Anger Management.
A/N: This story is set just after Malik's tenth birthday, in which his father had carved the Pharaoh's memories into Malik's back. Malik and Isis have just come back from what was the former's first visit into the outside world, when they find Mr. Ishtar has discovered their disobedience and is beating Rishid with a knife.
In this story, I made Malik fairly naïve (not as naïve as Ryou in 'Ryou Bakura's Best Friend' though); the reason for his immaturity at times is because I thought he'd be pretty mentally scarred by his experiences so early on in life. I gave his sister a motherly, adult personality in comparison, thinking it particularly fitting considering her position.
Contains angst and much to cause depression from the start and throughout. Optimists, beware.
Ages of main characters in this story:
Malik - 13
Isis - 17
Rishid - 23
(The age gap between them is the same as it is in the anime and manga, by the way.)
Ahkii: brother (Arabic)
Ma'assalama: goodbye/go in peace (Arabic)
Chapter One: One Great Big Happy Family
……………
Anger is a curious thing. The Oxford Dictionary defines it as "rage, hot displeasure, trouble." Or, the verb form: "make angry, enrage, vex." But it is not the verb that we are interested in. It is the noun, this "hot displeasure." This definition would hardly cause surprise even to the most retarded of individuals; it is the last word that provokes attention. Trouble. For is anger in itself trouble, a cause of it; or is it a sign of trouble, either for the individuals at the focus of it or the anguished mind behind it; or does it simply something that eventually smoulders into trouble for the angered person? Perhaps it is none of these; perhaps this whole train of thought is simply a useless and uninteresting digression from 'the story.' And yet anger is this story, it is at the heart of this story, it is the heart of this story. You must understand this. For perhaps anger is actually a cry for help from a person at their most vulnerable, the ones too passionately hot to melt into simple self-pity. And when this cry goes unanswered, well…
……………
"No!"
"Ahkii-" Isis Ishtar put out an olive hand; her brother, his own hands slightly paler from the fact that he'd been exposed to the sun but once in his life; his face taut with fury, slapped it away.
"I won't believe it! Fuck you!"
The object of his distress lay on the ground. Once it had been a man. Now it was no more than the charred husk of a skeleton.
"Fuck you!"
The tears hadn't started yet, but they would soon, when it eventually sunk in; but until then he would remain in screaming denial if only to protect himself, because it wasn't happening, it was a fucking lie; he would never accept it, he wouldn't, because he hadn't – couldn't have – just killed his own father.
"Ahkii, please-" Isis could feel the tears rising and choked them back; she had to be strong, had to look after him, for the sake of-
She saw Rishid shift his position and hastily untied him, glad of something to do which required no conscious thought, because if it required any thinking about then her mind would switch back on and she would realise-
She gave a gulping hiccup of a sound, the tears fighting their way up relentlessly, and felt Rishid squeeze her hand in a vain attempt at reassurance; such was the numbness suffocating her that the gesture seemed to come from far off, and she felt as if she were watching it happen to someone else.
"Sssh, sister. We have to be strong for him."
She wanted to scream, what good will that do? But instead she just watched him as he crossed softly over to where his younger brother was slumped across the bed, eyes afire.
"Malik."
His burning gaze turned in their direction; his eyes were wild with a hunted, frightened look of a fox fleeing from hounds. "Wh-" He couldn't speak, throat constricted like something was wrapped around it and he was on the verge of asphyxiating.
Rishid didn't say anything, just sat down by him and put an arm around him.
That's what I should be doing, Isis thought wildly, hugging him and comforting him and telling it's going to be okay…and looking after him and getting food and clothes for everyone, because now there's no one else to do it, is there? We don't have any parents. We're orphans.
Orphans. The word seemed ridiculous. Cute little three year-olds with teddy bears and thumbs wrinkly from sucking were orphans, not her. She was fourteen years old, for Ra's sake, and already she had the rest of her family to look after. And Malik…
Why was he separate? Radammit, why?
He was sitting stiff and upright in his brother's arms like a doll, and with the same glazed expression. Then he toppled forwards as if he was going to throw up, but instead he was clutching his head in a gesture of wretchedness so complete it tore pieces out of Isis's heart like bloody meat.
