Cost of Living
Author's Note: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh!, or Seto, as much as I might like to. :(
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Seto rolled up his sleeve and grabbed the knife in slightly trembling fingers, his knuckles white from the grip. He hadn't had the chance to do this for so long that his emotions were beginning to get the better of him. If he had to wiat any longer, he was going to lose it.
He slit the back of his forearm from elbow to wrist, cutting deeper than he ever had in his need to cleanse himself, savoring the pain and the feel of the cold metal and hot blood. He cut himself again and again, slicing through the years' accumulation of scars on his arm. The white sides of the sink were pink, and what wasn't covered in his blood was spattered with it. He watched it swirl down the drain and pretended it was his emotions, his anger and joy and hate and love he was washing away. Before long, all he felt was a soul-deep calmness. He washed off the knife and put it back in his pocket, then mechanically stopped the bleeding, pulled his sleeve back down, and began to clean up, leaving no trace of the secret price he paid for life.
And on the other side of the door, Mokuba quietly slipped away and cried.
Author's Note: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh!, or Seto, as much as I might like to. :(
________________________________________________________________________________
Seto rolled up his sleeve and grabbed the knife in slightly trembling fingers, his knuckles white from the grip. He hadn't had the chance to do this for so long that his emotions were beginning to get the better of him. If he had to wiat any longer, he was going to lose it.
He slit the back of his forearm from elbow to wrist, cutting deeper than he ever had in his need to cleanse himself, savoring the pain and the feel of the cold metal and hot blood. He cut himself again and again, slicing through the years' accumulation of scars on his arm. The white sides of the sink were pink, and what wasn't covered in his blood was spattered with it. He watched it swirl down the drain and pretended it was his emotions, his anger and joy and hate and love he was washing away. Before long, all he felt was a soul-deep calmness. He washed off the knife and put it back in his pocket, then mechanically stopped the bleeding, pulled his sleeve back down, and began to clean up, leaving no trace of the secret price he paid for life.
And on the other side of the door, Mokuba quietly slipped away and cried.