Many things in my life are changing very fast. I am saying goodbye to very good friends. I am saying goodbye to a sibling who is getting married. I find myself in a place where I need to decide my major and my goal in life. I am so impossibly terrified. I've always hated change. I wish things didn't have to change like this. I wish I had a better relationship with my father. I wish I had a better relationship with my God. I wish I didn't have to set my energies on so many adult concerns. I wish I could suspend myself within these childish dreams of Peter Pan and wild horses and Anime characters I've surrounded myself with as friends. The friends I am not forced to part with.
I want to stay here with them and nevernever grow up.
.
.
.
It was the medication. It was the Ra forsaken medication. As soon as Solomon was told what had happened the next morning, he made an appointment to go see the doctor, who—after close inspection of Yugi's ears and nose—deducted that, so sorry, it had been the dosage of the medication that had had Yugi unraveling from the inside out the previous night.
Yami hated modern medicine.
The doctor said Yugi had an allergic reaction—he said they could all be thankful the boy hadn't gone into anaphylactic shock. Yami didn't know what anaphylactic shock was and he didn't care to know—all he knew was this man had ordered that stuff be put immediately into Yugi's system, and it had hurt him very badly.
Yami hated the doctor.
The doctor said they had two options: they could either stay on the medication at a much lower dosage—just enough to keep Yugi's stool relatively loose, or they could take him off of it entirely and find themselves where they were at the beginning, with the boy torn up every time he went to the bathroom. Either way, it would take time for those lacerations to heal. They would eventually stop bleeding but it would be another six months for them to close up, and in that time, they would still be open to any number of infections.
None of this made Yami feel better about the situation, but Solomon finally decided to dramatically lower the dosage, and if the previous nights events ever repeated themselves, he would throw the damn medicine away and turn to natural laxatives instead. Yami was not pleased, but he doubted that anything decided in this particular area would make him happy.
They returned home. Yugi was still tired, and rather embarrassed after having to answer all of the doctor's questions, most of which his father ended up answering for him. Yugi didn't like talking to strangers. His friends were one thing, and the doctors were another. Above all, he'd much rather talk to his Daddy about the things that hurt him.
He was slow on his feet that day. It was hurt to sit. It was difficult to lie down. Or play with toys. Or take a bath, which Yami helped him do. He didn't want to eat anything at dinner, but he was very, very thirsty. He was hungry, too, but he didn't want to eat. He was terrified to eat.
"I'll get sick, Daddy," he explained.
"You'll get sick worse if you don't eat, honey."
He ate his spaghetti. He ate it very slowly, pressured under the eyes of his father. He ate a few of his green beans, too, making a face when he swallowed.
"That's enough," his father said at last, excusing him to go put his plate on the kitchen counter and brush his teeth and get ready for bed. Yami found him in his room several moments later to tuck him into bed. "You come get me if you need me, okay?"
Yugi was sooo sleepy there under his blankets, staring up at his father through half-closed eyes. "Okay," he agreed. His lids were heavy and he couldn't keep them open, having fought one inner battle after another this past week, his little body worn out and full of sleep.
Yami brushed his lips against the boy's cheek—a liberty he would never have allowed himself had he not assumed the role of parent—a blessing now, a responsibility he took with utmost solemnity and pride—this quick kiss goodnight while his boy was already fast on his way to REM sleep.
Yami turned the lights down on his way out of the door, which he closed all but a crack, leaving a blade of light juxtaposing into the dark space of Yugi's quarters, across his sleeping form, to guide him to the hallway and his father's room should he wake unexpectedly in the night.
.
It was good. It was good for him to play—to be with friends and take turns doing what Tristan wanted, what Joey wanted, and what he himself wanted. Yugi had to learn to share and be patient—he could not always have his way, or force his friends to play the same make believe games over and over.
It was good, but Yami still found himself concerned, pacing downstairs whenever he wasn't rushing to the boy's room at every foreign noise or confessing his worries to Solomon between customers in the shop. Yami was concerned—that is, he was troubled by the choice of activities on the part of either of the older boys upstairs.
"Stop fussing," Solomon would tell him. "I swear, you're just like a woman."
Yami shot him a look.
"It's fine," the elder man continued. "Let them listen to the radio and watch TV. It's perfectly normal."
"Have you even turned the television on lately, Solomon? That thing is dangerous," Yami declared incredulously. "Every channel is nothing but sexual innuendo and cursing and violence!"
"It's Saturday afternoon," he objected.
