Disclaimer: Dustbunny doesn't own YGO!
Relationship: You find out at the end
POV: First person; a tad and a half of third at the end
Warning(s): There are two, maybe three curse words. This has suicide in it, too. Oh, and the couple isn't exactly... popular. But, that's how I am. If you wind up not liking the couple, please don't go nuts over it. I can do as my please in this story; I'm not afraid of you people. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go do... stuff. Bye! #runs#
A/N: This concerns the last one-shot so feel free to skip it. I just wanted to say sorry for the original note I had at the top. I didn't think at first that it was that confusing. Then, when someone pointed it out to me, I looked back over it. Then it hit me: of course I didn't think it was confusing, I wrote it. In so doing, I put hints at their identities that I would recognize. I'm sorry for anybody who got mixed up. I'll be more conscious of that in the future. Though I must point out the irony of how the person who brought up it being confusing to my attention was the first to get their identities right.
A/N: Also, about the last one-shot: I made the other guy who he was instead of going for canon because I don't think the killer would have snapped in the canon situation. He'd be upset, of course, but could get over it. But if the guy who wound up with the girl was the guy who was killed last story? Crap, I'd lose it too!
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It is a cloudless, starry night. The moon is showing off in its entirety, white and glowing and gorgeous. The air is clear and the temperature perfect. Crickets chirp as a whole, creating sweet harmony. Through the open window floats a soft breeze, bringing with it the beautiful smell of freshly bloomed flowers. A few petals, loosened from their respective blossoms, drift quietly into the large bedroom. They settle humbly on the floor where the moonlight pours in, creating a lovely effect of soft shadows and pale colors. Romance is swirling on the airwaves. And my lover, my fiancé… is sleeping.
I sigh softly and brush his long hair away from his face. Asleep, his face is gentle and relaxed, a vision of something godly. The moonbeams find their way around my slim body, over the expanse of silk bedding to play amongst the strands of his hair. He looks more hansom than ever. From slightly parted lips comes a soft sigh of his own. The corners of his mouth turn up into a small smile. I smile as well, wondering what he could be dreaming of. I can't help it; I lean down and place a small kiss on his lips, careful not to wake him. He whispers something and I freeze.
"What was that?" I whisper with dread, hoping I didn't hear what I had.
But he repeats the same word over. I did not misunderstand. I pull away and lay flat on my back, hoping that I can stop the tears by looking strait up. It doesn't work; the burning liquid flows without hesitation from the corners of my eyes. I gasp in a breath, trying to remain silent. Unable to stop the tears and worried he might wake up, I get swiftly but quietly out of bed and hurry on tip toe to and through our large, dark mahogany door. Before closing the door I glance back at him. He still lays peacefully. I pull the door shut behind me.
Out in the hall I can be louder. I walk in a rush down the long corridor to the sitting room. Once there I throw myself into a large armchair, burry my face in my arms and sob. Why did he have to say it? That one word. That one damn word! It ruined everything, tore my soul to shreds. And he had spoken it in his sleep, smiling happily. I thought it was over, that he had moved on. But apparently I was wrong. He had looked so at ease and happy. Would it have been too much for him to have screamed it in agony or cried in despair? But that wouldn't have helped either. It would mean the same thing; he hadn't moved on. He wasn't happy to be moving on with me.
I'm calmed down by now, anger having drowned out my sorrow. But my anger is quickly fading into something else; something I dread. I am falling into the grasp of pity. Not pity for him, but for me. I try to escape its clutches, try to revert back to anger or sorrow or, better yet, to switch to sympathy for him. But it doesn't work. Why should I be sympathetic for him? He has his precious dreams and soon he'll have me. But what do I have? I gave up everything for him, and I now find that he was never even mine after all. Where does that leave me?
Restless, I pull out of the comfortable confines of the chair and wipe my eyes as I stand. I refuse to feel sorry for myself. I have despised the idea since I was young, the entire concept. No matter the situation I always found someone else to be sorry for, someone else who needed it more. I won't stop now. If I can't direct my pity to another target I'll ignore it. The whole thing is that simple.
Mind made up, I smooth my rumpled silk nightgown and take several deep, calming breaths. I won't let this get to me any more. After all, I can't expect him to just forget. What a selfish thought! I immediately feel horrible for my behavior. It is to be expected that he might begin to dwell on old memories with our wedding approaching, after all. It had been difficult for him to propose in the first place, shadows of the past haunting his mind. And so I will act as expected, I will be understanding and caring. None of this will affect anything.
