Violence-

Thin fingers clutched desperately the small cotton ball, dabbing hesitantly at a patch of red. Marikku winced, lowered the alcohol-saturated object, and picked up a band-aid. Mumbling to himself, he applied it to his bronze skin. "Bastard. Thinks he's so right about everything. Who the hell cares if I'm not working?I don't care if I'm not working,mom doesn't care. Ishizu doesn't care. He just wants more beer..."

Marik glanced up without conviction to stare at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. But he had to stop and stare a moment. It had looked for a moment like...

"Marikku! Marik!" Ishizu cried, barging right through the bathroom door and slamming it shut again behind her. She was sobbing, with ragged breaths, though not a single tear slid down her face.

"You know Ishizu, I'm not always tending to wounds in here. You should knock," he muttered. She glanced up, hazel eyes wide and watery. Marik rolled his eyes sarcastically. "Okay, okay, sorry. Did he, hurt you?" Marik asked softly, a bit uncertain.

Instead of answering Marik, Ishizu collapsed into a sobbing, gasping, hardly-breathing lump at his feet. It occurred to Marik, if only briefly, that it would take an awful lot to make his calm, cool, collected, cucumber-like sister totally break down like this. With more than a bit of apprehension, he kneeled down and lifted his face to hers. Small trails of water ran down in uneven paths from the corners of her beautiful eyes. "Hey, sis, what's wrong?" he coaxed her,wiping away the tears.

She sniffed softly, gazing intently at the gentle, lilac eyes. Like their father's, yet so much different. "Father, hurt our mother," she whispered, voice surprisingly even. Here eyes were scanning his intently, as though reading some hidden message.

Marik paused, trying to chose his words carefully. He'd never had to deal with Ishizu in an emotional state. "Is it, bad?" he asked gently. Without removing her eyes from his, she nodded softly. "How bad?" he pushed carefully. Ishizu breathed in sharply.

"I think, she may be dead," Ishizu said quietly. His eyes were so beautiful, so caring, so... mesmerizing...

Marik stood up abruptly. Panic was quickly leaking into his movements and his mind. He opened the bathroom door harshly, glancing up and down the hall. All was quiet in the house. Half running and half tiptoeing, he made his way toward his parents' bedroom. But was stopped in the living room.

She lay near the far wall, across from the couch, which was still upset from when Marikku had fought with his father last. Long, pale and silken honey-blonde hair lay in a haphazard mess about her head, a crowning halo of gold, made thick and brown with gobs of blood. Her smooth, light-brown skin was tinted and torn, her clothes in tatters, a knife sticking out from her stomach, twisted till it looked like someone had tied a knot in her flesh.

Marik felt his stomach lurch as Ishizu came to a stunned stop behind him. "H-he... has stabbed her?" she said in soft disbelief. Marik shook his head. His mother's eyes were clouded, desperate, afraid. They'd never looked like that before, not even when they were beaten.

"I'm leaving," Marik said in a whisper. Ishizu gasped, glancing at him sharply.

"Marikku, you can't. I mean, what if...," she trailed off. Marik shook his head firmly.

"No, I don't think so. I suggest you leave too," he told her matter-of-factly, heading for the front door. He spared her a wane smile. "You are too wise to stay in a place like this, Ishizu, and I am too much trouble."

Ten minutes later, Marik was pacing the dark city streets,alone and without baggage. He kept his mind working, thinking about where to go, how to survive. He wouldn't think about the darkness, the closed buildings, empty streets, the thick summer night air. The blood pouring straight from his mother's heart.

Marik shook his head firmly. "Focus," he whispered automatically. It would be pointless to just try not to think at all; that never works for him. Always his mind would wander into other things. Unpleasant things. precisely what he was trying to avoid thinking. But no one could survive that. No one could look like that, suffer through that, and still be alive. Her eyes were so...

Marik turned swiftly, eyes darting frantically, searching for the source of the shifting shadows. He was on edge, uneasy, shaken. So it was probably just his imagination.

"It's all right... relax."

Marik stared at the shadows, at the vague outline of a person in it. A car flew by behind him in the road, headlights casting a brief light over him. He blinked. What was he trying to do? He couldn't remember.

"We can help you forget..."

Slowly, as though trying to remember the motions,Marik shook his head. He took off suddenly, running down the streets,past the empty houses and deserted shops and laughing, traveling gangs. There was a voice back there, a person, who looked almost like him. A person that looked almost like him, a voice that seemed almost in his head.

"I'm losing it,"Marik muttered between fast gasps. Slowing to a stop, he bent over to breath, leaning on a street lamp light. Bathed in the vivid light, he could see each and every different stone in the sidewalk, could read the brand off the scrunched cigarette package, even from under his shadow. His shadow that was moving without him.

"I am totally losing it," he gasped, staring, eyes transfixed on the morphing form. It crawled across the ground, fluid like water, 'This is not possible...,' made it's way slowly toward a cloaked doorway, rose up against the wall, pushed out of itself into the 3-D form. It was real. Vivid color washed across the shadow, giving it shape, features. The face from the mirror, sharp, forced, a face from Marik's childhood nightmares.

"Shit," Marik breathed. The shadow smirked, and launched at him.