Chapter Six: Face-off

               Throughout the ages, the human figure has been depicted as a symbol of splendor and style, a structure tastefully refined by the founding fathers of traditional art. Critics stand in awe of Renaissance paintings, praising the pictures for their realistic qualities, marveling at the raw opulence of what supposed experts sketched centuries ago. This insane legacy inspires amateurs of every color, country, and background, endorsing those compositional customs to the hilt, sculpting bodies as if there is nothing more stunning than the arrogance of mortals. As I hold this pen to my chest, its silver end winking at me confidentially, promising to strip me of the lie of my existence, an unexpected realization washes over my bloodshot sight. Somewhere in Europe, tourists are gasping in amazement at the exquisite portrayal of Venus, silently thanking their makers for allowing them to see how enticing our kind can be.

How come I can't be the spectator in a goddess' presence? I wondered wistfully. Why? Why is it so beyond me to appreciate the shape of a person?

Truthfully, I could value sculptures like da Vinci's model of David and Michelangelo's masterpiece of the Sistine Chapel. They are remnants of pure genius, a prowess that cannot be taught nor has the ability to be reinvented. Somehow, I understood the appeal radiating from the relics, approving of their nobility by bowing to the kings who ruled over them like a peasant showing respect to a knight. Compared to these immortals of history, I am nothing but a student in the master's temple, forever devoting myself to seeking the wisdom that scintillating minds before me possessed. Therein lies my largest flaw; I am entirely too obsessed with obtaining knowledge, expecting instantaneous enlightenment at every junction, criticizing myself to the point of tears if my meditations proved unsuccessful.

Arising from the heady squalls of failure emerges truth, an asset that can barely ride the despairing currents of teenage years, but will be submerged in deception once my tsunami of fears devastates its island.

The only individual I abhor seeing in his natural condition isn't an opponent from my tournaments, a classmate that causes civil disobedience, or even an unknown figure hustling into the skyscrapers towering over his head. It's someone so revolting; so positively hideous that thinking about him released the murder object from my grip.

I am that male, the shattered diamond on the asphalt, the gum coming unglued from a homeless man's shoe, a spitball torn up, dipped in a haven for germs, then ejected onto the nearest appliance. I hate myself, I've always hated myself, and that is the emotion I've learned to associate my name and demeanor, appearance and any facet of my character with.

Even as a kid, I couldn't tolerate my conduct. When Gozaburo Kaiba, my adoptive father, bought me a new book or gadget, all I wanted to do was hand it back to him. The trinkets were the best money could buy, but I never could fully accept them. Why such a wealthy man wasted his intelligence and patience on me is a riddle I've yet to solve, a complex enigma that plagues my views, shredding my self-esteem like an unruly child butchering his hair with scissors.

/Pain is pleasure, isn't it? / reasoned my alter ego sadistically, /I bet you'd just love to taste those blades again--/

Shuddering involuntarily, I latched onto the sink in front of me, swaying on my feet as I remembered an episode of self-mutilation. Under the spell of bipolar depression, my issues of inadequacy demolished my good judgment, duping me into believing that I'd be better off dead. Reality twisted itself into a fatal dream world, a dimension that Osiris had abandoned. I felt my spirit was advocating Descartes' Evil Genius. Laying my essence on troubled waters, I snatched a pair of scissors from a shelf and struck myself, slicing my skin and ethics in half. To this day, the effects of that event echoes in my ears, bloodcurdling screeches that deafens me to the present hours—

What have I done? God, oh God, what have I done?

Rising from the sea of shattered memories, my head voice resonated inside of me, its insults escalating, reaching a peak of lethal perfection.

/You did what you had to, what you should be doing now. /

"Go screw yourself." I retorted sourly. "I don't give a damn what you think."

Somehow, it was able to detect the faint hint of vulnerability in my response, giving the reject an avenue to destroy the leftovers of my psyche.

/Once a bitch, always a bitch. I'd say you'd make a wonderful whore, but I don't know anyone who'd pay money to be with you. /

"Y-you're wrong!"

/Pretentious lunatic. /

"Not t-true--"

/Mercy fuck. /

"NO!" I yelled, more loudly than I intended to. I'm sure students pacing the hallways could hear me, but I couldn't contain myself or the pitiless roommate I had freeloading off my insecurities. "Stop it, stop it now!"

Bone-chilling laughter rumbled around me. /Aw, backed into a corner with nowhere to go? /

"There's a place for me--"

A feeble response, but it's the only alibi I had to plead my case. If I were on trial, my counterpart would be judge, jury, and executioner, sentencing me to an eternity stricken with hatred deeper than Lucifer's jealousy of God. In my situation, I was labeled with automatic guilt, a Christ child who committed no sin, but had to redeem the ill will of a world that had no concept of heaven. Hell hath no fury like a demon governing caverns of chaos, volcanoes of a personality at war with himself, spontaneously spewing the lava of my own ruin.

/Where? On your knees, giving Satan a blowjob? / jeered the pervert. It had the upper hand in this crazy affair, and that was a given variable in our equation, allowing the final result to work out in its favor.

"Depraved dick!" I spat, canine tooth biting into my bottom lip, pulse pounding the savage rhythm of a slave's requiem.

/I'm not the one trying to stab us with a pen, remember? /

 "Do you want to see me dead?" I asked indignantly. "Is that what you're after?

/What do you think, Princess? /

"I think you're the one who should leave--"

/And find you leading a happy life somewhere down the bunny trail? / my alter ego snickered. /Come on, Peter Rabbit! You're having a hard enough time as it is stealing vegetables from the farmer's garden! Sooner or later, you're going to bring back a carrot to that den of yours, dripping with pesticides from your occupation or class assignments--/

 "There's nothing wrong with my work ethic!" I cried defensively.

Spitefully, it drove another nail into my crucifix, turning me into a tribute of the doomed.

/then you'll wish you would have listened to me. No amount of money will bring you back from the edge, that pleasurable pier of madness, rooms of your mansion filled with the rumors of your fall from the top. /

 "Nothing wrong," I moaned, "there's nothing wrong..."

/That's right, / it sneered, /you keep telling yourself that. You keep holding on to that fairy tale and see how far it gets you. Maybe if you're lucky, you'll drag others down with you. /

"No one will suffer from my mistakes, do you hear? No one!"

/A promise easier said than kept. I wonder if little Mokuba would hold those scanty views sacred? /

Mention of my brother triggers breakdowns, psychological conditions so severe that my mind shatters into millions of pieces. I can't let the bastard play me like a puppet, but my options were limited, forcing me to choose a route that I barely survived through. Gambling with my psyche, I rolled the dice in a risky game of craps, my sanity posing as the grand prize in the casino.

/Well? / said the voice sharply, /would he? /

Collecting my wits, I called out a number that my conscience rarely won against. "He loves me, and I love him. Nothing could tear us apart."

Now all bets were off from here. Would it hit a snake eyes, or would I be betrayed? Based off sparse rules, this reminded me of slot machines, the lucky number seven that lit up the scoreboards by pure chance. Which side will the cubes fall on? Will Lady Luck be with me, or will my conscience rig the match in its favor, making this our most formidable face-off yet?