"Nonetheless! Radio commercials showcase one brand of condom or another. All the songs are about drugs and promiscuity—"
"You worry far too much," Solomon interrupted, his amusement apparent in his voice. "You can't keep Yugi from the society he lives in. You just hope he knows well enough to be mindful what he should and should not be listening to and watching."
"But he is so young, Solomon—"
"—He's fifteen."
Yami faltered, his brow knit, his expression akin to a man who's just been struck.
"Yugi is fifteen," Mr. Mutou repeated slowly, firmly, gently reminding the other man of the ultimate truth. "He has survived the media thus far, and I trust both Joseph and Tristan not to expose him to anything harmful."
.
"You listen to Cure?!" Joey was rolling his eyes where he sat in the corner of his friend's room, a recent issue of some comic superhero in his hand. "How lame is that?"
Tristan, whom the jest was directed to, huffed beside the small radio on Yugi's desk. "The Cure is not lame. I'll have you know they are a classic—a pioneer in the way of alternative music as we know it."
Joey laughed out loud. "You've got you're whole speech and everything? Yeah, that's lame. Change the station—I wanna listen to some present day alternative—not that nineteen-eighties crap. Find some Blink 182—or Dashboard Confessional, Puddle of Mud, Tool—something like that."
"Give me a break, Joe. You've got to pay respect to the great ones—U2, Depeche Mode, the Stones—you can't honestly tell me you don't like the Rolling Stones."
"—I don't like the Rolling Stones."
"Then something's wrong with you."
Yugi smiled as he watched his friends argue, though he didn't have a clue as to what they were arguing about. It was still fun to watch. He giggled as he lay across his bed with a dozen comic books splayed open before him.
Joey threw a shoe at his friend. "Change the friggin station, Tristan!"
The other boy threw the shoe back. "Watch your mouth, Joey!"
Sean Paul. The Righteous Brothers. A commercial for a phone company. Something in Spanish. Ludwig van Beethoven's allegro ma non troppo from his sixth symphony. A plucky, twangy guitar tune from a mildly popular group, at which Tristan stopped his channel surfing to deliver rebuttal to some comment from Joey.
Yugi tuned his friends out, his color paling almost instantly. Something about the particular song stuck out in his mind. He couldn't figure it out. It seemed so familiar—but he couldn't place it—the lyrics slowly reaching his ears and flipping on the switches in his brain one by one. He had heard those words before. He couldn't explain how, but he began to say them quietly with the singer.
"Welcome to existence. Everyone's here."
The song continued, Joey and Tristan continued, the collective noise drowning Yugi's small, unsteady voice out. He was frightened—how could he possibly know these words? He couldn't remember hearing them before, but he still knew them.
"What happens next? What happens next?"
Yugi sat up. His voice gaining strength, he put the words to the tune and began to sing, softly at first but with growing strength and confidence.
"I dare you to move. I dare you to move. I dare you to lift yourself up off the floor."
The other boys in the room paused in their heated conversation, one after the other turning to look at Yugi with disbelief. He was sitting on his bed singing the song on the radio. Tristan and Joey regarded each other, dumfounded.
"I dare you to move. I dare you to move like today never happened, today never happened before." Yugi stared at his friends, pulling the words from a buried memory, the expression on his face pleading, as if to say, how do I know this?
Joey did the only thing he could think to do. He bolted out the door in search of Yami, Yugi's voice following after him, "Welcome to the fallout. Welcome to resistance. The tension is here."
"Yami, you'll wanna come here, trust me."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing—jus' come here. Yugi. He remembers the song."
Any further explanation was cut short as Yami dashed to his son's room. There, Yugi stood on his bed now, belting out the lyrics to the song, the tinny voice of the original singer on the radio thwarted by the boy's enthusiasm, and Tristan sat with his mouth hanging open.
"Maybe redemption has stories to tell. Maybe forgiveness is right where you fell. Where can you run to escape from yourself," Yugi sang, his bright eyes alighting on his father in the doorway, his large smile exclaiming, aren't you proud of me? There were tears in his eyes—disbelieving tears, frightened tears, tears of excitement as he sang in a clear and true voice. "Where you gonna go? Where you gonna go? Salvation is here."
Yami was beyond words. Yugi looked so beautiful standing there in his triumph, the chorus falling from his mouth with glorious fluidity. He remembered. He remembered a song. Amusing, that the first thing to come back to him would be music. Not a name, not a childhood memory, but a song—this song about existence and forgiveness and lifting yourself up after you fall.
.
"How is the medication working?"
"Well," Solomon replied.
"He hasn't reacted to it again like he did at first?"
"No, everything seems fine."
