Chapter Twenty-Four: Pseudo-Existence

"Hey look, it's Mista Kaiba."

I stiffened if it were at all more possible and continued going on my way, wishing they knew when to seriously, completely get lost. The days had been more tolerable when they had been avoiding me and ignoring me.

But, a month back, they, specifically Wheeler and his good friend Tristan, had started giving me hell. As if I didn't live enough of a hell as it was. And I couldn't even figure out why they suddenly started when they did. Then again, I suppose idiots like them needed no concrete reason. My very existence proved irksome enough that they found reason to bother me.

The best defense—besides dragging along security guards and letting them handle the annoyances—involved striding away and ignoring them as I ignored shit on the bottom of my shoe.

Their annoying voices always penetrated the strongest defense, though, for things inevitably led to mention of Mokuba. And once they mentioned his name, they asked to join him.

"Do you think he killed any kids today, Joey?"

"Nah, why bodda? He already killed de best kid around!"

Fists tightening until my knuckles stood out whitely, even whitely for my faded skin, I continued on my way, wishing them to suffer countless pain and torture for eternity.

Once, I glanced over there, as the bunch of them stood in a group with the two laughing young men. Téa's glare rested on me, but for once she didn't strain my patience and ears with some ill-prepared speech. Bakura just looked slightly clueless and surprised, but he would never take any action to do one thing or another. And Yugi…he just stared at me sadly. And that mournful look showed he thought exactly the same as his best friends and just didn't bother speaking the accusations aloud.

I knew the accusations. I'd suffered through them for two months and twenty-three days. When a young boy goes missing on a night after a group of people had just seen him and no trace is left of the boy or what could have possibly happened, things are bound to get tense. Especially if said boy was the vice-president of one of the world's largest gaming companies.

Some days, my hands itched to strangle the necks of those sisters I knew both Joey and Tristan had. Serenity and whatever Tristan's sister was named…if they were dead, would their sadistic jokes stop? Finally, finally they would feel a tithe of what I continued to go through every day. It didn't matter that my brother had not yet been declared legally dead; how long could one be "missing," leaving no clues or leads, and still be hoped alive? I knew it unlikely. I knew it nearly impossible. And yet, I had fallen victim to that damnable hope as much as some other idiot. Maybe, just maybe, Mokuba still lived. And yet, as much as I denied he could be dead, my subconscious and logic enjoyed tormenting me with visions whenever I dropped my guard.

No matter how many days passed—my nightmares, these constant reminders, and mostly, my blank memory ensured I'd never wipe the pain from my life.

And I didn't want to forget Mokuba.

The police advised giving up hope. No evidence thus far had been found of a kidnapping. And if there were…why had they not used Mokuba as a hostage? Why not taunt me at all? Why no leads whatsoever?

The conversation of the phone call I made every day as soon as coming home was a constant tape playing in the back of my head. Every day, the same dialogue continued—everyone knew his lines.

I would call to see if they had any news, any fresh leads or guesses, anything at all to feed the hope that wouldn't die. It didn't matter that they'd call me if they ever had something worthwhile to say. I had to call anyway. But they never did give me any news.

Five out of every ten calls, the conversation would inevitably turn into a debate and even an argument.

"My brother did not run away! So keep searching. Harder!...I don't care if there are no leads or clues. It's your job to find missing people…if you'd work harder, then my brother's prospects of being found wouldn't be going—it has not been three months! TWO MONTHS AND TWENTY-THREE DAYS!"

To cross that line, to admit once and for all that he was never coming back…I wouldn't do it. Not yet. Not until I saw his body's lack of life; not until I knew what bastard had murdered him and had been rightly punished. Not until some sort of memory returned to me to let me know just why I wasn't with my brother protecting him as I should have been that night. Until my own failings were explained—not accepted, but merely explained—I couldn't move on. No matter whether two months and twenty-three days or seven years had passed.