"He…he can't be…" The words barely even a whisper, begging someone to tell him this wasn't happening. "He can't be, he just can't…"
Helplessness battling the urge to say something, anything, Isis stuttered, "Pl-"
"He can't be!" Malik screamed, turning on her. "My father is not dead! He isn't!"
She wasn't sure if she gasped or not, but she knew she was edging back from him and in that moment she was afraid. He stared at her, his eyes completely devoid of emotion for her –
Who the hell are you? You aren't my fucking sister
– and then sat back down on the bed. He didn't collapse- the movement wasn't that defined. It was a sort of swoon, in which he fell limply backwards as if someone had pushed him. Rishid's hand approached slowly, respectfully, and he squeezed it. Then he finally started to cry.
Moved beyond her ability to just sit there and watch, Isis stepped towards him, not caring if he pushed her away or screamed at her with that deadened look in his eyes saying there's nothing more any of you can do to hurt me, so go ahead, but instead he sniffed and shifted slightly closer into her arms.
They sat there for a few moments, bundled together in a group of bones all linked by blood, and instead of thinking that maybe, just maybe, they could live with this, Isis felt that their troubles were only just beginning.
……………
Thumps and screams, muffled by walls, had been issuing from the living room for a few minutes and Isis, who had learned by now to detect trouble almost before it had even started, was already heading towards the door. She opened it, and instantly blasts of sound plunged down her eardrums; barely suppressing a wince, she looked towards the cause of the disturbance, knowing with a sinking feeling in her stomach what would be happening.
"Mr. Ishtar, will you please sit down?"
"You can't tell me what to do!" Then the smash of a thrown chair.
"If you actually applied yourself for once, there would be no need to tell you off-"
"I don't need to 'apply myself'!" Malik screamed back at him. "I'm cleverer than you anyway!"
"I think-"
"I don't give a fuck what you think!"
"What is going on here?" Isis was trying to make her voice commanding, while not making it sound as if she were blaming anyone in particular, trying to sound as if she had the entire situation under control-
Because if you don't then he'll turn on you, won't he? her mind whispered maliciously. He barely listens to you as it is. But one sign of weakness and he'll turn on you.
Mr. Armeni cleared his throat, giving her a flustered smile at the same time as trying to glare at his pupil, who glowered back. "Mr. Ishtar here-"
"Don't call me that!"
The tutor raised an eyebrow at her triumphantly, gesture proclaiming the words, you see? "-has a problem with obeying his elders. He constantly refuses to concentrate on his studies and, whenever reprimanded, responds with his fists. This simply cannot go on."
"You're all ganging up against me, that's why! I do concentrate on my studies-"
"Oh?"
"-when I'm being taught by a capable tutor."
"See? See?" Mr. Armeni accused, jabbing a finger at his irate pupil. "He has no respect for his elders whatsoever."
"That's because you aren't worthy of my respect!"
Isis put up a hand to signal for him to be quiet and in that moment, the first time so far that she had looked directly at him, she saw that same darkness flickering behind his eyes as before. The fear at this made her hesitate, before she swallowed and said evenly, "Ahkii, could you wait in here for a minute? Mr. Armeni and I are going to have a little talk."
A sulky shrug in return.
When they were outside, she turned to the tutor. "Please, Mr. Armeni, don't judge him by what you saw just now."
"It is hard not to. I have taught hundreds of children before, Ms Ishtar, and never have I met one as out-of-control as this one. I'm afraid I don't see the point in my trying to teach him any longer."
"If you could just give him one more chance-"
"If this were the first or even second time, perhaps. But I have taught your brother for three months, and in that time I have seen as good an example of his character as one is ever likely to get. And it is my view that I am wasting my time with him." And so are you.
"Bu-"
He didn't even wait for her to finish her sentence, didn't even wait to shake her hand. "Ma'assalama."
She watched him walk down the path, briefcase swinging irritatingly jauntily in one hand, before going back into the living room to face (no, I mean reprimand) her brother.
Defiantly: "He didn't last long."
