Scribe's Rambling

He told me to write a story.

And I sat there staring at him. He had been in the doorway at the time. I'm surprised how little that memory as faded. It had been a gloomy due to the rain clouds haunting my windows. Maybe that's why he looked a little more dangerous than usual, not that that means much. At that point, I was having the lights knocked out of me at least once a week, and bleeding every two days or so. It was regular fun around the block back then.

His hair was spiky straggly mess; a fierce blazing white turned a darker shade of gray because of whatever dirt and filth he hadn't washed out yet. His clothes had the same wrinkled disheveled appearance, one pant leg pulled up more than the other and his collar lopsided. It was early in the morning, so the just woken appearance was familiar. Even how he had one hand probing himself up against the door frame like his body had been sleepily protesting to his movements. That would've been fine.

That wide awake glow burning in his eyes made my heart climb so readily into my throat. Breathing was difficult. If there is ever a time of fearing the unknown, it's when you see that unearthly shimmering thoughts of a beast you have no understand of. Something that randomly kills at the blink of an eye for seemingly no reason. Maybe even for the pleasure of it.

That's barely scratching the surface, but unfortunately, all I can really offer to you in a way of description. Sadly, I'm not as good as a writer as I wish to be, and worse even before all of this happened. It began simply. If you can believe, my real story-telling journey began when I was very small. Very small and ignorant. Exactly when, again, I have no precise details, but I know it began around four or five.

You see, by then I was convinced there was a monster that followed me everywhere. I remember several sleepless nights of hiding under the covers, whispering and wishing for it to go away. Please. Just go away. Other times I'd watch the shadows that liked to move, with wide tired eyes. I never actually saw the thing, but I knew it was there. What else could that voice be coming from? Where else did that twisted laughing come from? Big open wide jaws with dripping fangs of course, cloaked cunningly in the darkness, or hiding behind closed doors, in cupboards, under the sink, down the drain, in my closet, hell probably even in the dark pocket of the insides of my shoes.

Only once did I scream for my father, near the beginning. I was hit across the face hard enough to make a pink palm print across my face and a nose bleed. I never called for help again. I sat up most nights listening to that scary dark muttering, echoing or talking in a whispering scratch depending where I was. Helplessness like that is something no child should have to endure.

He was staring at me with those haunting eyes, a small smile slipping onto his lips, looking at me all curled up in my bed, notebook carefully concealed under the blankets, looking at him with stunned confused eyes.

"W-W-What?" I wheezed through the pin hole in my throat.

"Write me a story." He repeated casually. I blinked again. I opened my mouth again to ask when he moved with god-like speed. In an instant his hand is in my hair, pulling it hard, and exposing the soft flesh of my throat below his dark brownish maroon glowing eyes. I swallowed nervously, my Adam-apple seeming to dance in front of his cool predatory eyes. He pulled my hair until I gasped with pain, opening and closing my hands. Couldn't grab his wrist. That would mean even more pain. So I stared up at him with bright-eyed fear. He basked in it for several moments. I could see the pleasure spreading through him, how agreeable it was to see me hurting.

Then he got bored he leaned forward, his lips centimeters from my ear. His warm breath swirled inside the canal and made a fluttery itch.

"Write. Me. A. Story. This is your native language, is it not? What can't you understand?" Painfully soft. He shoved my head hard forward and realized his eagle claw grip on my head. There was throbbing, and I reached at it with shaking fingers as he calmly walked away. My breath was shaky with the tears welling in my eyes, making them hot and uncomfortable. Had to hold them in until he was gone. I was glad to see he was at least in the right direction, but despaired when he stopped in the doorway. He turned and looked at me sternly.

"I want it by tomorrow. Tomorrow. Or else."

He shut the door with a bang.

Early childhood was the beginning of my story-telling part of my writing. The actual writing didn't come until much later. About three years ago, in fact. He sent me spiraling down the stairs in one of those sections. I can't remember how bad the pain was, and I doubt anyone really can. It's one of those things I think is better to fade in memory, I don't know how messed up I'd be if I remembered it all in great detail.

Anyway, I was laid up in the hospital for a week, nothing to do. My father was in Italy on business. Didn't think it was important enough to come home for. Probably thought, 'Hey, he only took a little fall down the stairs; he'll be right and dandy in no time, not like the poor bastard's dead.'

