Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh!
Warnings: Bloodshed, Y/YY references, wrist-slashings, bloodshed, tormented thoughts, bloodshed, voices, bloodshed... the usual :)
Well, this is possibly the most depressing thing I've written. Then I went and spoiled it at the end with the freakin' romantic overtones... oh well. It happened the way it did. So... first angsty-type fic... yeah. Have fun with it.
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The One Thing Keeping Me Alive
It feels so strange to laugh. Unsettling. Unfamiliar. It almost hurts.
Almost.
What's worse, I wonder- blinding pain and suffering, or anticipating it; working it up in your imagination to something that will rip at you horribly, until you can't keep yourself composed. You scream and cry and plead for it to stop, but it won't. It won't. It never does- but there are times when you think it's gone for good.
But it always came back for me.
And yet, I found a way to forget about it, however unwholesome it may have been.
After all, if you find ways to let your emotions out, suffering becomes manageable.
I know that much, at least.
I don't know why I chose the way I did back then. One night with the knife probably caused me more mental trauma than I will probably ever experience during the rest of my life, never mind all the other times I did it.
The knife. It was plain; silver blade, black handle, but Re, it hurt so much, yet I still savored the intensity of rush. The memory alone of what I would do to myself when I needed to cry, but no tears would come, still makes me shudder with pain.
The blade glittered as the light from the torches wavered slightly in the night breeze, shifting the shadows and light in erratic patterns. I bit my lip, looking at the silver, drenched in the blazing colours of the firelight, then at my unscarred wrist. I was shaking, and I wasn't cold. I pushed my second thoughts aside, and I raised the knife, slowly, positioning it carefully, shut my eyes tight, and brought it down-
So cold. So painful. So sickeningly gratifying.
I wasn't ready for the pain. Or the shock, for that matter. But I continued with it. I should have stopped; I knew what it would do to me. How attached to it I would become. But, eventually, it felt like it was worth it. Everytime I hurt myself, there would be a rush of adrenaline. I became addicted to slashing myself. I hated that I did such things to myself, but at the same time, I loved it.
Love and hate. I should've felt only hate. But I didn't.
How could I do this to myself? Willingly, to make matters worse. I had no one else to blame. It was my decision, my decision alone to do what I did to myself. To inflict this pain on myself. To torture myself.
Because that is what it was. Torture.
Not because of the pain, but because I never let it drag on. But I wanted to. Oh, Re, how I wanted to let it continue, until I was dizzy and nauseated and about to slip out of consciousness. Until I was shaky and breathing deep and my suffering had become unbearable, and yet I knew I would have enjoyed it, I would have gotten off on letting myself get that close to the threshold of life and death. I would have felt so far apart from all my troubles, about to slip out of existence.
Everytime I strapped the wound, that hurt me, the fact that I didn't have the guts to let myself bleed almost to death.
And all to to give me a way to release my emotions without seeming weak.
-I felt the sudden sharp sensation that flooded through me, and gave a small yelp, trying to hide the scream of pain fighting escape me, but I couldn't keep it down. As I let the horrible, high-pitched shriek pass my lips, I looked hesitantly with blurred eyes at my wrist, and gave a wrenching sob at the deep red liquid seeping out. And, even though it was so sickening to witness, I was fascinated by it. That so much blood could escape through one small cut.
It took me a week to get used to it. A week. Because I did it so many times. After that first time, I must have used that blade on myself at least three times a day. It was a miracle I didn't die from blood loss.
Maybe it would have been better if I had.
I don't do it anymore. I have admitted to myself that it was sick and twisted- the pleasure I felt whenever I had the knife in my hand, the black hilt that was always cold, the cruel glittering of the silver.
The ecstasy as the knife drew blood, seeing the blade stained red, the same redness easing down my hand in a flow of my troubles, it was my fault, all mine, I had no one else to blame, and I didn't care, because I loved every second of it, the pleasure and the pain.
When I had become used to it, the way I liked pain scared me. It was as if I had a whole other frame of mind, because when I was away from the knife, from the shadows, I felt sickened with myself. I couldn't stand thinking about it. I pushed the memories aside, ignoring them. There were points when I felt I'd never do it again.
But the second I was sure there would be no interruption...
How many times had I done this to myself? I didn't really care; I stopped caring a long time ago. The knife. Still the same as the first time. It hadn't changed at all. I absent-mindedly played with the handle, the cool black leather feeling so familiar, then ran my fingers over the edge of the blade, smiling at the small, stinging slits it left.
It went beyond wrist-slashing. Anywhere I could see the blood was fine by me.
I tightened my grip around the hilt, then passed it across my wrist, hissing lightly at the mix of pleasure and pain it sent through me. I took it away from the gash, and watched the blood seeping out with wide, attentive eyes. It still made me spellbound, after all these wrist-slashings, I still couldn't take my eyes off it. I bent my wrist back, and the flow increased. I dropped the knife, ignoring the deeper black parts that were the bloodstains of my fingerprints.
My breath had become shaky. I jammed my right-hand fingers into my mouth and sucked the blood off them, the bittersweet taste sending shivers down my spine.
Oh, Re, why? Why did it feel so good to have my blood leaking out of me, night after night? Why did I let it get so far that I felt I couldn't go on without the cold metal slicing into me?
Why had I done it in the first place?
