Chapter Eight: Checkmate

Cherubs bounced on horizons paved with white gold, springing from one fluffy formation to another, encouraging the trampolines to project their tumbling talents over residences below. Clouds sprinkled snow out like confetti decorating a wedding, bouquets of pearly rose petals tossed from heaven's hands to her maid of honor's, Lady Earth. Delighting in the royal bridal shower, God's servants proclaimed the mystery of faith, joyously praising the elegance of the season. Laughter provided the perfect accompaniment for choirs, echoing merry natures of every age, highlighting the darkest alley with the brightest smile. Children relished traditional scents of gingerbread baking in the warmth of their mothers' love, enthusiasm glowing on Elvin faces like holiday lights sparkling on pine branches. No adolescent would be caught crying on this long-awaited morning-or that was what I originally thought-until my sibling's distraught emotions proved my theory otherwise.

Dreadful wailing woke me from a sound sleep, leaving me breathless at the sound. Without thinking, I jumped from my desk, spilling a mound of profit and loss statements for the month. Father impressed upon me that it would be within my best interest to calculate his company's finances. In other words, he used these charts and graphs to send me a very powerful message: Do as I say, or you can find yourself another home. He meant it, too. You can bet your life savings on that. If I didn't earn my keep in his house, I'd be collared, chained to the mailbox, and whimpering at the moon until the pound took me away. That's one of my pet names for halfway houses. If I was in an uglier mood, I'd have better terms for them. Much more graphic ones, to be precise.

Orphanages reminded me of humane societies, where the kids were canines trapped in cramped, dirty cages. Counselors had the nerve to call them bedrooms, but everyone knew better than to believe them. By day, the inmates wrestled for dominance over toys, playground equipment, or anything that would provoke a fight from someone. Aggression steamed under the lids of both genders, burning whoever was unlucky enough to blow the tops off their broiling kettles. And when nighttime hit…it was everyone for his or her own self. I once shared a cot with some newcomer that came when the sun had recoiled its rays. When I rolled over the following morning, I opened my eyes just in time to see him wheeled away on a stretcher. Someone was murdered right beside me and I slept through the whole thing as if nothing happened. That was how people survived living in a happiness asylum like that. If a rape, homicide, or theft was going on, you learned to look the other way. Just mind your own damned business and be thankful that you ducked the oncoming attack. Because when daylight started to dwindle, there were creatures that loved to be real life bed bugs. Except those creepy crawlies didn't just want to bite back.

They wanted to kill.

Daddy Dearest is well informed of my background there, too. That's why it's so easy for him to make me submit, to reduce me to begging him to be the mean and morbid master he delights in playing. He uses my fear of revisiting that horror house against me, threatening to yank my choker off and kick me to the curb if I so much as breathed without him telling me to do so. I can't remember how many times I'd hold my breath when Father was near, jerking my body into an unnaturally rigid pose, gazing in wide-eyed terror at nothing until he was gone. Maybe that's part of his future plan, to stand behind me until I'm so starved of oxygen, I won't be able to suck in anymore air. At least when I'm in the ground, I won't have to worry about holding anything in there. Dawns like these, when frantic bawling outweighs laughter, generates the concern of attending an early funeral. Has Daddy already closed the cover on my casket? Is that why I can hear my brother's cries, because I've already been sent to hell?

Anger and resentment boiled beneath my skin, roasting my insides as if they were macaroni noodles suffering a slow, overcooked death. Why did I have to be treated like a trained poodle? As soon as an order was barked at me, I'd instantly obey, no matter how outlandish the demands were. Bolting down an elaborate corridor, a frightening concept struck me. What if I never escaped the prison I grew up in? Was this place no different from the institution I reviled, still had nightmares about? More than ever, this mansion resembled a junkyard rather than an estate, fencing in two kids torn apart by guidance.

Other kids received TLC without even asking for it, I was positive about that much. There were children I saw that soaked up hugs and kisses from their parents, drawing off an endless supply of affection. My fountain wasn't just dry.

It was scorched.

Who could explain why my relative and I went so long without a pat on the back, a smile of approval, or some mark of kindness?

Nobody thinks we're worthy of being loved. I thought bitterly. We're little more than Dobermans here, volatile animals who will, one day, turn our fangs on our supposed owner. Gozaburo Kaiba doesn't suspect that I have anything but cold fear stocked inside myself, but I'll show him. I'll make him regret turning his back on me.