I broke my leg, busted a rib, and cracked the side of my skull falling down about twelve steps. And heavy bruising, though I don't actually account that from the falling action. They couldn't find a reason for it. I was the only one in the house that day, or so they believe. I try not to contradict. I think I like my house better than an insane asylum. Why not add a few bruises to falling down the stairs?

The pain had been bad. I got a call button but most of the time it didn't work too well. Most nights I was in my room alone with tears leaking steadily down my face from pure sweet delicious agony. Some weeping, some sobbing noises. No relief.

But my mind was pretty much free, and I knew enough to try to be doing something constructive. Amazing things can happen when your mind is somewhere else. If I've learned anything, it's that a least. My head throbbed and I had one hell of a headache all the time, but if I could get away from it all, I could separate myself from the pain.

But with what?

I was looking around the room, studying and studying. I must have looked at the only set of flowers I got for about the twentieth god-damn time. Anonymous, if you can believe that. I couldn't. But disbelieve was over by then, and the excitement gone by the third hour. Plain blue curtains. The bathroom door was still partly open, not that I'd be using it any time soon. The floor waxed with a grayish tinge. Blue blankets, call button, bed controls, note pad partially written and a pen on a wheeling table, my shoes at the end of the bed, the lights, that IV drip, and the damned plant again.

There wasn't anything interesting enough. Sweat kept dripping in my eyes, my rolling eyes. And my fingers were gropping like a drowning man reaching for air above. I blacked out by then. Blacked out into sweet delicious darkness where there are no pain, no memory. And especially no voices.

Thank God, there were no voices.

Woke up later to the nurse giving me a shot. Muttering cool words as she dabbed a cloth against my cold brow. Soothing words of comfort. Part of me wanted to know where the hell she had been before, and the other was singing with thankfulness that she was here, and the pain was finally receding. And when it was gone, I was breathing normally, and she was gone, I finally saw the pen curled in my hand and the pad of paper no longer clear, but crawled upon so heavily that on the other side it could've been Brail. I dropped it down on the table and picked up the pad, curious enough, and read.

And read, and read, and read…

And when it was over I felt dazed and in a trance. Thoughtful reflective trance that I had never even heard of before, pad laid down on my lap and my eyes open and a little glassy. Meandering thoughts where I was stunned. Stunned at the words were in my penmanship and one single fact.

They were actually good.

I was sitting in front of my computer, staring at the blinking curser on the white digital paper of Microsoft Word with such a loss I have never felt before. Blank eyed and with only worried thoughts in my head. Write me a story he says. Out of the blue. Must have found all the files on the computer. Must have seen some of my work. Must be trying to using it against me. A weapon. A simple sadist weapon.

And yet, I was puzzled all the same.

Write me a story.

I have never written for anything else but pleasure. It is the best pain-killer I have ever had. The only thing I can really think to compare it do would be mediation. That's how it feels. You are so deep into thought that nothing around you seems real. The only reality is the one blossoming in my head. And there, I can be anything I desire. I can be free, careless, and even angry. I'm allowed to scream and curse in text when I wouldn't have the bravery to in this place. That's were the relief comes from. Where I'm not myself and I don't live like this. That's what I used.

Six hours later I was still staring at the same blank screen, my hands buried in my hair and starting to weep in frustration. Write me a story he says. Write me a story. How the hell am I suppose to just write a story out of the blue. I sobbed for another hour in pain and misery. He was going to beat me. That's all there was to it. And I'd have to waste another day of school trying to recover and another day of 'Bakura is there something wrong at home?' Another day of lying through my teeth, giving that damned fake smile no one seems to see as fake, and saying 'Oh yes, everything is wonderful.' Everything was as peachy as hell.

By eight hours, my fingers were slamming down on the keys with such force I later wonder by the keyboard stayed together. Tears were drying on my cheeks and great words of rage were sprouting like fresh daisies. I wrote what he did to me. I wrote how horrible it was. I wrote of his insane behavior. Wrote of his random predatory actions. And how it hated it all so much with malicious words I never even dared think of before.

Sixteen hours I had an eight page story, preened to perfection printing out, and calming down. I fell into bed, leaving the story pined to the outside of my door, calling the sucker Winter's Rage, for the first time caring oddly not at all. I actually thought 'Screw him.' Before finally nodding off to sleep.