"—Excuse me, doctor," Yami interrupted impatiently, "These are rather ordinary questions. What do you have to say that you couldn't say in the room?"
The family practice doctor, with a name like Johnson or Jackson or Thompson, sighed in frustration. "Something I need to know—how badly is he bleeding?"
Yami was ill at ease with discussing such matters with a stranger, so Solomon answered, "We change him twice a day—once in the morning, and once at night before he goes to bed, mostly for his comfort, but there is no need beyond that."
"I would have guessed as much," the doctor admitted, "and it concerns me. I need to know the extent of his wounds—would you happen to know the depths of the lacerations? For purposes of anticipating damaged nerves and such."
Yami set his jaw.
"We don't really know," Solomon replied softly, humbly, his slight shock at the doctor's insensitivity masked rather poorly.
Doctor Johnson (or Jacobson, was it?) shifted his weight on his feet. "Of course. Now I brought you out here, because I need the consent of his guardian, since Yugi himself is a minor. In order to learn the degree of his wounds—to better help him, in the case of his blood loss remaining constant—I need to perform an internal exam."
The other men stared at him.
"It's a simple procedure, really," the doctor continued, "involving a tactile examination of the rectal walls—"
"No." Yami's eyes were dangerous, his voice tense, and rising. "Who do you think you are? How can you be permitted to do such a—"
"I assure you, it is perfectly sound. It is crucial that I understand the details of his injuries, and whether they need to be dealt with immediately and Yugi referred to a proctologist. He cannot bleed so heavily for much longer if the wounds are very deep."
Yami reared to deliver another onslaught of accusations and insults, when Solomon stilled him with a hand on his shoulder. "Yami my boy," he said, "he's right. I trust his opinion, and if he feels he needs to do this, I will let him."
"Do you know what that will do to Yugi," Yami exclaimed, turning on the old man, the fire in his eyes. The fire of mad injustice, the fire thirsting for recompense of all the wrong. Even the thought of this stranger touching Yugi in the soft places of him that hurt and bled was wrong. Where is the way of vengeance for so much hurt in such a young life as his Yugi?
"He will be okay," Solomon replied firmly. "He will move on from this and he will be okay."
"No! It will be degrading and embarrassing and painful. I will not allow it!"
"—I am not giving you a choice." The elder Mutou's voice was measured, final, trying with care to lay down the absolutes, while at the same time convince Yami of the reasons why it was so important that the doctor execute whatever procedures he felt necessary for the diagnosis and care of his grandson.
Yami's breath was heavy in his chest like a lead weight. Defeated. "I cannot…"
"You can," Solomon assured him gently. "And you will. And as long as you are calm, he will be calm. Panic, and he will panic."
The implication of the thing like a light turned on behind his eyes. "Solomon…you will be with him, too." More a question than a statement. Oh, please…
"You'll be there to keep him calm," the other man explained, "and it will be difficult enough without someone looking over your shoulder."
"Solomon…"
"He needs you now, Yami, more than I."
.
Yugi was so small there sitting on the examination bed. He smiled half-heartedly when his father entered the room, but his instinctual fear of the place was obvious. "Can we go home now?"
Yami stood beside him, hesitant to look him in the eyes, the anger inside him welling profusely, and he was choking on it as he tried to act nonchalantly. "Actually, Yugi, the doctor still has one more thing to do."
Swallow your nausea and do what Solomon sent you in here to do—sugar coat the lie you're about to feed him.
I'm so sorry, my sweet boy.
Yami leaned to his son's level to speak more urgently to him. "Honey," he said, his tone alerting the boy to listen—this is serious, "I know you remember being cut."
Yugi's expression was unreadable.
"The doctor needs to know how bad those cuts are," he continued, the anger and disgust somehow suppressed into this dark, quiet part of himself that shut out the words coming off his own lips, "so he's going to put his fingers inside of you to feel the cuts."
Fear like a doe in headlights in those amethyst eyes. "No, Daddy," he whispered, "I don't want that."
Yami strangled the apathetic part of himself that would have lifted Yugi in his arms and lit out of the place like a madman. "I know, honey, but it has to happen. I'll be here with you, and it will be over before you know it," Yami lied. He knew how his boy would handle such a thing.
"No," Yugi wept, "please, daddy—I don't want him to see me."
That was, see him naked. See him vulnerable.
Yami held the boy's hand. "I'll be here," he repeated, distantly, firmly, as to say, this is going to happen, whether we want it to or not. He helped the boy strip his clothes and put on the little cotton gown, all the while trying to soothe Yugi's frightened weeping, but he was inconsolable.
