…………
"Over and over and over again…backward and forward and then back again…"
Ryou sung these words softly to himself, repeating them because he could not force himself to remember the rest of the song. Was it a song? It may have even been a poem…It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. Ryou's life was in ruins, and all that he could think of was this…this…these words!
Shaking his head sadly, the white haired hikari rocked back in forth, his back to the door of his room. He'd taken to waiting as patiently as he could for Bakura, because he'd come eventually, he always came eventually, and there was really no point in thinking about it anymore. Ryou no longer worried about "when" or "how". He knew that his yami would hurt him, hurt him badly, and there was nothing he could do.
After Bakura had pulled Ryou out of school, the psychotic yami had forced his hikari to stay at home, alone, 24-7, with no contact with the outside world at all. The innocent albino was fed often enough so that he didn't die, and sometimes there was even wash-water for him to use when he woke up. That was the most Ryou could ever hope for, besides a beating. And he was ok with that. Hell, he was fine with that, seeing as he had no other choice.
At first, Ryou had marked off the days (or how many times he needed sleep, for he had no way of knowing the time of day, or the date-Bakura had bricked the window over and removed all the clocks) with a marker hidden under his bed. He would make a tally on the inside of his sweater. But after a while, the sweater was too ripped up, and he was sleeping too often, and the marker ran out of ink. Then, to pass the time, Ryou had taken to singing. And he was still singing, still singing, even though he had to make up his own songs.
Except for the one he was now chanting. Because it must be a song-it had to be. And it was stuck in his head, and he couldn't remove it. Eyebrows knitting together, the albino stopped his rocking and bit his lip, drawing blood. He didn't notice the pain, but the taste of the crimson liquid cleared his head. Yes, it was a song. A song written by a friend of his, a dear friend, but whom? It doesn't matter, don't think about them. Don't remember Yugi and Yami, or Jou, or Honda, or…Seto.
Ryou's eyes widened as images of the millionaire flooded his brain. 'No..' he told himself. 'Don't…they – he didn't even try to find you all those months ago…' For it had indeed been months, or it had been when Ryou last checked his shirt which was…how long ago?
Footsteps. Heavy footsteps getting closer and closer, Bakura coming, finally coming, and how Ryou had missed him. Ha always missed Bakura. Because then he had someone there, in front of him, who occasionally spoke to him, and that's when he knew he wasn't crazy. Not yet, not yet, because if he was crazy Bakura wouldn't be real, he'd be imagined, and he'd say all the right things. Ryou's Bakura never said the right thing, besides the occasional groan or moan. You can't go wrong with groans or moans. Ryou knew-they were the only sounds Bakura allowed Ryou to make.
And then, the door was thrown open, he could here it hit the wall, and Bakura was striding over to him, he grabbed onto Ryou's shoulder and spun him around. But it wasn't right, this wasn't right, it wasn't normal. Bakura taunted him before touching him. And the touch wasn't right, it wasn't hard or cold or painful, it was just a touch, and then-the young albino stared, unblinking, into the eyes of a uniformed police officer.