coeptus-a beginning
intercapedo-interval , pause, respite
in media res-in the middle of a sequence of events
As I draw nearer to the end of my little fiction, I am faced with great indecision. I am constantly second guessing myself, wanting to write beyond what I originally planned when I began this story over six months ago. I know I cannot do this. A good story has a beginning, middle, and end, and I have already spelled out to myself what those particulars are. Of course, it is only natural that life goes on and on, as this fiction most likely will play out in my head, but as the author I must do it the fair and simple justice of bringing everything to a close. And I owe it to you, the reader, to set your mind at ease and not patronize you by drawing the ending out. And I owe it to myself to close this particular chapter of my life and move on to something fresh, so that I might look back on I Want the Mad Ones with the fond and humble knowledge that I set my mind to create something very special, and I saw it through.
(coeptus)
It was not the mere fact that there was pitch darkness, a digital clock glaring a red 12:43 where the top of the entertainment center would be, instead of the comforting and familiar array of stars overhead, nor the fact that he'd just woken up from the same unnerving dream he'd been having lately—the one about rain—that made Yugi begin to cry. What made him cry was the sudden paralyzing knowledge that he was in an unfamiliar house, and Daddy was not there. The whole thing seemed worse now, as images from his dream began to resurface, and Yugi snuggled further into his bedding, trying to make them go away, trying to shield himself from the darkness he felt pressing in on him like the rain in his dream and a man's face, shadowed, and hungry—and there was blood—and what scared him most were the eyes.
Yugi sniffled, feeling ashamed that Joey and Tristan didn't seem to need their daddies anymore, so why did he? Why was he so different from his friends? Why couldn't he just be normal, like them, and last through the night without the fear that, if he didn't reach Daddy's outstretched arms soon, he'd fall off the face of the planet? It made Yugi feel very inferior, and very stupid, like he couldn't do anything on his own. He couldn't even protect himself, he was helpless, and small, and trembling under the blade of a shiny, shiny knife. He was right. The serpent smile that spoke to him from the shadows and out of the rain and told him how pathetic, and helpless, and pretty he was, here, pretty thing, it said, and in every dream, Yugi wanted to run, but he couldn't, he was helpless, and stupid, standing stiffly in the rain and soaking wet while the serpent voice came closer, and closer—
"Hey, Yuug, is that you?"
Yugi sniffled.
"What's wrong?" Receiving no answer, Joey's concern began to grow, and he inched a little further toward his friend the dark. "You can tell me, buddy. Are you scared of the dark?"
Not only that...
"Honestly, Yuug. You can tell me anything—I won't think bad about you. What's wrong?"
Yugi was quiet for a long time. He sniffled again, and said, "I miss my Daddy."
"Oh, I see." Joey glanced around him in the dark, trying to guess where Tristan would be sleeping nearby on the floor. "Do you need to go home," he gently asked his friend. "I'm sure Tristan wouldn't mind going with me to walk you home."
"No," Yugi said tearfully, and shoved his face in the pillow. Stop crying...
"C'mon," Joey insisted, "it's okay, really. Where are you, Tristan?" Carefully, he stuck his foot out in the general direction of where his friend had fallen asleep hours ago, and he encountered a large, motionless pile of sleeping bag and quilt. "Hey, wake up," he said, nudging the lump with his toe. A soft snore, and no answer. "Earth to Tristan," he tried again, and kicked.
"Huh? What's going on," the teen mumbled groggily.
"Yugi's kinda homesick," Joey explained. "He says he doesn't wanna go, but I think it would be best."
"Yeah," Tristan agreed, and yawned. "Hey, Yugi, my dad can drive you home, if you want. It's no trouble."
Yugi sniveled into the pillow. "I'm sorry," he said, and his voice was muffled.
"Aw, don't worry about it. It's okay. I'll go get my dad," he said, rising from the living room floor and making his way expertly to the light switch in the kitchen. "Hey, why don't you call over there, Joe, to let them know we're coming."
"Good idea," Joey agreed, catching the wireless phone that his friend had tossed to him before walking down the hallway in the direction of the master bedroom. He dialed the number from memory, squinting in the faint light coming in from the kitchen. It rang twice. Yami answered.