As to running away…I never contemplated it, even though the police always wanted to know whether there existed a reason for my brother to run away. There damn well wasn't. But then…my thoughts always turned to the time in Duelist Kingdom where I had failed to save him, to the nights and days I had been working so long that I hadn't had time for him, to the time before Death-T where I didn't even want anything to do with him, to the days I remained in a sour mood and could have even…hit him.

But Mokuba wouldn't have run away. And without any proof of anything else, it meant someone kidnapped him. It certainly wouldn't have been the first time.

Rocks came skittering after me, but Joey and Tristan somehow knew enough not to truly aim. Plenty of police warnings, security guards bodily hauling them away, and old restraining orders had proven to them it wasn't worth it to truly hurt me physically.

Besides, they knew their words were enough.

Wednesday arrived sooner than I'd've liked. Every two days I returned to this hellhole, seeking answers that wouldn't surface from the murky depths of my mind. Not even a hand reached up desperately seeking help. Nothing of the night remained to me. Even when I read what the others reported, even when I walked through what I knew—up to a point—that knowledge couldn't help me remember more.

"Just relax. Things like this take time, Mr. Kaiba."

That was what Dr. Tseusaki had said every session. How much damned time would it take? My brother's chances of being found alive were slimming and all that remained was the image of my brother's cold body rotting away in the ground, buried in an unrecognizable place where no one would find it.

The last time I had seen my brother it had been too dark to see his face. I had left to find Wheeler in the haunted mansion set-up. Everything before that was like maids cleaned away my memory, leaving no residue behind at all.

Why couldn't I remember a fucking thing?

"Let's start near where we left off last time. You said you were looking for Joey Wheeler. What happened with the rest of that?"

This wasn't where I wanted to be. Leaning back in the chair and closing my eyes, other images came unsought to my troubled mind—images that I could almost remember better than the truth in my past, scenes that never left me alone. But this time, my brother—before any portion of his body had returned to the earth—came unbidden to me. Before the worms had started eating his flesh…this view demonstrated the least I wanted could I not possibly keep my brother, could I not have my purpose and light alive or with me, could I not cherish or say to him the things I needed to …at least I ought to have been allowed to say goodbye to his corpse…

Touching the amulet that held my picture, I bended over the casket and put one hand on my picture and the other on my brother's too-still hair.

"Don't take this off, kiddo," I said, my voice choking. "While I can't—can't be with you now, this'll make it seem like—like—like I'm always with you. Remember that, all right, little brother? I'm always with you no matter what…"

Even looking as he did now, I expected him to crack a grin and burst out that it had all been a prank, a joke on me. His eyelids still seemed capable of hiding light-filled eyes ready to twinkle in glee, his mouth preparing to quirk into a simple smile, the only smile I ever needed to see.

But that smile never came. My brother was dead.

"I'm—sorry, so sorry I couldn't—couldn't save you or protect you. I wish, I really wish our places had been traded, Mokuba. I'm sorry I failed you, little brother. I—I…love you, kiddo. I wish I had told you sooner…"

Breaking down all alone over my brother's body had been so imbedded in my mind it felt like a memory. And if something like that little daydream could be placed within my head feeling like a potent truth even when it wasn't, I wondered how I had managed to forget everything else that had happened that night. But that was how it was.

"Mr. Kaiba? Mr. Kaiba?" Dr. Tseusaki repeated. "Are you with me?"

Groggily, I sat up straighter and looked over at the man, cursing the foggy vision that overtook him at these meetings.

"Yes, I'm here; where else would I be?" I snapped.

The doctor only smiled at me. Making his fingers into a rigid steeple before him on his desk, something I seriously despised, the doctor focused his dull gray eyes on me.

"Would you like to talk about anything particular?"

I let my glare slip over my face and focus completely on the pleasant man before me. No one had such a right to hold such cheer as this man. He listened to all sorts of woes all day; how could he feign such happiness?

"No, absolutely nothing."

"Is something bothering you today, Mr. Kaiba?"