I smile despite myself. This silent vow deserves a reward and I am suddenly very thirsty. I decide to stop by the kitchen for a glass of water before heading back to the room. I rub my eyes as I go, not wanting any servants I might run into to realize I've been crying. Then too is the possibility of him waking up and finding me gone. If he went searching for me- as I am sure he would- he might see my swollen, blood-shot eyes. I definitely don't want that.
I walk quickly so he won't be too worried if he finds me gone. When it comes time for me to pass the door to our room I take long, graceful steps on tip toe. I hesitate when I'm a few feet past and listen. Nothing. He must still be sleeping. I grin at my craftiness and go on my way. Hopefully I can get my water and get back without him knowing I was gone. The last time I got up in the middle of the night he had scolded me; he was worried I might get lost since the place was so huge and I was new. The worst part is that I had gotten lost.
The path to the kitchen takes me past my intended's drawing room. I'm sure exactly what he does in there but I assume it is a place to deal with important business. He always insists on being alone when he is there. I grin impishly. Anywhere he is prone to go there is prone to be something good for drinking. I have never been habitual when it comes to this particular type of drink but I feel that a celebration is in order. Looking around to make sure no one will see me enter this sacred den, I slip inside and close the door silently. Feeling proud of myself, I grope along the wall for a light switch. Finding one at last, I flip it and let my eyes adjust to the light before turning into it completely.
What I see shocks me to my core.
Portraits, photos, odds and ends all relating to the same subject- her. Her picture hangs everywhere and some snapshots show the two of them together. I suddenly feel extremely sick to my stomach. My heart aches, as it never has before. I take a deep breath- and taste perfume. I sniff the air, recognizing it. He had had a bottle from all those years ago; it had been a gift to her. It was her favorite scent. The room reeks of it.
Sorrow, anger and betrayal swirling inside me, I leave the room as hurriedly as I can. My mind is clouded and my eyes are doing no better. My lungs burn and work double to pump the stale, perfumed air from within. My upset stomach wills me to find a bathroom so it can heave. And my heart, my heart that has remained strong for such a long time, throbs with deep pain. I feel like curling up and dying. Instead I hurry to the kitchen, desperate for the glass of water that had led to my discovery.
By the time I reach my destination I'm sobbing uncontrollably. Far away is the fear that I might be discovered. It doesn't matter anymore. Let someone find me, let them know I've cried, let it be him. I grope for the cabinet that held the glasses. Unable to find it I turn to the sink and run the cold water at full blast. Body still wracked with wrenching sobs I cup my hands and bring drink after drink to my lips. Most of it goes down the front of my pale pink and blue nightgown, a gift. After some time I begin to submerge my hot face in the icy liquid, a pitiful attempt to calm myself. My hands have long since gone numb. The scorching tears continue to flow.
Why can't he be satisfied with me? She had been unearthly beautiful. And me? It takes no vanity for me to know that I am quite a catch myself. I might not have the flawless features that she did, but I am beyond pretty. He spoke more than once of her sweet, gentle nature and soft, melodic voice. Don't I have a gentle nature? It isn't the most trying task to anger me but I know how to remain calm. My voice… perhaps it isn't particularly melodic but I have been told more than once that my spirit seeps out through my voice as well as my eyes. Her eyes… in all the photographs, all the portraits, they had been gentle and expressive. Do I lack expression?
Cold water continues to assault me and I welcome it. Anger keeps me from cooling down, sorrow preventing the damming of the rivers of tears. I always tried not to be too upset when he spoke so vividly of her. I always sat quietly and listened, in truth a bit impressed that he still has a place for her after so long. And whenever he began to ramble, he would stop and close his eyes in reminiscence. Then he would look at me through his thick shocks of moonbeam hair with affection and say, "But those beautiful memories are the past. I have a beautiful future to look ahead to."
I laugh bitterly. What a joke! The water stays in a steady stream from the faucet and I don't bother stopping it. Instead I sink to the floor, no longer sobbing but with tears falling silently. My knees scrunch up to my chest and I hug the peaks. I can't quite feel my hands. I thought he loved me. But no, he still loves her. What am I? Just a warm body to help him forget? Yes, that was probably it. I'm a stand-in. But I can never be what she was. I can only be me. If only I had come first there may have been a chance. But no, I will forever be behind what he expects from having her. Forever I will be in her long, graceful shadow. I can never measure up.