Woke up in the early morning, ravenously hungry. Walked into the kitchen, or maybe a better word for it is stumbled. I was leaning against the walls, inching my way there. Pulled open the fridge and with shaking fingers stuffed as much as an apple into my mouth while taking out the milk carton, and butter. Shut the fridge with my leg, and continued to skate around the room, inhaling the apple more than eating it, grabbing random things from random cabinets.

The apple was gone and I had stuffed three pieces of raw bread into my mouth waiting for the eggs, the pancakes, the bacon, and the toast to cook enough to be eaten. I was sipping coffee and milk (kept switching between them). I was hungry. I didn't care and if I was going to eat, I might as well have a great big damn feast while I was at it.

Buttered the pancakes and added syrup, eating half of it as I was doing it, when he waltzed into the room. I froze at the sight of him, but he gave no notice. His eyes were glued to the slightly crumbled wad of paper. His movements were strange precise even though he had no contact with this reality. I watched him with growing horror as he took three pieces of toast, two pancakes, and the coffee. He left and as silently as he arrived. It left me stupefied, a mouth full of food with frozen eyes.

That's how the day began and how it pretty much stayed. I hovered around the house. He spent his time between the kitchen and the living room. He'd get up, get some food, come back and sit in the same exact place on the couch and eat it until there was nothing left, read more, and the process would start all over again when he got hungry. I was left hanging for more than half of the day, anxiously waiting for the result as well as feeling a strange sense of wonder. Then took a nap.

Never got an answer on how the story was. I should've expected that. I like to think that that was a sign that it was good. If he didn't complain then it was good. Never the less, next thing I know I've being shaken very hard on the shoulder from a deep sleep. Everything seemed like in a different dimension, my eyes feeling glassy despite how wide they flew open. The first words out of my mouth were gibberish. He ignored it completely.

"Write me another story." He says to my fuzzed still asleep mind. "Write about a couple. Young couple." He stopped the shaking for a moment as he stopped to think further. I sat up, blinking my eyes hard in attempt to wake up further.

"Make it dirty. I want it by tomorrow." He says after that thoughtful pause. That wakes me up.

"What? I can't-"

Before I can even finish, he's boxed my ears very hard.

In the end I find myself staring at the blinking cursor, rubbing my crimson ears, wincing at the pain and the heat. I was mortified. I knew absolutely nothing about girls. Or even romance, for that matter. Never even crossed my mind once. And yet I had to write something about it. Even the intimate details. I hold back a shiver and stare at the blank screen.

Make it dirty.

The only thing I knew about sex was from health class. And that stuff made me close to fainting. Thinking about it then was making me light-headed. That's a discussion I didn't ever want to go near again. And yet I had to. He may have not said 'Or else' but that was implied now. I wasn't sure how to begin, but at least deciding to begin was half the battle. That done, I took a huge breath, and let it out. A fluttery nervous feeling was in my chest now, and another huge breath had no effect on it. I sighed, and decided the only way to start was to answer a simple question I never even dared ask myself.

What would I want from a woman?

I tacked the story on the outside of my door about four hours later, The Wish, and tried to fall asleep of several hours without thinking about what I just wrote and found it was hard. My mind just kept going with it, no matter how many times I kept smacking my head and whispering for it to please stop. Even worse, the response I was getting from it all was…hard to ignore. Needless to say woke up sweaty at least once in the night with the need to change my shorts.

Woke up the next morning and while eating breakfast I caught a single glance of him reading it, and decided it would be a good day to go out. Leave and not come back until I had too.

He was smiling.

It went like that, off and on, of at least a month. Every other day, weather I was coming home from school, or I was being shaken violently awake, I was demanded a story. Write me a story. Sometimes I'd be free to write what I felt like; sometimes I'd have specific instructions. Write me about brothers. Write me about warriors. Write about twins. Write something with desert. Write something with summer. Write about an orphan. Write about a dead man. Write about a lonely girl. Write about an old man. Write, write, and write!

And it wasn't until then I figured it out.

I remember that clearly, but still not as clearly as when he first asked me. I'll admit that. I actually came home from school and I was so tired. I mean drop dead tired. He had demanded me at least fourteen stories during the week. Imagine having to write all that and then do your homework around it. I was at the point were I would've rather been beaten than have to write one more word.

Shut the door and hung my bag on the post at the end of the stairs, before sluggishly making my way into the kitchen. I was wondering how hard it would be to install a sliding latch lock on my door and if he'd noticed before I was done. I was starting to really consider it, as I poured a glass of orange juice and heated a few cookies in the microwave. The plan had been to get a snack and sleep for the rest of the night, or until he came in and started demanding another story.