The doctor entered the room. Yugi was sitting on the little bed with the wax paper cover over it to prevent diseases from spreading. Yugi was not diseased, but his blood was already on the wax paper. His hands were clasped nervously in his lap. He chewed his lip to keep the tears from this man he did not know.
"All right—Yugi, are we ready," the doctor asked while he vigorously washed his hands at the little sink in the room.
The young Mutou didn't say anything. Standing beside him, Yami nodded for the doctor to continue.
"Stand in front of the bed," the doctor instructed, motioning with a hand as he crossed the room.
Yugi hesitantly obeyed, his legs trembling beneath him.
"Turn around, if you please."
The boy turned to face away from the doctor, tears running silently down his cheeks. He was so afraid, his breath coming raggedly.
"Bend over the examination bed—no, a little more—that's good."
Yami circled around the end of the bed to stand across the small expanse from his son, whose eyes were slammed shut. Yami held his hands.
KY Jelly.
"I need you to relax."
Yugi was trembling unreservedly. Biting his lip.
"I need you to relax for me."
Yami cupped Yugi's face, his eyes opening instantly to look at his father. "Yugi," he commanded firmly, "relax."
"I'm scared," the boy sobbed.
"I know, honey, but you've got to be brave. You are so brave—I've seen it in you. Be brave now, baby. I know you can." He studied his son's face intently—recognized his efforts to control his breathing, his fear waning for a brief moment.
And then the pain across his features, grimacing, clenching his teeth hard, sharp intake of breath. A sob. Fingers digging into Yami's arms. The fear in his eyes pleading his father, why is this happening to me?
Eyes closed tight again, and his breath catching suddenly in his chest, his body jerking at the unwelcome feeling of the doctor's prodding touch against his prostate. Blood running down his legs.
It was happening all over again. No matter what intention lay behind this ministration, all Yugi felt was the pain—this stranger hurting him until he had what he wanted. Yugi was being raped again, only this time, his father was with him. His father was holding his hands and allowing it to happen. His father was promoting it.
With these thoughts in mind, Yami suddenly found himself glaring darkly at the doctor with fingers inside his precious Yugi, causing such pain. Doctor Johnson (or whoever he was) caught the look meant for him, nostrils flaring with angry breath, teeth bared, and if humans had been created for it, Yami would have been growling, filled with the hottest rage toward this man.
The doctor stopped cold, freezing as if a dog had turned on him.
It enraged Yami more—the prolonging of this spectacle of Yugi bent over the examination table like an animal, sobbing with face buried in the muscle of Yami's shoulder.
Finish, Yami mouthed angrily, which the doctor immediately obeyed, under the distinct impression there would be consequences if he didn't. Yugi's body shuddered and the doctor stepped away and to the sink, for more vigorous washing.
Yami didn't look. His energies were concentrated on the small trembling form of his son. The boy was crying weakly now—mere whimpers muffled against the fabric of his father's shirt.
"I'll give you a few moments," the doctor explained on the way out of the door.
Yami watched him leave, angry and mistrustful. A full thirty seconds after the door had been shut—he had to make sure no one else dared enter—he pulled back slightly to look in Yugi's eyes. "I am so proud of you," he whispered. "You are very brave."
Yugi sniffled, his cries having ceased, comforted by the presence of his father and the silently communicated I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry in his eyes.
"What do you say to ice cream," Yami asked. It was a bribe—they both knew—forgive me for this.
"Yes, please," the boy murmured, accepting both the bribe and the apology.
Yami kissed his forehead, cleaned him with the limited means of a roll of paper towels above the sink, dressed him, and sat with him until the doctor came with Solomon, said a few words, and they were free to go.
.
Rocky Road. It was his favorite. It was the only flavor he remembered ever tasting, but he decided it was his favorite. It was so chunky and chocolaty and cold—and it hurt his teeth a little, so he ate it slowly. It sat there in its' little paper cup, melting away as he stared at it.
"Honey, don't you like your ice cream?"
Solomon hadn't joined them on this particular excursion—feeling he'd do best to not intrude after he'd forced the doctor visit on the both of them. Guessing his boys were more than a little disenchanted with him at the moment, he'd given Yami some cash and explained he had to open the shop—he was missing the good business hours—and he'd meet them at home.
So here they were, content to remain in each other's silence, the mutual understanding between them that what had just happened needed its own time to settle in.
"Yugi, did you hear me?"
"Yes Daddy," the boy replied obediently. "I'm waiting for it to be not so cold."