Rounding a corner, I nearly ricocheted off a wall, leaning too far on my left leg. Fortunately, I managed to skid by without tripping. I did; however, knock a picture down in my mad rush. It plummeted to the carpet with a soft thud, the water nymphs in the mage masking tortured sobs with their sweet smiles. I wanted to be where they were. More specifically, I wanted to be anywhere but here. Who dreams about finding their best friend locked in a fetal position, moaning incoherently to himself, devastated on what is supposed to be a holiday reserved for lambs like him?

Finding Mokuba in the living room, trembling on the verge of a nervous breakdown, was enough to bring me to my knees. Fugitive tears bubbled beneath my lids, threatening to pour onto my cheeks if I didn't fix whatever was wrong. Fighting back my sadness, I swallowed my hard feelings and wandered to my brother like a bug attracted to fluorescent lamps.

I can't do this, I chanted painfully, I can't live here much longer like this. Take me away, someone, anyone. Please come and take me away.

Ridiculing my prayers, the seraphs I was taught to believe in did just that. They granted my request, slapping brittle wings on me, all to watch me fall into a dimension unlike any I had ever seen before. The landscape was the exact opposite I had been hoping for, a crater in the middle of nowhere going to somewhere more stark and desolate than Eskimo territory. No Stephen King or Poe story could portray the horror I was being exposed to, nor could any figurative or literal language describe the absolute misery I felt.

Mokuba regressed back to tearing his skull open, blunt fingertips bathing in the bloody wounds he induced, what was left of his nails scratching his delicate skin to pieces. He looked as if he were comatose; screaming in the silence of his own self-created insanity.

"Stop it!" I ordered as sternly as I could. "Stop it now!"

My authoritative approach had no effect on him. His hands went right on gashing his scalp, burrowing underneath the tender flesh concealing his veins and major organs. How could I get him to listen to me when he acted like this? He appeared drugged, way beyond the help of a team of therapists, drifting from one reality to another as if he were truly schizophrenic. What hope did I have of rescuing him from his demons?

Too stubborn to leave him alone, I dropped beside him and gripped his shoulders in my shaking fists. There was no way I was going to let him slip away from me. Losing touch with me meant the end of Father's chess game. The board would be wide open for a direct attack, giving my nice, adoring Daddy the victory he craved. I can't do that. I won't do that. Checkmate will be my battle cry when I win the play against Daddy Dearest.

And I won't have it any other way.

Picking him off he ground, I jerked his head up to meet my watery gaze.

"Mokuba!" I cried. "Stop it! You don't have to do this!"

Wavering in his mentally exhausting state, he paid no attention to me, lifting another hand to deepen his open abrasions. Terrified of his self-destruction, I pushed the limb away. Jaded, he kept raising his arms, trying to get at the future scars he was constructing. As soon as I forced one palm down, another rose to take its place. Frustrated and scared, I did my best to capture both his wrists. When I reached to grab them, they evaded my grasp, flailing excitedly as if they were waving in the bleachers to a favorite sports team. Is this how the last moves were to be made, defeating ourselves to plunge straight into Daddy's clutches?

"Please don't hurt yourself!" I begged brokenly. "Please, please, please understand you don't have to do this!"

Mokuba had an index finger poised above his cuts, ready to slice farther into his head. Any second now, he'd press his nails into the lacerations, and there wouldn't be a thing I could say or do to halt the action.

As a last shot before surrender, I blurted, "Mokuba, if you keep on cutting, you won't just be hurting you. You'll be hurting me, too."

My last-minute pleading worked like a charm. Magically, his arm retracted from his hairline, flopping to his lap lifelessly. The horrible curse on him was dispelled, allowing him to enter into the realm of the living once more. Regret glistened in his big blue orbs, overwhelmed by tears streaming over his cheeks.

"I'm so sorry." he whispered sadly. "I'm sorry, so, so sorry."

"Don't be." I replied, sheltering him in a refreshing embrace.

"But I-"

"Shhh," I said calmly, "It's all right."

Looking at me with wide, haunted eyes, Mokuba asked, "Is it really, Seto?"

I nodded slowly. "Yeah, I think it is now."

"You sure 'bout that?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" I countered. Thinking a moment, I cocked a suspicious brow. "Unless there's something I don't know that you do?"

I waited for a response, some sort of assurance that my speculation was just idle thought. Instead, Mokuba fell silent, and a weird, unsettling pause hung between us. Was he hiding something from me? Had Gozaburo Kaiba done something so despicable to him that he wouldn't confide in me?

Wetting my lips, I queried hesitantly, "Daddy didn't, he didn't do anything to you, right?"

My brother's expression changed from eerie trauma to utter confusion. "Do? Do what?" he inquired, blinking at me.

I could tell by the innocent response that he had no clue as to what was referring to. Relieved, I shook my head.