I was eating the cookies when my bored eyes happened upon one of the newspapers discarded there. I suppose that was a miracle that I picked that one and not any of the other issues felt around. Let me tell you this; my house is completely cluttered. I don't be a few pieces of paper here or there, I mean everything is practically buried. When your father is never home and neither of you is very neat, your house would look this way, trust me.

It was the front page. I never watch the news. Usually it was always bad news, and I already have enough bad news going for me without having to hear that everyone else is miserable. The opener for the bestseller's list. That was good. I wanted to see what would be interesting to read, maybe when all of this finally blew over. It had to blow over eventually; it was only a matter of time before he got sick of reading what I had to say. Or finally told me about what this lesson or torture was about anyway.

It was about a guy who called himself Thoth. That was the author's full name. Thoth. If I had been less fatigued, then I probably would've laughed at how bizarre it was. I small smile did slip onto my face, around the glass I was drinking from. They called him a genius. Turns out his book of short-stories were selling like hot cakes. That's unusual I guess, usually an author gets known by his or hers first novel. Short-stories usually don't sell well for first time authors, and he was a first time author. There were comments about 'popping out of no where'. It was a fluke of nature.

I was shaking my head, laughing a little, and looked at the title of the book, Tales of the Desperate, that was cute, and skimmed some of the stories that were in it. The further I read the more and more slack my wrist went. Until finally it slipped out of my hand and smashed on the floor. I actually never heard it break; I noticed later when my footsteps were crunching oddly when I got up out of the chair I fell into. Glad I was still wearing my sneakers, later, when the shock blew over.

Familiar titles, they were all the titles I had thought up. That was the dizziest I have ever felt by far. That was even worse than having to write my second demand story. My head was spinning and I was gasping for air at the shock. Simple shock. God, I felt like I was going to be sick, right there in the kitchen. My heart was banging harder than I expected it. There was panicked little whisper of a giggle, and then slammed my hand over my mouth.

In a daze I sat there until I heard some one call my name softly. Looked up and found it was him. He had his arms crossed and was looking at me from across the table. Staring at me with knowing eyes. Staring at me with a dark abyss that was always so intimidating. He seemed perfectly calm. In control. Powerful. And I just stared at him for a long, long time. Neither of us seemed to move for a century. Then, before I even knew I was, I opened my mouth and spoke. Asked a simple question, that's how doors are opened anyway. Simple questions.

"Why?" And he laughed. A dark chuckle that made the hair rise on the back of my neck. Made me feel like a child again, and the monster was laughing again. I wasn't small, but the monster, never the less, was laughing again. The monster that had no shape unless I gave it to him. The monster that existed in my being. All because of a little gift my father gave me, one I never quite threw away since it was a gift of love, and love was so hard to come by.

And for a while I was sure he won't answer. Why would he answer a question so someone he felt never mattered? Someone lower than him? I sat there, cowering slightly in my chair, as he stopped laughing and a cruel smile shaped on his lips. And I got an answer.

"Come now, Bakura. You have talent and heart, but no courage or guts. No guts, no glory. I hate to see such good potential go to waste. Nothing that powerful should go to waste. Strength is power. Haven't you figured that out? You're a good writer, Thoth. Do you even know who Thoth was? He was the scribe of the gods. If anything truly beautifully was written, it would be his work. The work of a god."

He left me in the kitchen, staring off into space. Thinking, just thinking through the numbing shock of it all. Unaware of the broken glass. The sun setting quietly through the pulled shades. The silence in which time was passing. The things happening beyond those walls surrounding my shell-shocked body.

A scribe. Thoth was a scribe. He found a way to publish my work. Found away to publish my rambling thoughts. Yeah, more like scribe's rambling. He called me a scribe. And maybe I am. Authors are new age scribes right? Thoth's rambling. He called my work beautiful. He said I had good potential. He said I had power. He said I was a good writer. He called me a scribe. He called me Thoth.

I put shaking fingers and pressed the side of my head. My eyes closing into darkness, after the whole world was cloaked in the darkness of night. I couldn't hear him anywhere. It didn't matter. For the first time in my life I had gotten a compliment. Quiet a few at once. Never before. Someone had seen past and saw something I never did. A part of me. And I couldn't believe it. Or the uplifting feeling I felt. Any of it.

He called me Thoth.

He said my work had to be that of a god.

He thought I was a god…