He hadn't. It had been three years since she had seen him crying over the death of his father, three years since she had promised herself she would look after him, and in that time he had got through eight tutors. Each stayed less than before. Most of them had been male, apart from that brief moment when she had wondered if this had been the mistake that was their undoing and employed a woman instead. She had left after two weeks.
Isis didn't reply to this, choosing instead to hold his gaze until he cringed slightly and looked down, feigned bravado dissipating.
Hopelessly: "Malik, what am I going to do with you?"
He fidgeted. "Teach me yourself?"
"That isn't funny." Isis meant to say more; she had compiled endless mental lists of all the things she wanted to say to him, but they seemed to have vanished into some deeper recess of her brain that she couldn't get anywhere near. Then she opened her mouth with the intention of saying something else, and instead found herself beginning to cry. She couldn't think why: for three years her eyes had remained stubbornly dry despite all the things that had happened. She hadn't cried once, not even the time one of the tutors had asked her why she was throwing her life away like this: she was clever and beautiful, he had told her, why waste her time on someone who was little more than a savage? Isis had tried to forget this but the words kept coming back, this and the memory of how his slimy hand had been crawling steadily towards her knee. She had slapped him away, and even so he gave her a leery wink before leaving.
She stared back at her brother, tears blurring her vision, and the next moment he was clinging to her, whispering, "please don't cry, sis. I…I'll be good, I swear to Ra I will. Just don't cry…"
Isis sobbed harder then, pulling him closer towards her. He had never been the type of person who welcomed more physical contact than was absolutely necessary (and in that way he took after his father) so the way he had been the one to come to her made her clutch him even more tightly. Malik was one of those people who was always skinny to the point of looking anorexic, but it didn't seem to have inhibited his growth – he was already nearly as tall as her, and Isis wasn't short for her age. She had that sudden, vertiginous feeling of role-reversal: that he was the one reassuring her, which wasn't how it was supposed to be. It was probably this that made her gently detach him; when he tried to run off she placed her hands firmly on his shoulders in an effort to make him look at her. He did so, unwillingly.
"Sorry." The word was a mumble; obviously his moment of contrition had passed already.
"It isn't that." She sighed and wiped the back of a hand across her eyes. "It's the fact that you are getting through so many teachers, yet learning so little." It was so expensive, her mind thought almost in resignation; they simply could not go on like this.
A squirm. "I said I was sorry."
She squeezed his shoulders slightly to get his attention. "What I am trying to say is that this is a bit of a waste of time, isn't it?"
He nodded, too enthusiastically.
"Would you prefer it if Rishid and I sent you to school instead?"
There. She had said it. The use of Rishid's name caused her slight guilt, amongst other feelings: she had not consulted her older brother about this at all. And yet she knew that Malik had far more respect for his brother than he had for her; from a very young age, when Malik could spend whole hours literally tearing things apart, while completely ignoring her pleas, hadn't Rishid always been the one who could make him stop? Simply by stating the word 'Malik,' or by placing a hand on his shoulder, or even just by showing disapproval? It had always been a bitter source of jealousy for Isis, witnessing the way Rishid could get Malik to confide in him without even asking. She was sure this was all because of how they had both reacted just after their father had died, the way Rishid had calmed him down within seconds, while she had treacherously frozen up, with no idea of what to say. Because of this, her little brother would always hate her. Sometimes she could see it in his eyes, in those moments when the black rages stole over him. He had needed her, and she hadn't been there for him.
She was taken aback as his eyes lit up and he whispered, "Really?"
"If you think it would be a good idea."
"Yeah!"
Almost delirious from the fact that he hadn't reacted in the way she had expected him to, Isis managed a smile. "All right then. Rishid and I will talk about it tonight."
"Thank you." He didn't hug her this time, just stood there and smiled with his eyes. Most of the tutors had thought them strange, that peculiar shade which was sometimes light purple and sometimes darker, only they couldn't be because there was no way in hell anyone could have purple eyes; Isis thought they were beautiful.
"Shall I go to bed now?"
