He's crying again.

He lies on his side, facing the wall, one curled hand out, brushing the wall slightly, crying. But I'm not sure that what he is doing constitutes as crying. The tears are there, yes--streaking slowly down his pale face, lovingly tracing his cheekbones. They collect at his chin, and drip onto the floor, a puddle he doesn't seem aware of. Other than that, there is no outward sign of the fear, the despair, the darkness in his heart, slowly consuming him. His wide brown eyes are empty, face clear and blank, the eyelashes sweeping down occasionally the only telltale sign of life.

Sometimes I imagine his reaction when I finally garner enough strength to create a corporeal form, to become once again a presence in his mind that he can feel. His eyes--god those eyes--would widen, hope would shine in its chocolate depths. He would look down, away, and then look back, thinking I am a mirage, a figment of his imagination. His hands--those gentle hands whose touch I have never felt--would hesitantly reach out, fingers mere inches from my face. He would stop, looking at me for permission, acceptance. Slowly, the tips of his fingers would come forward to rest lightly on my cheek...

He's not moving.

His eyes are closed, and the tears are trickling to a stop. His chest has stopped rising and falling. I stare, fear a lump in my threat. My pounding heart counts out the seconds.

His fingers are beginning to uncurl from its tight fist...

What is he doing!

I leap to my feet and throw myself at the door of my soul room, slamming against it, trying to use my body weight as leverage to get the damn thing open. I need...


"RYOU

I need him to...


"Wake up! Stand up! GET UP!"

His eyes open gradually, and the breath hitches in his throat. Carefully, like a broken machine reassembling itself, he gets to his knees. Looking around, a spark of life flickering in his eyes, he pushes himself off the ground. His voice comes out an inarticulate croak, buried so long, it's inaudible.

"Bak..ura?"

He can hear me?

"Yes, Ryou! It's Bakura!" Joy explodes in my chest like a bomb, the shrapnel of it lodging tightly in my throat as the lump of fear is replaced by a ball of something...something so beautiful it brings tears to my unblinking eyes.

He clears his throat, coughs a couple of times. The hope in his eyes dimming already, he speaks in a louder, more confident voice. "Bakura. Is- Is that you?"

"Yes, it is! Can you hear me, Ryou? Ryou!"

"Bakura? Bakura? Bakura!" With each repetition of my name, he becomes more and more frantic, hands fluttering agitatedly to his head.

"Ryou," I strive to keep my voice steady, "Ryou, it's me. Calm down. I'm here now, and I won't ever let anything happen to you again." He continues to say my name, no reaction to my words, "Ryou!"

His arms cross his midriff, hugging himself protectively, holding on tightly as if he was afraid that he'd fly apart otherwise. His voice is a whisper now, "Ba...ku..." His eyes close, and a tear streaks down his left cheek. He gracelessly sinks back to the ground, a puppet whose strings have been cut, "BAKURA!"

Damn it! "RYOU!"

Suddenly, his head snaps back up, and a cruel smirk curls his lips. With a different voice, he speaks gently to himself, "Ryou, Bakura's not here. He's gone, you see. He's gone." He shakes his head in mute denial, the streams of silver still flowing. The other voice grows harsher, becomes angry, "He's dead, you hear me? DEAD!" He continues, his voice insidiously soft, smug, "You should know."

I'm screaming now.

"After all, you killed him."

He screams.

The doctors and nurses come rushing in, nurses brandishing needles and hurriedly injecting him with it, doctors tilting his head back and pouring a viscous blue liquid into his open mouth. He chokes on it, the screams stop, and he coughs, the liquid splattering onto the ground. The doctor tries to make him drink more, but he refuses, shaking his head, and still coughing. He scrambles away from them until his back hits the reassuring padded wall behind him, and he starts screaming again.

Abruptly he stops, and slumps to the floor a the nurse nods in satisfaction. Her job was well done, and the doctors commend her as they exit the room, leaving only me to watch him as he continues to cry in his sleep. Only me to hear his screams. And there's nothing I can do about it.

Nothing at all.

---

--Doctor Ryodan--

"Ah, so it's you again, Bakura-san," Doctor Ryodan looked at the clipboard in his hand as his patient stared sullenly at him. "Says here you were screaming your own last name, in hysterics," His glasses glinted and the patient shrugged.

Dr. Ryodan leaned back in his expensive leather reclining chair, steepling his fingers and peering at the patient over them, "Bakura-san, we've been through this many times: Your 'Yami Bakura' is not an entity separate from yourself; from the start, this has been an open and shut case of multiple personality disorder. Shall we review again the reasons why this is so?"

The patient stared at him mutely in reply. Taking his silence as affirmation, the doctor began, "First of all, his name is Bakura. Your last name."

The patient nodded.

"The fact that you call him that ties you to the 'Bakura' ego--therefore, 'Bakura' is Bakura, and you've been admitting it to yourself all along."

Through frozen lips, the patient protested in a monotone, "I already told you-- we only call him Bakura because he's the closest to me and--"

Dr. Ryodan cut him off abruptly, "Not only that, you call him Yami--as in Dark--Bakura. Obviously, he is the deepest darkest part of your soul, given frightening substance by your disturbed mind."

"But I have bruises-- from when he beat me!" The patient pulled his sleeve up, revealing yellowing

evidence of the fact.

The doctor looked at him almost pityingly, "When your father found you, you were cutting yourself; who's to say those bruises aren't self-inflicted?"