Yami was not ignorant—he recognized the thoughtful consideration in his son's eyes. He knew Yugi was struggling with some grand revelation. He knew him that well. In fact, Yami had taken to the idea of Yugi as his son so wholeheartedly, and with such fierce loyalty, he actually believed in some part of his brain that he had conceived and given birth to the kid. He loved him that well.
"Daddy," Yugi spoke down to the table, his eyes lost somewhere on the sticky surface.
"Yes?" Yami was everything but impatient.
"Daddy," Yugi repeated, drawing his words with care from his meager vocabulary, "why do people touch to hurt?"
Yami sighed, vaguely conscious of the other families and couples sitting within earshot in the donut and ice cream shop. "Because they are selfish," he replied carefully. "And they derive pleasure in hurting other people. But I need you to remember, Yugi, that the doctor only wanted to help."
Yugi was quiet and pensive with this. Finally, "You don't touch to hurt."
"That's because I care about you, and when I touch it's because I'm trying to help you," he explained.
Yami felt eyes, and he turned to glare at a young couple sitting across the aisle, sharing a sundae. They were staring with surprised interest at this apparently slow boy with funny hair, who seemed to be saying the strangest things about the man they only assumed was his father, although he had the same funny hair—something rather narcissistic—and they only hoped he was the boy's father.
"Yugi, maybe we ought to talk about this later."
The boy looked up with the purest, childlike naivety and said, "When you touch me, it feels good."
More eyes, and a slightly lower level of general volume than before, as if the entire place had momentarily hushed itself to listen in on the peculiar and alarming discussion. Yami felt the swift stab of protective jealousy—they were all looking at his Yugi—and he glared over his shoulder at another gawking individual, who took no heed of him until he snorted in warning, not unlike a bull before he charges. The stranger looked away.
"Come here," Yami instructed suddenly, standing from the table. "We're going to wash your hands, and then we're going home."
"But my ice cream—"
"I'll buy a gallon at the store," he replied, gently nudging Yugi out of his seat and away from prying eyes.
In the small, sticky, one-stall restroom, Yami assured himself they were alone and then addressed his son. "You can feel the difference from a stranger's touch and when I touch you, because you know me and you trust me. I am gentle with you, honey, because I love you."
Yugi stared at him, wide-eyed, absorbing his words.
"It's very good that you know the difference between touches," Yami continued. "It may prevent you from being hurt again like you were before." He sighed and shifted his weight, carefully considering how to proceed. "And it's good that you want to talk about the difference. I am glad to talk about these things with you. But Yugi, we have to be cautious of where we talk about these things."
"Why," Yugi asked, scuffing the toe of one shoe along the floor.
"Because, while you and I understand what we're talking about, people around us who overhear our words may not understand. In a public place like this one, strangers who hear you talking about people touching you are likely to be very confused."
"Why are they confused?"
Yami sighed again. "Honey, there are a lot of children out there…with daddies who do not love them as they should. Their daddies hurt them, and it's very wrong, and when a stranger—maybe a friend, or a teacher at school, or even a stranger in the store—hears about it, that person is obliged to go to the police, so that the government can take the child away from whoever would hurt him."
"Why do their daddies hurt them?"
Maybe this was a bad idea. "Different reasons," he explained hesitantly. "Some daddies weren't ready to have children. Others are just angry, and take their anger out on their children. For whatever reason, it's wrong to hurt a child, and it's a very good thing—to take a child away from a father that hurts him, and to put that child in a new home, and a new family, where he will be safe and loved."
Tears were in those amethyst eyes again. Yami wondered how many times his poor Yugi had cried in that one day alone.
"Daddy," the boy said, a sob threatening to choke him as his voice echoed his father's words, "were you ready to have me?"
Yami's insides melted. "Honey," he said, bending to his son's eye level, "I have waited for you my whole life." And it wasn't a lie. "Listen, all I mean to say is that strangers will not understand the things we talk about. They may become worried listening to you go on, and they may think I'm the one you talk about—the one who hurts you."
"—But you don't hurt me."
"I know that," Yami agreed, brushing a tear from the boy's cheek, "and you know that, but those people out there…they don't understand the things you're going through. They might become suspicious of me. They might even try to report me, and take you away from me. And if the government suspects that I'm hurting you, it will be very difficult to get you back."
"I don't want to go away."
Yami smiled. "Baby, I don't want you to go either. That's why we have to be so careful, okay?"
Yugi thought it over with resolute seriousness. This was an important task, he understood very well. He nodded finally in approval.
Yami tousled his hair affectionately. "Good," he said. "Now let's go home."