It was nearly half-past nine; Malik's lessons were supposed to be from nine until five, with a break for lunch at one, but they had become increasingly erratic of late. Perhaps he really was sorry this time, Isis thought. He hated going to bed. They had once stayed up until twelve arguing about it; just one of the hundreds of stupid arguments they had each day, which invariably ended with Malik flouncing off, slamming every door he could find.
"Okay, if you want."
She detected a faint aura of disappointment – that's not what you're supposed to say! You're meant to be all happy that I'm being good and let me off! – but brushed it aside. Maybe some sleep would do him good.
Malik made his way towards his bedroom, which was two doors along. There weren't any stairs to climb – about two and a half years ago, Isis had decided they should move from the hole in the ground which was the only place Malik had ever known properly and had thought of as a 'proper' home – and now the three of them lived in an apartment near Cairo. Not in Cairo (that would have been much too expensive) but just outside it. It was okay though, he thought, because they were still only about twenty minutes away from all the shops where Isis or Rishid went out to twice a week to buy food. He found it oddly reassuring in the evenings when one of them would come back, laden with shopping bags; and sometimes he would help them unpack them and sometimes he wouldn't, depending on how the day had gone. And evenings were also great because that was when Rishid came home from the garage where he worked, and they would see each other again. Malik liked the way everything seemed to slot neatly into the day without changing – he didn't like change. It was unpredictable, and therefore something to be feared, or at least greeted warily. Consistency made him happy.
Isis could be inconsistent sometimes. Usually it was all right because he could tell what sort of mood she was in from the way she stood, so he could work out whether he was due a lecture or not, but sometimes she acted completely differently to how he thought she would. Like today. He couldn't remember ever having seen her cry like that before, and the unfamiliarity of it worried him. People like her weren't supposed to cry; they were supposed to tell you how naughty you had been and how disappointed they were. Malik knew most of his sister's speeches off by heart, and sometimes when she started one he would say the words silently in his head just before she did, and see how much of it he got right.
It had been scary when she had cried, because he had always thought of her as a very solid person who always stood there, sometimes with a long-suffering expression in place, no matter how much you shouted at them. He didn't mind if she looked hurt when he shouted at her, because it was consistent. If she had shouted back at him then he would have been alarmed.
Rishid was a solid person too, in that he didn't seem affected by everything just like Isis wasn't, but it was a better sort of solidity, because Rishid understood him. It seemed like Isis tried to, but she could never understand how he felt the way Rishid always did.
Malik heaved a deep, unhappy sigh as he got changed into his night-clothes. Isis was so confusing. Always telling him that he should be good, and yet never asking why he wasn't, except in that way which made him shout at her. And then she looked all hurt; although it didn't feel like she was really hurt, it felt like an act, because otherwise why would she keep telling him off? She always acted like she was trying to be his mum, not his sister. And she always felt like a mum, too; one of the things Malik liked about Rishid was that he when thought about him it was always as a brother, not as a father. He didn't have parents, and didn't want anyone pretending to be them.
He clambered into bed and reached over to turn off his lamp, before stopping in mid-stretch. Rishid wasn't back from work yet; he was working late tonight, and had told Malik this before he left, understanding that he would want to know this. Malik had understood that his elder brother would be back later than usual tonight, but still the fear was present in his mind, clearer than before. Rishid had said that he would be back late, but he might not be. He might not come back at all. Something could happen to him. Something unpredictable, just like with Isis.
Panicked now, he pulled his arm sharply away from the lamp, nearly knocking it over. If he turned off the lamp then he would probably end up going to sleep, and then when he woke up Rishid would be gone.
He clutched his head, thinking how silly he was being. Nothing would happen to Rishid. And yet…what if it did? He gnawed agitatedly at his lip until he could taste the blood, and then thought, it's okay. He'll be fine. I'm going to count to ten and then go to sleep.
Nervously, he did so. Hmm. Everything seemed all right, but it might not be. Maybe he should count all the way up to thirty, just to make sure.
"…Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty." Now everything was going to be all right. Reassured, he reached over and turned off his lamp, comfortable in the knowledge that everything would be fine.
…………
A/N: The Ishtars are one big happy family, huh? But no one needs to worry about that. Because with someone like Malik around, everything is going to be just fine.
This is not a one-shot; I am thinking of continuing it.