"Nothing." I said. "Never mind."

"No, really, what'dya mean?"

"It's all right." I repeated, quieting him with a kiss. "I was just being silly."

"Why, though?" he whined. "Why can't ya tell me?"

"You haven't told me why you were so upset yet." I told him.

It was the first idea that popped into my mind. I couldn't very well confess that I assumed Father to be a pedophile, a man eager to take advantage of any young, supple frame he happened across. Switching topics was the only avenue I had to getting the heat lamp off my secret concerns.

Smoothing a rebellious strand of hair, I twirled the rest of his tresses around in small circles.

"So what's going on, Little Man?" I asked, hoping to God he would forget what we were talking about. "What are you doing by yourself in this part of the house?"

Sheepishly, he shrugged.

"I dunno." he answered. "Guess I'm not feelin' so good."

"That's obvious." I commented, suppressing a grin. "Tell me something I don't know."

"That Santa hates us."

Surprised, I lifted my brow.

"Say what?"

"Santa hates us." he reiterated, more vehemently than before. "He hates us and wants us dead or somethin'."

"What makes you say that?" I questioned him.

"'Cuz he always passes over our house an' never brings us nothin'."

"You mean we didn't get any presents again this year?"

Moving his head from side to side, he began to cry.

"No, don't." I comforted. "Don't do that."

"Why don't we ever get a gift?" he wailed. "What've we done so bad that we gotta go without stuff on Christmas Day?"

I opened my mouth, but ended up shutting it when I realized I didn't know how to respond. What did we do to make such a jolly old soul angry at us? Did we merit an undecorated, treeless, joyless home during the holidays? Cursing under my breath, I dearly prayed that the angels were listening to me. I don't care if my language is appalling enough to light their pale complexions up like a Christmas tree. They were going to heed my vows whether they wanted to or not.

"Well?" my sibling pressed, a little more hysteria in his tone than usual. "What do we do to prove we're worth bein' loved?"

Out of every question that he's ever arrived at, that was the one I dreaded hearing the most. Did he know that I've been attempting to answer that ever since we were brought here? How am I supposed to make sense out of it all? How could anyone, for that matter? At a loss for what to say or do, I stared out the window.

"I don't know." I admitted sullenly. "I just don't know."

"Neither do I." agreed Mokuba. "That's why I asked."

We sat quietly together, sorting through our own shady thoughts. The wind howled outside, persuading snowflakes to slide on its gusty currents, carrying the geometrical masterpieces to new heights unseen.

When would we be permitted to soar as high as them? I wondered. Or is that a candy fantasy, one that would disappear faster than sugar on my tongue?

Suddenly, just to past the time, I blurted a rhetorical notion out loud.

"What would you want for Christmas if you could have whatever you wanted?"

Perking up a bit, Mokuba flooded my ears with a list so long; St. Nick would have trouble recalling what he spouted.

"Let's see," he began, smiling at me, "I'd like trading cards, CD's, DVD's, a skateboard, rollerblades, a new bicycle, one of those huge trampolines, the big round ones you can jump to the sky on, y'know?"

He glanced at me, searching my face for any sign of support.

"Is that okay?" he queried cautiously.

"Yup, sounds great to me." I assured him. "Actually, might ask for the same stuff, if that's alright with you."

"Yah, yeah, yeah!" he said excitedly. "If ya did, we could skate, an' flip in the air, an' ride our bikes around town, an' an'-"

"And?"

Halting in mid-sentence, he waved me off.

"No really, what?" I pressed, anxious to share in his daydreams.

"Aw, forget it." Mokuba finally said. "It's not like that could ever happen."

Stunned, I watched as my brother dismissed his beautiful thoughts. Did I somehow invade his safe haven of the Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy with my skepticism? Accepting the blame for his insecurities, I bowed my head in shame, feeling like a vampire sucking all the good aspects out of existence.

"Don't say that." I said softly. "You never know when something good could come our way."

"Like what, a ticket back to the orphanage?" suggested Mokuba dryly.

I scowled.

"No, like a mother in heaven turning into a guardian angel for us."

"Ya think she could be watchin' over us now?"

"Maybe." I revealed. "She very well could be."

That seemed to satisfy him. Shifting his gaze from mine, he crawled to the far end of the room, hoisting himself in front of a French cut window. He stuck an arm on the cream colored sill, propping his chin on an open palm. Indigo eyes stared at the winter wonderland, wishful thinking replacing indifference, appearing to be hypnotized by artistic swirls in the weather. Following his lead, I stood up and walked across plush wine rugs, taking a post beside him. Each of us scanned the skies, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mommy's radiance.