"My brother's disappearance is always bothering me, Dr. Tseusaki. I'd have thought you'd've figured it out by now."

Still, my harsh words brought no change in the psychiatrist. He was imperturbable. It was annoying.

"What did you do today?"

Questions, questions, questions…they never ended. Right then, I couldn't decide which I loathed more potently: the doctor or his endless supply of questions. But I was paying the man from my own pocket and these sessions supposedly helped people, so being of assistance during them might make them more worthwhile.

"I woke up from another nightmare, went to school, went home, came here, and listened to you."

The doctor finally took his gaze off me for a second to write something down as a note. I began to wish I had learned how to read writing as one wrote it.

"Nothing out of the ordinary occurred, Mr. Kaiba?"

"Nothing."

"And nothing happened that revitalized your memory at all?"

I hesitated. Lies and truth had mixed, fumbled and fuzzy in my mind. "Not at all."

"Mr. Kaiba, I'm trying to help you see what is in your past so that you can properly move to the future. If you would try to be a little more willing to discuss things, we might probe your mind and find some hints as to what is being repressed. Otherwise, there are other options we might think of resorting to now."

Taking a sheaf of papers and handing them to me, Dr. Tseusaki turned his voice to the lecturing tone. "This one is called hypnosis, and it's been proven—"

"No."

"Why don't you let me explain, Mr. Kaiba?"

"Absolutely no need to explain. I know what you're referring to. You're indicating, considering it would even work on someone like me, I give my consciousness into your hands to be manipulated by mere hearsay suggestions and try to get absolute truth that way. Do you happen to know people's cases in court have been ruined by the use of hypnosis? It can't be trusted. More often than not, the psychiatrist involved flubs it up and ruins anything substantial. It's the same with any recovered memories—they're rarely trustworthy; more often, they are fantasies concocted from such suggestions! It's like questionnaires; you twist the wording and focus of the sentence so that you get the answers you want no matter what.

"And what makes you think I'm repressing memories? You think I was purposely forgetting what happened that night? You think I'm not trying to remember? Maybe someone knocked me out and that's why I can't remember things. "

All during my small tirade, the doctor had been looking at me genially, a small smile on his face. Sometimes, like these times, I thought he was the one in need of mental help. He had fewer emotions than I did.

"I realize that your arguments hold weight and truth, Mr. Kaiba." He seemed to get too much enjoyment out of using my name. It was just as well he never called me by my first name. Names held power, after all, and just hearing him use "Mr. Kaiba" nearly every time he spoke to me seemed awkward and uneasy.

"However, all those stories are about other doctors with other occurrences. There is no court trial for you as of yet. Your memories may make it so there can be one, but otherwise, no evidence has shown a need for one yet. And I would be the presiding doctor. Or any other doctor of your choice. Plus, psychologists have been doing research to create guidelines in order to lessen any wrong sort of influence on the patient and their memories. It was just a suggestion.

"But by the way, you were speaking of suppression, not repression. Suppression is the active will to forget things; repression is having no control over forgetting it. While suppression may lead to repression, it is doubtful that has already happened to you in such a short time."

"Hmph." I was leaving now. I didn't need a lecture on a topic I was well-versed in. So I messed up a few words, what did it matter? Neither referred to me.

"Just think of it before the next time we meet, Mr. Kaiba. Hypnosis isn't the only option. There's guided visualization, suggestion, age regression, and other tactics (1). No matter what, though, I am quite willing to abide by your decision. And maybe you should try to write some more in the journal I suggested." He looked at me without blinking until he turned back to his papers.

"Yeah, sure, whatever," I muttered, getting up to go.

After all, I knew this day would hold nothing more useful to regaining my memory. And I didn't care it was all my fault.

(1): List of therapies and definition of suppression and regression summary taken from: Coon, Dennis. Introduction to Psychology: Gateways to Mind and Behavior. 10th ed. Australia: Thomson and Wadsworth, 2004.