"Hello?"
"Hey, it's Joey."
There was a deep sigh on the other line, as if Yami had been expecting this call. "What's wrong," he asked.
"Yugi's not doing too well over here," the teen explained. "He probably just needs to sleep in his own bed, you know? Tristan's dad is gonna drive him over there, so you can expect them in a couple minutes."
Yami was silent for a moment. He could hear Yugi crying very softly in the background. "Could you do me a favor," he asked finally, "and go with him? For his comfort, that is. Nothing against Tristan's father, but—"
"—Yeah, I know what you mean," Joey finished the thought. "It's okay. We'll both go with him. He'll feel safer that way."
"Thank you, Joey."
(intercapedo)
"You're crying, aren't you?" Yes, there were tears streaming silently down his face as he discarded his sleepover bag on the floor and kicked off his shoes. Yugi was not a silent crier. Something was wrong. "Come here," Yami said, and sat with his boy on the edge of the bed, and brushed the bangs out of his face. "What's wrong?"
"I missed you."
A pause.
"And? What else are you keeping from me?"
He averted his eyes. "I've been having this dream."
"What happens in this dream," Yami asked carefully.
"...It rains."
This was so important.
"What happens next?"
"And, someone is there. And I'm—afraid." The boy was lost within himself as he spoke. "And it rains on me, it just pours, but I'm not going anywhere, and I'm afraid."
"Why are you afraid?"
"...Because someone is there. And I don't want him there."
"Who?"
Yugi avoided the question. "He talks to me, and I don't like the things he says. They make me sick."
"What things does he say to you?"
"...I don't remember," he lied, "but he hurts me."
"How does he hurt you?"
"He—" Something passed through his eyes, and he fell silent, and a mental wall went up again. "I don't want to talk about it."
(intercapedo)
The fundamentals of whether Spider-man is more or less heroic than Batman are actually rather interesting, especially when Joey Wheeler and Tristan Taylor are the only candidates for debate. Joey, being a die-hard DC Comics fanatic, insisted that Bruce Wayne, having no extraordinary powers, just a good set of morals and unlimited resources, was the truly heroic one. And Tristan, who was utterly loyal to Marvel Comics, argued that Peter Parker was, by far, the more realistic and down-to-earth character, and his admirable intellect and dedication were what qualified him as more heroic.
The two were so busy dissecting the issue, it would have seemed they completely forgot about their friend, who was also in the room with them but remained very still and withdrawn. Yugi was staring out of the window at the overcast sky, participating rarely in the discussion and even then with only a fraction of interest. Comments were not his usual childish and spontaneous outbursts, but pensive, thoughtful, quiet remarks. Half a smile. A word or two of agreement, "Yeah, that's cool, mm-hmm."
Joey and Tristan had noticed the difference, but didn't mention it. They could tell that maybe something was on his mind, but they figured he would deal with it on his own. "Talking about stuff" wasn't really their forte, and neither of the boys thought they would be of much help. There was a knock on the door a while before noon. Yami entered the room without waiting for a reply. "Lunch will be ready in half an hour," he said, and stopped to glance with disapproval at the room. "Yugi, when did you last clean up in here?"
"On Thursday."
Yami sighed. "Well, it's a mess again. I'd like you to clean it before lunch."
"But Joey and Tristan are over," Yugi objected.
"Don't argue with me," he scolded. "You could have picked up the room before your friends came over, but you didn't. I want it cleaned before you play anymore this afternoon."
Yugi dropped his eyes. "Yes, Daddy," he said.
Once the three friends had finished lunch, they sat in the living room, the television tuned to some cheesy Saturday afternoon movie. Between ten-minute snippets of obvious and hokey special effects, while fast-paced ads for used car dealerships and furniture liquidation sales overwhelmed the screen, the teenagers would chat mildly about one random subject or another. It was during one of these commercial breaks that Yami decided to put his foot down. He approached the couch where Yugi was sitting, and prepared to take the mild disciplinary action of sending the others away for his son's disobedience.