"Y'know what I'd really like today?" Mokuba queried.

I gave him a curious look.

"What?"

"To have Mom here with us. She had the best hugs."

"And warmest smiles." I added.

"With pretty hair-"

"Soft kisses-"

"Sparkly eyes-"

"Lovely lullabies-"

"Hey!" Mokuba said suddenly. "Do ya remember that song she used ta sing ta us?"

"Which one?" I asked. "There were so many."

"The French piece called uh, um," he snapped his fingers quickly, trying to recall the fond memory. "Pour Que. Pour Que somethin'."

"Pour Que Tu M'aimes Encore?" I offered a slight smile on my lips.

Happily, he clapped his hands, indicating that I was right on the money.

"That's it!" he cried. "That's the one!"

"You've actually heard it before?"

Ignoring me, he continued to babble about Mother and her musical prowess.

"I was barely walking when she first played it for me. She'd hold her arms out to me, encouraging me to toddle towards her by congratulating my every step. It was like I was getting a grand award by the way she talked." he sighed wistfully. "There was nothin' I loved more than bein' held by her. Nothin' at all. 'Specially when she sang that to me."

Studying my eyes, I saw an expression of peace and contentment that made my heart ache. Although I knew I couldn't be the parent he lost, I sometimes wished I could fill that gap for him, showering him with the same love he was missing nowadays. As if sensing my jealousy, he shocked me with a full body embrace, squeezing me so tightly that I thought I felt my ribs shift.

"I'll always love you." he said dotingly. Nuzzling his face against my chest, he added with a smile, "Both of you. You guys are the bestest people I've ever known."

Melting into his hug, I had to command my legs to stay straight so I wouldn't fall. I returned the gesture with as much adoration as I had in me, relishing the feel of such a spectacular sensation, overjoyed that he would always have a place for me in his heart.

"I love you, too." I whispered into his ear.

"Now and forever?"

"Now and forever more."

Music started to echo around us, notes of our confidence and convictions in each other rocking us so gently, so delicately that I could have sworn Mother Darling was cradling us in the timeless virtue of her humanity. How did that treasured melody go? Closing my eyes, I imagined that it went a little like this…

"J'irai chercher ton coer, sit u l'emportes ailleurs." I sang. "Meme si dans to danses, d'autres dansent tes heures."

Joining me, Mokuba chorused, "J'irai chercher ton ame, dans le froids dans les flames."

In unison, we lifted our voices to the heavens, honoring the saint that we were sure our mother had become. After all, who else could be more deserving of a position in God's choir besides her?

"Je te jetterai des sorts, pour que tu m'aimes encore."

"I'll cast you spells, so that you'll love me again." my brother followed in a passionate solo. "Pour que tu m'aimes encore."

Enchanted with the translation, I nestled my head by his neck. Neither of us received a big, gaudily wrapped present today, but we really didn't want one, either. We had something much more valuable than any video game or swing set imaginable in Santa's sack. Mommy's spirit was with us, floating throughout our verses, professing the trustworthy qualities of the relationship she gave birth to. Her devotion was the rhythm our heats beat to, the divine essence of our music, gliding her tone flawless bow over two souls reflecting the genius of gifted vocalists yet to be discovered.

Who knows what we're capable of? I asked the mystical harmony encircling us. Nobody may believe this, but Mokuba and I might be the next pop idols on the terraces of Olympus. Muses would be inspired to record our blessed ensemble for the listening pleasures of Aphrodite, spreading the assets of her prized beauty on her children, permitting hopeful artists to let the torch for humanities flare deep inside their souls.

That was the right track to altering philosophy, to rewrite the documentaries of our era before they went into print. In order to be legends in this world, we had to make history to change it, rising above everyone and anyone else vying for that honored and venerated station, eliminating those bold enough to cross our paths.

Wouldn't that enrage our precious father if the planet plucked us from his gloom and doom speeches? He wouldn't be able to lodge complaints, gripe about how we don't do anything right, or sharpen his dagger-like eyes to throw at us if we found a way to escape his clutches. Then the final chess piece would stand tall on its square, shining with pride and courage at the triumph gained over the enemy. All the perseverance, hard work, the strategic mind sets will have paid off then, when my brother and I can stare defiantly into Gozaburo's eyes and savor his pitiful, crushing surrender.

Look out, Father, I murmured savagely, because this may very well be your last play. So go on, make you're move. I'm ready for you now. I can't wait to hear you scream what I've always wanted you to, what I've craved hearing from those abusive lips ever since you laid those large gray orbs on me-

Checkmate.