I stared up at the white ceiling that stretched over my small room. It was plain,
as most ceilings are bound to be, but this one was exceptionally plain. Most would be
somewhat interesting because they would reflect the atmosphere, or at least that is what I
always assumed. My ceiling, however, was dull. It was cold. It was impersonal. I was
heartless. If reflected my room perfectly. Nothing for myself was contained within these
four walls, only the bare necessities. My school books lay on the desk in the left corner
farthest from the door. My bed was covered, as it always is, by crisp white linens which I
was daily. He comes for me if I do not. My carpet is a clean white, not a single item
littered the floor. The walls, which were once a soft blue, were painted white as well.
They held no pictures, no posters, no shelves. My room was usually mistaken for the
guest room, until one saw the school books that always lay on my desk. These books
were my only escape, and the only hint that this was my room.
I sighed as I rolled over on my stiff bed and stared at my door. This door was
the only thing I have ever attached any meaning to. I forced a laugh at the thought,
though I knew there was no humor in it. I had a special attachment to my door. A door.
The few people I knew were attached to things such as heirlooms and friendship
symbols. I, well, I held a door close to my heart. A plain, white, normal door. No,
that is not true, this door was far from normal. What did it matter though? If anyone
actually listened to me they would be able to find out the reason as to why I valued my
door as I do. The reason why my door was so special was because I considered it to be
either Earth's version of Hell's gates, or Earth's version of Heaven's gates. I was either my
captor or my savior. It all depended on what side of the door you were on. From the side I
was on now, it was Heaven's gates. If I left the room through the door, I would be
entering a would in which he could not hurt me. A world of safety. A worked of light.
Well, safety from him at least. But if I was on the other side and entering the room
through that door, it would be Hell's gates I went through. If I came into the room it
would be entering a world where no one could save me from him. A world of pain. A
world of darkness. No one ever understood my logic. But how could they? They would
have to know my life as I do. They would have to live as I have for as long as I have.
Why would anyone want to do that? There was no reason to live my life.
Another sigh fell from my lips as my eyes fell on the wooden desk in the far
corner. It was in good condition, as was everything else contained in these four walls.
Only this piece of furniture stood out from the impersonal, white, objects in my small
living quarters. It was painted a color other than white. My mother had finished painting
it five days before her death. He would always shudder at the color, which was a light
blue, each time he saw it. I did not care, though. I refused to repaint the nine year old
piece of furniture, though I'm not sure why. Surely it could not have been because my
mother, a woman I had hardly even known, had painted it. No. No. That could not
possibly have been the reason for it. But, then... Why? Why would I not simply pull the
desk outside and repaint it? It had taken my mother days to paint it at her pace. Her time
had been drawing short and her strength had declined greatly, due to the illness. At least
this is what my father had always told me. My father had also left me, three years passed.
One month before I received the letter telling me he had been killed in a collapse of one
of the tombs they had been translating, he had sent me this... gift. I hardly think of it as
such a thing now. This gift had brought him... I now live alone. What did it
matter, though. No one even knew about my home life. At least, no one but my other.
My other is really myself, and yet he is not quite me. This is how he explained
it to me one night, while I lie on the kitchen floor with the blood pooling around me, and
this is how I would explain it. Not that anyone ever asked, of course. If they did, I would
probably forget my answer from the shock of being talked to. Not at. No one ever
actually looked at me, they would always look in my general direction. Many would not
meet my eyes, though I do not know why. Perhaps it was because they could see the
darkness that belonged to him in my eyes. Not that it mattered, of course. No one would
ever look at me, or speak to me. There was no point in going over my reactions and
responses and what my life would be like if someone ever spoke to me, since it never
will happen. He keeps reminding me of this, even now.
No, do not misjudge me. I am not a self-pitying person. I was one of the few
in the world who realized the truth of life. But only after it had left me near dead. Before
it could kill me, though, I realized the truth. Yes, I consider the truth of life to be him. It
was he who showed me that the world had teeth and could kill me with them at any time.
A dark smile crossed my pale features as I raised my eyes up to look at the white pillow
above my head. No one understood why I was obsessed with white. No one understood
why I was trying desperately to appear innocent. Not even he did. I did not want to be
responsible for bringing him back into the world, I wanted to try and cover my impurity
and guilt with a pure color. I even tried to hide myself within these white walls. I tried to
cover myself up and pretend that no one was home. He would not allow it. No one could
ever hurt me, except him. Nothing could ever happen, except him. No one would ever be
able to help me. No one would ever find out about my grave error. The error of bringing
back to this world.
I suppose I forgot a small problem with white. It hides nothing, and shows all.
To hide a secret you must hide it in the dark, for the light will reveal it cruelly. The
blackness will hide all or you secrets, your fears, you true feelings. The whiteness will
hide nothing. For a moment I am reminded of my white shirt, I had worn it one night and
he had come for me. Crimson stains now cover the shirt, I have never been able to get
them out. That shirt shows the truth of my life. But his black one does not...
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
AN: Hello again! I suppose that I won't be finishing "Burned" before
X-Mas vacation ends... Gomen ne. Anyway, about this. Someone told me that the door
thing had confused them and asked if I could expand on it a bit. I did that an more. I'm
thinking about writing a room-thing for a select few of the characters and am wondering
if it would be a good idea. What do you think? BTW, this is from Ryou Bakura's POV
and the person he keeps refering to is none other than Yami Bakura. Someone had
guessed Seto on the original version. 0.o That's just kinda way off.... Anyway, I hope you
enjoyed this. READ AND REVIEW please! Also, visit my Ryou Bakura site!
http://www.geocities.com/dead_and_Falling