"Yugi," he said when he was near enough, "why haven't you cleaned your room yet?" Receiving no answer, he assumed the boy did not hear him over the television—although the volume was not high and no one seemed to be paying attention to it—so he tried again, "Yugi?" At this proximity, he could see that the boy's shoulders were shaking, just slightly. As if some terrible, ominous notion were revealing itself to him in that moment, Yami began to hear the exchange going on between Joey and Tristan:
"Stealing from the teachers' rooms?"
"Yeah, that's the buzz," Joey replied. "Don't know if it's true or not. Well, anyway, they couldn't find enough evidence, so he got off with a warning."
"You know," Tristan said, "Crazy old Jack has always given me the creeps, the way he stands out in the hall watching everybody go to class."
"It's just a matter of time before he does something to get himself fired," the blonde agreed, shaking his head.
Yami glanced again at his son, who seemed petrified, as if he'd seen a ghost, and he wondered what correlation there could be between the conversation of the two teenagers and Yugi's sudden timid countenance. He turned his attention back to Joey and asked, "Who are you speaking about?"
Joey started, a little surprised at Yami's interest. "Crazy old Jack," he clarified, "the janitor at school."
Yugi began to retch.
(intercapedo)
Yugi stared at himself in the mirror of the bathroom for several long moments. He was staring at his hair, at the ridiculous shape of it, at the colors of it, the oddity that set him apart from the crowd. He had no control over it, like everything else in his life. It was as if he'd just woken up to it one day, like he just came into the world and everything around him was as it was and always would be—he couldn't change it, he couldn't change anything in the slightest, and this least of all—this oddity that set him apart. He hated it.
(in media res)
"What did you do after Joey and Tristan left, Yami?"
"I tried to talk to him. He wouldn't answer me, so I took him to his room to lie down. I don't know what to do, Solomon."
"Don't read too much into it."
"How can you say that? It's plain as day, the way he reacted to what the others were saying. If you had only seen his face—he was terrified. I have no choice but to 'read into' it. I think he was trying to tell me—"
"—Yami, I really can't talk about this right now. I have customers."
"This is important, Solomon. I think I should speak with him about it. Maybe he remembers, and he's just avoiding my questions."
"That should tell you he doesn't want to talk about it."
(in media res)
Fiskars.
Yugi thought the name was funny, like some kind of cat. The snipping sound the two blades made as they came together reminded him of something he'd heard before, and the unstuck sound they made when they came apart. It was almost like breathing. Like the Fiskars scissors in his hand were alive—some exotic bird with a red plastic handle for a head and metal shears for a beak.
His hand unconsciously flexed, working the handle: snip, snip.
(in media res)
"That's the point! Why am I letting him get away with it? If something is tearing him up inside, he should talk to me, damn it!"
"Yami, calm down. You have to be patient. Yugi will come to you on his own time."
"I have been patient—and it's gotten us nowhere. If there is something on his mind, or something that he remembered, now is the time to talk about it. I let him skirt around the subject far too much. If he doesn't embrace the difficult things in life and only dwells on what is pleasant, he'll never grow. He's been running away, and I have allowed it."
"What happened to you? When did you start thinking this way?"
"...When I realized Yugi knows more than he lets on. Isn't that disconcerting, Solomon? He's ignoring it—and I won't even know what exactly he remembers until he talks to me."
(in media res)
He knew what he wanted to do. With his free hand, Yugi grabbed a fistful of hair and watched closely in the mirror as he moved the scissors into place, and started cutting. The blades were sharp, and they severed the strands effortlessly: snip, snip. Yugi watched an inch-long clump fall to the floor, followed by another, and another, and the tile at his feet was scattered with several locks of his dark hair. His eyes filled with tears.
"—Yugi!"
Startled by the intrusion, he jerked as the scissors were closing again, this time missing the hair completely. The very tips of the shears caught on his wrist—just pinched the skin—but the momentum of his action carried the function of the scissors through: snip. Yami was instantly beside him, tearing the scissors out of his hand and tossing them away. "What were you doing," he asked in shock and alarm when he'd had a moment to collect himself. "Yugi, what were you doing with those scissors?"
The boy whimpered, cradling his wound to himself. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.
