Chapter Seven: Just the Two of Us

"Happy birthday to me…"

I unwrapped my last present after everyone left the dining room. Dad retired to his office, private quarters close to where he slept. The man spent more of his time fluffing up documents than pillows, processing applications and sending E-mails to co-workers until his PC's memory card was full. Gozaburo Kaiba was like any other capitalist, sacrificing personal health for a chance to obtain that all-American dream, a lifestyle that only the very ruthless could strive for. His profession took precedence over leisure activities, family vacations, even special occasions that happened once a year. Preoccupied with Wall Street and his latest investments, Daddy Dearest couldn't care less if I blew the candles out on my cake, let the sugar burn to ashes, or threw it away without eating a bite. Yes, I can't think of a better way to remember the night I turned eight, watching my father take a new business deal, leaving me with a substitute parent to issue text books and homework until sunrise.

"Happy Birthday to me…" I sang sadly, stifling a sob.

Neglected and lonely, I scrutinized the stacks of essays, research materials, and novels, stacked around me in an intimidating circle. How was I going to finish reading and examining key points of the literature by the time Dad came home? Arriving at a central theme for everything seemed impossible enough, but authoring a detailed analysis? That would gulp my recreational hours up like a desert dweller starved of water, deprive me of actual relaxation, induce anxiety disorders that I would have no control over--

Just as I was about to torch a pile of history references, a set of little fingers tapped me on the shoulder. Lines of worry creased my forehead, generating panic in my already stressed brain, my heart grinding to the rhythm of trance music. Slower than a man on death row, I turned on my seat, expecting to be sent to the electric chair. What I saw astounded me, completely blew my mind when I registered the sight of who was really there.

My brother, standing on the tips of his toes, couldn't have given me a gift superior to the one he had on him. Balancing on his palm was a fully decorated cupcake, a rare delicacy that was prohibited from entering this house. Our militant nutritionist never allowed us to glance in a bakery window, much less be near a dessert overflowing with fatty ingredients. We were to be the spitting image of Master Kaiba, and that meant looking, dressing, acting, and even eating like him. Deviations from the norm—his norm—were totally unacceptable and were subject to harsh consequences to follow. Nonetheless, I couldn't help but wonder what the food tasted like, what I was missing from my diet…

"Happy birthday, Niisan." Mokuba said softly, extending his hand out to me.

Wishing me the best of luck, he poked a candle in the middle of his homemade luxury. After straightening the wick, he scanned the expansive table, searching through mountains of assignments for a red wand that was absent from a Muggle born household.

"Where's the matches?" he asked.

Not wanting to hurt his feelings, I stared at the floor.

"I dunno." I lied, knowing perfectly well that we weren't trusted around potential fire hazards.

Crushed, Mokuba began to tremble.

"I—I spent so much time tryin' ta make this good, an' I messed up!"

"That's not true." I murmured, trying to put him at ease.

"Yes it is!"

"No it's not."

He blinked in disbelief. "Why not?"

"'Cuz it's fine the way it is." I assured him, encompassing him in a comforting embrace.

"Honest?"

Nodding, I gathered him up in my arms and sat him on my lap. Mokuba was like a life size doll, all cuddly and cute in his evening wear, hugging me with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. No card had a higher value than this moment, for it was a priceless commodity that I would never trade for any dollar amount. With this precious person on me, he made the best birthday surprise I could ever desire.

"Happy birthday, dear Seto!" my sibling exclaimed.

Joy sparkled in his indigo orbs, another uncommon thing to witness at our residence. Left to our own devices, I felt that just the two of us made a real family, relying on each other's smiles to help us escape the raping of our youth. At least we had ourselves, an unbreakable vow of friendship, the only shooting star of hope I dreamed of wishing upon.

Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, then blew out a puff of air, snuffing the imaginary flame on my snack.

"There," I declared, "everything's just fine now."

Mokuba raised a curious brow. "Whatd'ya mean?"

"I made a wish."

The boy bounced on my legs. "What for, what for?" he spouted excitedly. "Tell me!"

Gently, I pressed a finger to his lips, silencing his wild outburst.

"I can't." I said.

Disappointment spread across my brother's visage. "Why not?" he questioned sadly.

"It won't come true if I say anything." I revealed, grinning impishly.