Weakly, I start to stand. My legs are stiff from being so tightly packed and my knees don't want to cooperate. I reach out a shaky hand to stop the faucet water while the opposite arm holds my balance on the counter. I try to wipe my eyes but more salty moisture replaces whatever I evict. Finally I give up and attempt to walk. Legs still weak, I pitch forward and barely save myself by grabbing a drawer handle. The drawer it's attached to screeches several inches from its space. My eyes narrow at how pitiful I was. I force myself to stand upright with help from the drawer. I am about to close it when I happen to glance what was inside. The cool steel glints off outside lights. Dozens of utensils: spoons, forks… knives…
I shake my head and near slam the drawer in disgust. The very idea! It is selfish and cowardly, the easy way out. I have never been afraid of hard work. This is just another challenge to overcome. We can do it together. But then…
Absentmindedly, I re-open the compartment and gingerly take one of the stainless steel steak knives into my palm. I move it around, twirl it, experiment with the effect of the lights that filter in through the window. I feel myself smile oddly. It is pretty, so pretty. How would it look with a different effect? I turn the faucet back on to a drizzle. I catch the drops that fall and sprinkle them onto the knife. Lovely, simply lovely; a magnificent play on light and water. I begin to wonder. What would it look like… in color..? No doubt, very exquisite…
My mind snaps back to me in a flash. What the hell am I thinking? I shake my head and try to think clearly. I am behaving like a nut. I'm just upset, I reason, and have to calm down. But something in the back of my head still comes through to me. Maybe it would be better this way. I've always thought of suicide as a pathetic scheme for attention and sympathy. But there might be more to it than that. Perhaps all it needs is a bit more thought put into it.
He isn't happy with me like I thought. I'm not good enough, don't deserve him. Maybe, just maybe, there is someone out there who could help him get over her. Possibly, there is a beautiful, gentle woman out in the world just waiting to be discovered by his love. She is the one who deserves to have him. I am an obstacle, our marriage an obstruction in their path. If I was gone, there would be a chance that he could find this other woman and truly be happy.
I smile, proud of my reasoning. This is the best thing to do. By my doing this he can be happy. There is no one else to be upset by it. My parents passed away years ago. All the wedding invitations I had sent out with deep hope to my friends were returned unopened. They don't care and in time he won't either. He just has to meet that woman. He can't forget the past because I'm not good enough to help him. But I will be easily overlooked when that time comes. I nod, pleased. This is right.
I look down at the object clutched in my hand. It glares back at me, daring me to go through with my plan. Rare is the time that I turn down a challenge. I raise my opposite hand, studying the slender wrist for the best place to make the cut. I spot it, the vessel giving me the same challenge. Now I am even more determined. I hold the knife against my flesh, making sure I have it lined up properly. I do. With a single, fluid movement I drag the knife across my skin and burst the vessel. Crimson flows from the gash. More of it makes its way along the blade. I had been correct. It is magnificent. Now to finish the job. I switch the knife to my bloody hand and study my other wrist as I had the first. I find what I'm looking for quickly. I repeat my actions and watch the resulting flow with a strange fascination. Then the dizziness hits.
My head feels light and my breathing is ragged. The bloodied blade falls from my grasp. I gasp as I feel my knees give way to my weight and buckle. I fall hard on the linoleum floor and wince at the pain in my joints. But it is soon forgotten as I pitch forward with nothing to hold onto. My brain screams at me to correct what I have done, the mistake I have made. I ignore the frantic messages. This is not its decision. This is a matter for my heart to decide and it has. My vision blurs and shuts down. I feel a pang of fear and regret as I feel my entire system being shut down. But, in the end, as I surrender to the comforting darkness, my only regret is ruining one in a set of knives and staining the lovely lilac tiles of the kitchen...
And so she was no more. Meanwhile, as she faded, the man she was leaving behind remained in peaceful slumber. He had no cares in the world for all he was aware. The only thing concerning him was the dream his subconscious played for him. Out loud, he repeated what had sent his intended crying and spoke out more.
"Cynthia," the name floated from his lips. "I'll always… love you. But I have her now. I'll… need to clean that room… You would like her, I think. I love her…"
As he mumbled his side of conversation from his dreamland, one arm ventured out to find the warm body beside him. His fingers splayed and his hand moved as far as the edge of the bed to find what it sought. But nothing was there. Groggily, he lifted is head to find her with sight as oppose to touch. When he didn't see her he was fully awake and raised the upper portion of his body for a better look. Confused, he called out for her.
"Anzu?"
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Dustbunny: #in hiding#
Anzu: ...
Pegasus: ...
Marshmallow: Erm... review?