"Let me see," Yami demanded, taking the boy's wrist in his hand for a close inspection. The small cut at the base of the thumb was no longer than half an inch, but it bled profusely, so Yami covered it with his fingers, applying pressure just below it. "It isn't bad. You'll be all right," he said, and then looked the boy determinedly in the eye. "Now, what were you doing with those scissors? Answer me." Yugi stared down at his father's hand over his own and at all the blood, and he was silent and hung his head in shame. It's when Yami saw his hair—that it was uneven on one side. He glanced down at the floor and saw the severed locks. "Yugi, why did you do that?"
Yugi sniffled, and said softly, "I hate it."
"What do you hate," Yami coaxed.
"...My hair," he clarified. "It's ugly. And I hate it."
Yami sighed, and leaned over to touch his lips to the top of Yugi's head, and kiss his hair. His son would still not look at him. "Honey," he said gently, "I don't think any part of you is ugly. But if you wanted to change your hair so badly, you could have just told me. We can pay a professional to cut it however you want, okay?"
Yugi said nothing, but slumped forward to lean against his father. "I'm sorry," he cried.
"I only want you to be careful." Yami hesitated, an alien and disturbing thought occurring to him slowly. "Were you trying to hurt yourself," he asked.
Yugi had to think for a moment. "No," he answered at last.
"Are you sure?" He waited, but there was no response, so he continued carefully, "Because some people...who have been hurt, sometimes do things or think of doing things to hurt themselves, so that the hurt inside doesn't seem so bad." Yugi had gone rigid. "I don't ever want you to do that, sweetheart," Yami said, and his voice wavered. "If you even think of something like that, I want you to come find me and talk to me first, do you understand? It doesn't matter where or when, you just come get me, and I'll drop whatever I'm doing and talk to you. Will you promise me? Yugi, promise me."
Yugi sniffled again. "Okay," he yielded.
"Say the words," Yami commanded.
"...I promise."
(intercapedo)
I have been meaning to talk to you about that incident with the doctor a while back after Tristan's pool party, Yugi.
I know. I'm sorry.
It is quite all right. It just worried me. I was sitting in the cab, staring at you, and you were so full of anger. You are not supposed to be the angry one—it is not in your nature. You are sweet and gentle. Leave hate to me.
Do you think you have enough hate for the both of us?
I have hate enough for many people.
Really? I don't see that in you.
There has never been a reason for you to see my hatred, because none of it has ever been directed at you.
I didn't think you were capable of hate.
Sometimes. For the right person.
About that...There's something I need you to do for me. You know what it is.
Later. You need me now. I will stay with you until the opportune moment arises.
You've never given up on me.
Of course not. Be my little boy forever.
I've got to grow up sometime. You know that.
Yes. But I wish you could be my precious little Yugi forever. That way I could play Daddy forever, and we can always be happy, in our own little world.
You don't really want it that way.
...No. I only want to keep all the Bad Things from you.
But you can't do that. Bad Things are a part of life. They'll make me stronger.
I do not want to lose you.
You're not going to lose me. I love you, Daddy. Daddy?
"Daddy?"
—Yami woke suddenly to the sound of his son's voice, urging him awake. For a moment he was confused as his senses returned to him. Sleep embraced him like a lover. It was warm, and comfortable, and he wished he did not have to push it away, but Yugi needed him. "Yes," he asked, "what is it?"
"I can't sleep," the boy answered. He was squirming on the bed where he'd snuggled against his father perhaps an hour before. It had been one of those nights. "I'm thirsty," he whispered.
"What would you like?"
"Milk, please."
Yami returned several moments later with the order, and he flicked on the light so that his son could drink without spilling. They sat on the edge of the bed together as Yugi sipped his milk in silence. "Daddy," he said finally, "can we go on the rocking chair?"
Yami sighed. "The milk isn't working," he asked.
"I'm still not sleepy," Yugi answered, and yawned.
Yami laughed softly. "Okay," he said and helped his son, holding a half-empty glass of milk, to his feet and they padded quietly to the boy's room. Another light was turned on—the small lamp on Yugi's desk—and then Yami sunk tiredly down into the stiff rocking chair. Yugi crawled up after him, still clutching his glass in one hand, and settled down on his father's lap.