The rush. It felt so good. The coldness of the metal piercing my heated flesh, the deep scarlet liquid that would flow from the wound. My lower lip trembled, stained with the blood from my fingers, but I couldn't care less, no one would know, except for me, and that was how I wanted it.
What was wrong with me? What could have been bad enough to drive me to inflict that kind of suffering on myself?
I felt myself becoming slightly dizzy, and before I knew what I was doing, I reached for the bandage near me, and wound it around my wrist tightly, watching dejectedly as a deep red stain seeped onto the surface of the gauzy material. Gutless. I couldn't hold out.
I wasn't gutless. I just didn't want to die.
But back then, I felt it. I felt that I was already doing such things to myself, what would be the point of not letting it go on for a few minutes longer?
Spineless little child.
I wasn't.
I would have been better off if I let it kill me.
No.
What is there to live for?
Stop it.
Feel it one last time, and hold out until the end.
NO! NO! NO!
I forced myself to look at my wrists, the scars, pale, barely visible, but still there, and they weren't going to go away, never. They'd always be there as a constant reminder of the knife, the damn stupid knife, the crimson fluid staining the silver, the pain, oh, Re, the excruciating, tormenting, agonizing pain, the rush that felt so sickeningly good, and everything that drove me to it, everything that made me do it to myself, just because I was too weak to take it, just because I wanted to give myself a way make myself cry without having to justify it.
And look what happened- I became something pathetic, something craving pain, something that enjoyed suffering. I made myself agonize. Me. No one else. I controlled what the knife did; I controlled the blood flow, I controlled how far it got; I controlled my suffering.
I did it! Dammitt, I did it to myself! It was my fault! I let myself become a torture-craving wretch!
I reach into my pocket, tears streaming down my face, and it felt so like blood, oh, Re, how it reminded me of those horrible yet sweet sessions with the knife that I have my hand around. I withdraw at it and stare at it with hatred, knowing it's not to blame, but, dammitt, it helped, and it was the tool I used, and I hated it so because of it.
I couldn't let it go.
So many stains had been wiped clean, and it seemed now that I recalled each one. I tremble as I look at the knife, just sitting, looking, mesmerized as I was back when my wrist was bleeding, back when it felt good to watch. I don't feel good anymore. I feel terrible. I feel sickened.
My hand is shaking, the knife bathed in light.
Don't do it.
Yes, do it.
No, no, no...
You want to.
No, I don't.
End it. End the memories that you can't take.
SHUT UP! LEAVE ME ALONE!
I let out a horrible wrenching sob, and drop the knife. I'm too weak to let go, too weak to hold it out one last time.
I didn't want to die...
I don't want to. I don't. I want to live. I don't want to continue being that soulless, weak, pathetic creature I used to be, ruled by the need to feel the rush and ecstasy of pain. I want to be able to fight depression and suffering, without the need to feel and watch myself bleed, knowing that it's my own fault, my own damn fault, my weakness, my helplessness, my inability to take hardship that's doing this to me, not the damn knife, not anything besides me, me alone, I did it to myself, I'm to blame.
I cast a glance over to the knife, just laying there, beckoning me. It's so familiar to me... the bloodstains on the hilt still remain, but if you didn't know what you were looking for, you wouldn't be able to see them.
But I can. The recollections attached to them are more than I can stand.
I want to forget. I don't want to commit suicide.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror, my eyes are so bloodshot, so red, like the blood seeping from my veins.
Oh, Re, why can't I just forget about the damn wrist-slashings? Why won't they go away? Why do they still haunt me, even after all these years?
Maybe...
Maybe I should go through with it. I touch the cold silver of the blade which, even after all that I've been through with it, seems so beautiful, so familiar.
So evil and painful to look at.
Is there anything left for me to live for?
Love.
Is that all?
What would it do to your hikari if you killed yourself?
....
It would kill him. Re, it would destroy him. Knowing that I...
I can't do it. Not while he still loves me, not while I still love him.
Maybe before I would have. Before we realised....
He's all I have left.
He's keeping me alive.
I can't take my own life, take the easy way out, knowing what it would do to him.
You can be free of all pain and suffering.
What about what I leave behind?
One person. One person who will miss you.
And there are others. But him above all.
They'll forget.
He won't. He won't.
You don't know.
Better off not knowing and being with him than not knowing and being without him.
You don't want to run from the pain?
No. I want to fight it. Even though I'm scared of what it might do to me, I have him. He'll get me through.
Don't be a fool.
Shut up and leave me be. I don't want to have to listen to you anymore.
Silence.
I give a shuddering sigh, then reach for the blade. The pain. The rush. The suffering. The memories, the haunting memories that won't go away.
I... I won't forget what I used it for... but I can move on, and I think I will be able to put it aside for a while at a time.
For him and his innocent, amethyst eyes that look at me with such adoration. For the way we loves me unconditionally, no matter what I do. For everything about him, that makes me love him so dearly.
For him.
I live for him, and he makes life worth it.
He's mine, and I'm his, and that's all I need. That's all I want.
I think that's all I wanted back then; someone to love me, someone to care for, someone who is my other half, someone who makes me feel complete.
That's him.
I fear for my mentality, the nightmares I will have, the recollections, the memory triggers. But I will put up with it for him.
He's the one thing keeping me alive. And I love him for it.
The End