"I only did that after Bakura died. There was no other way to deal with the pain!" The words were emphatic, but belied by the patient's voice, thin and faltering.

"Why would you feel pain at his 'death' if he beat you?"

The patient had no answer.

"See? The basis of your reasoning is ultimately faulty, all you need is logic to decipher the truth. Accept it, understand yourself. Maybe then we can start making some progress," He looked at the clock on his wall, "You can go now, Bakura-san. Think on what I said."

The patient left without another word.

---

--Ryou Bakura--

He does exist! I know he does. He's been a part of my life for so long, how can his existence even come into question? This place, it's making me doubt myself...these walls, these halls, the rooms, the people. I- I know that even if he's gone now, he did live once.

I mean...you can't fall in love with yourself, can you? Nor can you fall in love with a part of yourself that you've ignored and repressed.

Or is that just my deepening dementia? Spiraling down, down further into insanity?

It is rather inexplicable how I could miss him with such searing agony, considering how assiduously abusive he was while he was alive. Perhaps it's that Stockholm Syndrome, where you come to identify with your kidnapper, in this case with your abuser. Maybe I'm masochistic?

He was real!

His abuse was real.

His voice, hair, eyes, imprinted forever on my soul...they're real.

Those few weeks when he treated me with affection, kindness...something akin to love were real, too...

Yes. No doubt about it. Not only was he real, he is. He's here with me now, I'm sure of it. Honestly, how

can a spirit die? That's not possible-he's not mortal after all.

/Bakura/

...I'm just making sure

/Bakura! Please answer me/

It doesn't really mean anything whether he answers me or not...

/BAKURA! You're there, aren't you/

Stupid, inane questions I already know the answer to.

/You are real, right? You are, and you were, and you always will-/

"-'Bakura' is Bakura, and you've been admitting it to yourself all along."

/-be. Right/

"-An open and shut case of multiple personality disorder-"

/Right./

"-Why would you feel pain at his 'death' if he beat you?"

/right/

Wrong.

No!

WrongwrongWrongWRONGwrongwrongwrongWRONGwRonGwrongWRONGWRONGwrongWrongwrongwrong

The word reverberates in my mind in Dr. Ryodan's voice.

Yes.

Wrong.

"--progress."

---

--Yami Bakura--

When I awake, I feel the anxious excitement percolating in my veins. Finally, my strength has been fully restored. I was right in thinking that conserving my energy was the fastest road to recovery. This meant I would go into a deep sleep, allowing my body to recharge. Of course, this was very risky; who knew what would happen to Ryou while I wasn't watching over him? But it was worth it!

I leap to my feet, burst out of my soul room, and materialize next to Ryou.

He's sleeping.

Damn. My shoulders slump and I sigh. Now I have to wait. Ah well. I flex my hand, enjoying the feeling of having a body again. Experimentally, I wiggle my feet. I stretch luxuriously, like a cat, and I yawn just

because I can. I then stare at Ryou, trying to wake him with my gaze.

I'm almost bouncing in anticipation when he finally opens his eyes. Slowly, his chocolate-brown irises are revealed, and when he looks at me, I feel a piercing pleasure in my heart.

"Ryou!" I pull him up to a standing position, and crush him in my embrace. I swear, I can hear sweet violin music playing, and-- are those fresh roses I smell in his hair.

...Heh. Who would've thought I was a romantic?

But wait. He's struggling in my arms, trying to get free. Bewildered, I let go, "What's wrong?"

He averts his eyes and the set of his mouth becomes stubborn.

"What's the matter?" I try unsuccessfully to catch his eyes.

"You're not real," He mumbles.

"What!"

"You're not real!" He screams, "Dr. Ryodan was right--you don't exist, you aren't a solid, separate person!"

I don't mean to, but I respond before I can stop myself. Instead of reassuring him kindly that I was real, I snap at him, "You're insane! Don't you think I, of all people, would know whether I'm real or not?"

Ryou nods, still avoiding my eyes as if they were lasers that would strike him blind, "That's right. I'm insane. That's the problem."

I stare at him despairingly as he continues to speak.

"I was making great progress. Why'd you have to appear? Must be a delusional outbreak. Don't you understand? My mind created you; that's why you look like me. My insanity is so deep, my psyche so warped, I even fell in love with you. Which means I'm in love with a part of myself," He laughs bitterly, "I seriously need help."

"That's not true!" I spread my arms, fruitlessly searching for the right words, "These arms that yearn to hold you--these eyes that can't stop gazing upon you--this heart that aches for you--they're all real!"

Something flickered in his eyes, something that showed he was wavering.

"Those so-called psychiatrists have brainwashed you. Don't worry though, I'm here to take you away from this place." I draw hesitantly closer and place a hand on his shoulder. My other hand brings his chin up gently so his eyes meet mine.

"I am real, I am here, and I always will be."

Believe me.

I can feel his shoulders tense, and he seems determined to disbelieve me.

Please.

"Really?" His eyes soften and I nod firmly. He looks down shyly, and his hands twist around each other nervously, and he whispers so softly I can barely hear him, "Prove it?"

I nod and I lean closer. My heart pounding so hard I think my whole body is shaking, my lips trembling, I graze his lips with mine. His eyes close and he tilts his head up. I kiss him again, capturing his lips tenderly and uncertainly.

We remain standing there for a moment suspended in time before he breaks it.

"All right," He grins. "Get me out of here."

the end