That seemed to work well. Almost immediately, he brightened, returning to his classically energetic self.

Leaning in close to me, he whispered confidentially, "Ya know what's better than talkin' 'bout the cupcake?"

 "What?" I whispered back, playing along with him.

"Eating it!" he cried.

My mouth widened into a broad smile. Tossing aside notebook paper and pens, I scooped him off me and set him on the glossy wood.

"First dibs!" I shouted, taking my relative's juvenile behavior to heart.

Delighted, he watched as I tore off the wrapping, the spark for life rekindled in me, flaring into a phoenix rising from the ashes of hopelessness to be engulfed in ecstasy. Celebrating the pure pleasure of living, I held the cake up to Mokuba, willing him to grab onto its base with me.

"Okay, on three!" I told him as soon as his fingers brushed mine.

In unison, we counted the numbers, hyperactivity motivating us to share the fortune of kindness.

"One…Two…Three!" we cried jovially.

Giggling, we took our separate parts, smooshing the crumbs on each other's lips, enjoying the fellowship of brotherly love. These times of perfect peace were few and far between for me, but when they did occur, the event became a treasured memory. Those holidays were meant to sustain me through good or trying trials, providing a downy cloud to catch me if anything ever started going horribly wrong—

"Seto!" someone yelled through my foggy episodes. "Seto, what th' hell in th' name a Jesus Fucking Christ is wrong wit' ya?"

Continuously, my back connected with a wall, dragging my mind into a reality I never wanted to see. White tiles bit at my skin, forcing my body temperature to plummet to a freezing level. A teenager, displaying the same height and build as me, had my uniform clenched in his fists, shouting such salty obscenities that I thought I was kidnapped by a sailor.

"God damn it, Set! Say somethin', anythin', just SPEAK!"

Over and over the vulgarities resounded, demands that reminded me of my father hovering over my desk, ready to rap a ruler across my knuckles if I didn't comply with his orders.

Come on, Wake up, Quit fucking around, Stop daydreaming, Pay attention, Don't be an airhead, Concentrate, Focus, Study, study, study, More work, less play, Don't act stupid, Don't be stupid, Quit crying or I'll give you something to cry about…

Was I shedding tears without being consciously aware of the action? Instantly, I took an inventory of my features' present condition: no wetness on the cheeks, no runny nose, dry eyes, not even a trace of spittle on the chin—was this all just a bad dream? Even still, I felt as if I was drowning in a pool, my frame bolted to the bottom of the deep end swimming with sharks. Vile language served as a noose more than a psychological tool, tying me inside a shallow grave that my vanity would gnaw away at soon enough.

What is the point of telling me those things? I wondered, wistful and distant from the world and its inhabitants. I already know what a terrible example I am, that I'll never be anyone worthwhile.

Lowering my head dejectedly, I gave in to my psyche, launching threats at me quicker than a nuclear weapon locating its target. It was a never-ending battle, a terrifying struggle tangled with morality and common sense, religion and intuition, all vying to conquer this internal chaos. I recognized my conscience to be a cruel external creature, an entity similar to humans that passed judgment on me at will. I never stopped to think that the voice was a facet of my own hatred, a rusted characteristic that lessened my personality's face value. Fully comprehending that would devastate me, cause collateral damage to brandish an unyielding sword, gutting every drop of fluid from my system—

"Oh, no…" I moaned, despairing over the warring territory of my arm. "Not again, please not again…"

Bloody beyond recognition, my left limb resembled that of a Vietnam soldier's, cut from the wrist to my school clothes. Cold sweat stung the laceration, agitating exposed tissue with sharp stabs of pain. Shocked, I gaped at my rebelling body, trapped in a conflict that would never call for a truce.

Finally, I broke the blinders and grasped the seriousness of the situation. Everything made sense, was clearer than before, molded into a perspective that I had to either re-sculpt or flatten forever. In the bathroom at Domino high, Seto Kaiba, director of an international company, class official and honor society member, caretaker of his sibling since both were orphaned, had severely fucked himself over.

/Happy birthday, dear Darling,/ chorused the bitch of my nightmares, my alter ego, my mate for eternity in a voice as sickeningly sweet as the cupcake had been, /Happy birthday to you./

Blacking out under the pressure of failing defenses, laughter from my darker half echoed in my head, reminding me that it would find a place in hell for just the two of us.