comes for one reason, and it never changes."
Ryou sighed. His story was common knowledge amongst the staff – well, it would be after three years of them watching it play out like a really boring subplot of Grey's Anatomy – but still, it was never easy to have others confirm the shape his life had taken.
When Ryou was twelve he never would have imagined the twists and turns that were in store for him. How could he? He wasn't psychic; for all that his father had written a book on psychics throughout history. Dr. Bakura was preternaturally fixated on ancient cultures and their beliefs that humans could be more than what they were. His book wasn't exactly a bestseller, but it was a great favourite as some of the more esoteric universities, and he was often being invited to give speeches on the subject. Ryou had learned to avoid his father's study whenever he heard him muttering about PowerPoint and saying things like 'utter rubbish' and 'an abacus was sufficient for the Mesopotamians'.
Ryou wasn't much of a history buff himself, which had only served to widen the distance between father and son after tragedy pushed a thorn into their relationship. Their bond, never especially strong, had been slowly bleeding out for the last three years. Recently Ryou had begun to wonder whether Dr. Bakura even remembered he had a son. Except for allowing them to stay in England, he certainly never acknowledged he had a daughter.
All traces of the family unit they'd once been had been erased from the house – no photos, no unused clothes, no scattered memories of babies or weddings. Ryou had hoarded some of them – grabbed them out of the plastic bags set out to be dumped at the local charity shop. Nobody else could appreciate the fine bone structure of his mother's face when she said 'I do', or the tassels his father attached to Ryou's tricycle when he'd outgrown it and passed it on to his younger sister. It was as if Dr. Bakura wanted to wipe his slate clean and start over – something Ryou made impossible simply by existing and living in the same house with him.
Maybe that was why they could go a whole week without seeing each other these days, despite sharing a kitchen and competing for the same bathroom in the mornings. If it hadn't been for the legally binding connection to Clayton Hospital, and the fact they had no other family in the UK who could take over those duties, Ryou was fairly sure his father would have moved them both back to his home country of Japan long ago. He'd heard of teenagers who lived separate from their parents over there, occupying apartments and taking care of themselves perfectly legally.
That'd suit Dad right down to the ground. Ryou banished the disloyal thought, sticking on his usual innocuous smile. "Hello, Francine."
The nurse at the desk looked up from her paperwork, his voice turning her lips up in a warm smile even before she'd laid eyes on him. Francine was heavyset, wore too much lipstick, and her orange foundation ended in a straight line along her jaw, but she had a nice face and always kept a smile for him.
"Hiya, Ryou. She's pretty eager to see you today."
"You reckon?" Ryou placed a small Tupperware container on the desk in front of her. "Here. I baked."
"You did?" Francine fell upon the plastic lid, wrenching it off to let out the delicious smell of fresh chocolate brownies. "My God, Ryou, you're going to turn me into such a porker. I shouldn't even be eating these here."
Ryou shrugged, embarrassed. Baking was one of the many ways he'd invented to occupy his time so he didn't go mad. He found it difficult to make friends, since he was here so much and had little time to spend hanging out with people from school. He tried to smile as much as he could, but sometimes he felt like an emotional black hole, sucking everybody else's good mood into him and extinguishing it whenever he mentioned his home life. His father was no help, but at least the kitchen was a part of the house Dr. Bakura rarely ventured into unless the coffee jar next to the kettle on the floor of his study ran out.
"I just like saying thank you for all the work you do," Ryou said awkwardly. "You and the rest of the staff here."
"Oi, Francine!" said a male nurse who'd just approached pushing what looked like a giant computer with tubes sticking out the back. "Don't hog all Ryou's baking for yourself."
Ryou recognised Ian. They'd played cards together several times while Ian was on break, though Ryou knew it was mostly pity that had motivated the offer more than anything else. Ian was one of the few male nurses in Clayton General, and the only black guy. Several times he'd tried to convince Ryou that nursing was a good career path, but Ryou didn't know what he wanted to do with his life after school. Trying to predict it was far too depressing.
"Argh, foiled!" Francine grudgingly brought out the box and offered it across. "Just don't tell anyone."
"Why would I do that? Then they'd ban him from bringing them in and we'd be back to stale digestives and lukewarm tea." He took a huge bite behind his hand. "Bloody hell, Ryou, these are fantastic."
"You never put on any weight, you sod," Francine complained.
Ryou watched them, enjoying their banter. He'd adopted vicarious living and found relief from his own isolation in fleeting conversations with others, plus watching them interact the way he and his father never did, but used to.
"I have a manly metabolism," Ian protested.
Francine was not impressed. "Yeah, right."
"And I play rugby on my days off."
"Y'know, I've always questioned the manliness of rugby as a sport. Surely all that scrumming, getting up close and personal with dozens of other burly men, and gripping their bums and lunchboxes is more than a little homoerotic. I man, just look at where your head lands when you tackle them. Right in the vitals – if you're lucky."
Ian nearly choked on the bite of brownie he'd just taken.
Ryou politely excused himself after a few minutes of chitchat. They let him go, knowing the way this was supposed to go – the way it always went.
Ryou sat down next to the bed in the small room, segregated from the rest of the wards for long-term use. She was a special case, after all. Her doctors had written theses about her, and always made a detour here when leading medical students on their first guided tour.
On the pillow, the room occupant's hair spread out in a shade identical to his own – not quite white, but too pale to count as blonde. Ryou put down his backpack, fumbled around inside and brought out a brush, then carefully began to work out the tangles. It was surprising how many there were, considering her inactivity. He was gentle, as though if he tugged it would actually be felt. Part of him hoped it was, and that she'd sit up and give him an indignant punch.
"Hey, Amane," he said quietly. "How are things with you?"
His little sister didn't move. Except for breathing and the occasional flicker of her eyes beneath their lids, which always sent her doctors into a flurry, she hadn't moved on her own for three years; not since the car accident that had killed their mother and sent her into a coma. Even so, every day that Ryou came to see her he hoped would be the one she finally responded to the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand, or just the feel of his presence next to her.
But not today.
Again.
He sighed. It contained a welter of grief and frustration, but it barely stirred Amane's hair. "Yeah. Nothing's new with me, either."
