Sing Me Down, Grey Wolf
Hi there! I own neither Linkin Park's 'Breaking the Habit' nor Yuuigou. But they're both incredible. So... yeah. Read on.
Isn't it funny how dreams seem so real while you're in them? And how once you wake up, you realize just how absurd they really are?
In the Warring Era, samurai had often associated themselves with sakura blossoms. Just as the blossoms die at the peak of their life, samurai were often cut down in their prime, whether by the hand of an enemy... or their own.
He hated watching them. And yet there he was, knees hugged to his chest, head tilted back slightly. Pale hair spilled past his shoulders and back, the looming shadow of his treetrunk berth giving it a dark cast. For a moment he watched the rose-petaled flora drift to earth, soft brown eyes reflecting the twirling blossoms.
I wish I knew... what that was like.
And then they stopped falling.
/Memories consume...
Like opening the wound.../
Ryou Bakura began to breathe again. Leaning with one arm against the shower wall, he tried blinking back the darkness that had just now ebbed from his mind. Eventually his the throbbing in his ears ceased, and he could distinguish his heartbeats from one another. He opened his eyes to the shower floor, the runoff water tinged a slight pink... an almost rose.
God... no more.
/I'm picking me apart again.../
He straightened, hair sopping, plumes of steam rising from the jet of hot water. He let it fall over his marred back, chest, and shoulders once more before reaching and turning the nozzle off.
/You all assume
I'm safe here in my room/
Drops of moisture slid down the beige cutrain as he swept it aside, stepping from the shower gingerly lest he slip. The cool tile felt good against his the soles of his feet as he grabbed a supple white towel from the nearby hook, and proceeded to dry himself.
/Unless I try to start again.../
He dropped the now damp towel to the floor as he finished, tendrils of ivory clinging to his throat and back. He hesitated at the mirror, willing himself to wipe the foggy glass. He was disgusted at what he saw.
Rivulets of dark brown slid down his chest, back, shoulders, arms - a scarce few residing at the base of his neck. One of them had reopened as he convulsed in middream, no doubt - that was what tinted the water such a lovely hue of rose.
/I don't want to be the one
The battles always choose/
He had gained his own physical body through these means - 'he', of course, meaning the other Ryou Bakura. Batsuu and a touch of mortal flesh and blood - that was all he had needed.
/'Cause inside I realize
That I'm the one confused/
He choked back a slight sob, feeling on the vurge of vomiting. The feeling passed, after a moment, however, and Ryou wasted no time in locating his clean clothing. He slipped on his jeans and t-shirt gingerly, praying with clamped eyes he would not need endure another daydream.
/I don't know what's worth fighting for...
Or why I have to scream.../
He opened the bathroom door quietly, out of habit, he thought. smoothing his white shirt as he stepped into his bedroom. He locked it behind him.
/I don't know why I instigate...
and say what I don't mean/
Still barefoot in his jeans and tee, he wiped a still-damp vine of snow that had snaked about his neck. Was he really that pathetic? Was he really that cowardly?...
...he had an answer.
/I don't know how it got this way
I know it's not alright.../
His yami had never beat him. He had never touched him. And perhaps... perhaps that made it hurt worse.
/So I'm breaking the habit...
...tonight/
He was a hazard to all around him. Friends, family - utter strangers. He felt a wolf in sheepskin, a traitor to those he loved... he secreted a poison.
/Clutching my cure
I tightly lock the door/
The room suddenly became blurry. His eyes felt warm. His legs seemed to tire suddenly.
Is this what you wanted?
He leaned against the wall, a sudden wave of self-revulsion and nausea overwhelming his lean frame. Salty tears stung his eyes even as the room spun about him.
How fitting... adding salt to the wounds.
/I try to catch my breath again
I hurt much more/
Do you want me dead? What do you want from me?
His knees faltered for a moment, but he managed to remain standing.
Why is it that you can hurt me even when you aren't here?
/Than anytime before
I have no options left again/
What is this power you have over me?
His composure returned, his already pale face only then regaining its former color.
If that's what you want...
/I don't want to be the one
The battles always choose/
It was because of him so many had suffered. The unquenchable bloodlust that lived inside him, but was not him... he hated it. It tore him from the inside; some insatiable cancer.
I suppose I have no choice.
/'Cause inside I realize
That I'm the one confused/
Still on his knees, the amber-eyed boy reached beneath the bed... his heart pounded in his ears. Here was the sheep, hunting the wolf who stole his skin.
His father had never been much of a hunter. He only kept the pistol for protection. The bone-haired boy drew it from the soft leather case, feeling its lethal weight.
/I don't know what's worth fighting for
Or why I have to scream/
If the wolf is inside the sheep...
He could see his eyes reflected in the metal of the pistol. And then they were not his own.
/I don't know why I instigate
And say what I don't mean/
An amused chuckle singed him, seeming to come from the dark eyes reflected in the metal.
At first he drew back; it was his first instinct, and not without reason. But he instead gripped it harder; his knuckles turned white.
You act as my shepherd... leading me the right way.
/I don't know how it got this way
I know it's not alright/
But you have led me astray too many times... I'm tired of being your lamb for the sacrifice.
/So I'm breaking the habit
I'm breaking the habit/
The gun was beautiful. A glossy steel; mahogany handle. How sad it would be used for such a cause.
/Tonight
I'll paint it on the walls/
Fight me! Fight me or you will die, Ryou!
That's what he had told him so many times before. And yet he was a paradox of himself. How could he fight back, when the wolf was the very shacles that bound him, the very noose that wrought the life from him?
Do you want me to die?
/'Cause I'm the one at fault
I'll never fight again/
The door slammed. He was here.
...then so be it.
/And this is how it ends/
A torrent of silver hair rippled down his back. Crusted brown blood on the corner of his lips.
/I don't know what's worth fighting for
Or why I have to scream/
He didn't even see his other half until he was infront of him. He had a gun. It was pointed for the ash-haired enigma. He was calm. Crying.
"You no longer sing me to sleep."
...Grey Wolf.
/But now I have some clarity
To show you what I mean/
The enigma had no time to be stunned. His lips skinned back. A glint of gold near his throat.
Shadows crept to the boy; the gun; the gentle lamb.
/I don't know how it got this way
I'll never be alright/
Too late.
/So I'm
Breaking the habit/
A crack of thunder. Gunsmoke. Fresh scarlet trickled upon the hardwood floor.
/Breaking the habit/
He fell back heavily. The glint at his throat sputtered into nothing. Slumped against the wall, his life spilling in rose torrents. A mortal body has mortal limitations. Another crack of thunder.
The rose life fell like rain. Dark brown eyes cleared instead of misting.
/Breaking the habit/
Another crack of thunder. The body stilled.
/Tonight/
How he hated watching it fall.
-
Thanks for reading. This is really meant to betaken several ways; after all, there really is no right or wrong symbolism or metaphors, right? Thanks again, ja.