Yami could barely keep his eyes open, but he held his boy, and rocked him lovingly. The only sounds were the creaking of the chair and the endearing slurps as Yugi gulped down the milk. Yami held his arm—his wrist—where a white gauze bandage had been affixed with medical tape. The wound had not bled much, and Yami would remove the dressing the next day. Solomon had been at a loss when he was told what happened.
"Daddy, where does milk come from?"
"Cows." Yugi noisily swallowed the very last bit of milk, and Yami took the glass from him and leaned over the arm of the chair to place it on the floor.
"Does it hurt the cows to take the milk from them?"
"No, sweetheart."
Yugi curled up against his father and sighed groggily. "How do the cows make the milk," he asked.
"After mother cows have their calves, their bodies make milk for the baby cows to drink."
"Why does that happen?"
"It just does. No more questions, honey. Try to sleep."
Yugi obeyed and closed his eyes. He felt very warm, and very tired, being rocked softly in the silence. "Daddy, will you sing, please?"
"What do you want me to sing?"
"The ice cube songs."
"I don't know those songs."
"The CD Bakura gave me at my birthday," Yugi said. "My favorite is the star song."
"Those are Icelandic songs, Yugi—not ice cube," Yami explained with a smile. "And besides, I don't know the words."
"They're not hard. One of them goes like this." He hummed the tune. The chair rocked gently. When he was quiet, Yugi could hear the crickets outside. "Daddy," he said after a while. "You won't leave, will you?"
"What do you mean," Yami asked.
"I just don't want you to leave. I don't want to lose you."
Yami shivered. "You're not going to lose me," he echoed, experiencing an unsettling bout of déjà vu. "I love you, Yugi."
(intercapedo)
It was a simple enough request, a fetish all children have at one age or another, a peculiar but necessary infatuation with playing in the rain. Something about the rebellion and intrigue of going out and getting all dirty and making mud pies and tormenting earthworms entertains children to no end. It was a simple enough request for any other child, but when it was asked of Yami, he did not know what to say. Yugi had come down in his pajamas that morning and glued himself to the window.
"Daddy, can I go play in the rain?"
Yami stared at him. Child, what could you possibly have to do out there? The rain terrifies you. You are fooling no one. "I don't know, Yugi."
"Please." It was not the selfish begging of a child. It was one injured human being to another. Please step down for once and let me do this thing I need to do.
"All right," Yami said, knowing he was powerless to stop him, "just for a while."
The boy disappeared to the coat closet to get his boots without being told, and he left through the back door onto the small lawn. To Yami, who watched him through the window, it seemed he would wander around aimlessly out there, but Yugi stopped, and he stood very still and somehow the world around him stilled as well, in respect of the boy's need of silence for one moment. He was holding his hand out, Yami realized, to feel the gentle tapping of the rain against his skin. The water was chilled, and it pooled in his palm and ran down to the back of his hand and dripped to the ground.
Yugi stood there for a while and let the water permeate his flannel pajamas. The raindrops made a hissing sound as they struck each individual blade of grass, every leaf and twig and rock. It sounded like a mystical, earthy lullaby to him. He stood there for quite a while, and he closed his eyes and raised his face to the sky and let the rain caress him, let it pour down on him and wash away the salt of tears that his father couldn't see but knew were there just the same. He stood out there in his pajamas with his uneven hair being matted against his head and the bandage on his wrist soaking through and an earring high in the cartilage of his ear and a scar above his right temple and he let himself be drenched, saturated, filled, possessed.
Yami knew his son well enough to not have to be told what was going on. Yugi was purging himself. He was letting the rain take everything away for the moment. He was letting the rain take hold of him, letting it course around and through him until he was soaked to the bone, until there was nothing left for other people to mar, or hurt, or take for themselves. He had overcome his fear of the thing and embraced it instead. He was flying in the face of everything that haunted him—ha, look at me now—and learning how to be bigger than the nightmares. He had never looked more beautiful than in that moment. And as the rain poured down on him that morning, Yugi smiled.