A/N: I really hope this chapter isn't too confusing. It was hard to write, in part, because this is where Bakura is at one of his lowest points, so I had to be in a certain mindset (not happy/content, but not so depressed I didn't feel like writing…).
Chapter 22: The Week Alone
…
Over breakfast, after a long, agonizing Saturday (which Bakura skived off school) and Sunday spent cooped up in his room, unable to meet Ryou's disappointed gaze, Ryou announced he would be home late after school. Bakura looked up from his bowl of rice. "Why?" he asked. The tug of the Band-Aids against his skin under his uniform sleeve reminded him of the pleasantness of tending to himself two nights before, after the incident...
Ryou took a bite of fish, then a sip of tea, taking his time to respond. "I have a therapy appointment," he said at last.
Bakura paused, chopsticks halfway between his dish and his mouth. "Thought those were only on Fridays?"
Ryou blushed over his mug. He tapped his fingers against the china. "I, um, moved it up, just in case."
After a few months of Ryou's renewed therapist visits, Bakura began to understand the purpose more acutely. By moving up his appointment, which he had done more so in July in his first weeks of treatment, Ryou announced he was struggling with his illness. Bakura grimaced, wishing he hadn't queried further, whilst Ryou clinked his fingernail along the surface of the slightly too hot tea cup. He shouldn't have said anything.
"Oh, okay then," Bakura said, then speared a large chunk of vegetables, swallowing down the rock in his throat. The two continued to eat their meal in silence.
…
Classes passed with the same familiar routine and monotony, temporarily catching Bakura off guard when Yami brought up his fated punishment. Bakura stretched his arms out straight, making sure to watch the sleeves' path up his arm as the material pulled tight against his wrists. Satisfied at the pinpricks of pain along his arms and the lack of visible scars, Bakura brought his arms back to his desk, resting his head on his arms.
This is when Yami spoke, "Grandpa wants to let you know, you start next week." Bakura made a face into his folded arms, but did not look up. "Next Monday right after school."
After a moment of Bakura not responding, Yami leaned closer. "Are you listening, Bakura?"
"Listening to what," Joey asked, coming over to plop down onto an empty desk next to Yam and Bakura.
Yami shook his head. "It's nothing, just a message from Grandpa."
Joey swiveled around to glower at the still form of Bakura. "What does Grandpa want with him?" he asked, thoroughly confused. He ran his fingers through his hair.
Marik glanced up from the piece of homework he was desperately trying to finish before next period's teacher came. His desk was adjacent to Yami's so he could clearly make out the conversation. "I don't think we should be announcing that so publically," he said to Joey and Yami. Both had the decency to look chagrined.
Tristan bounded over, placing a hand on Joey's shoulder. "Are we talking about what happened at the party Friday?" After Ryou and Yami left with Solomon to pick Bakura up from the convenience store, word had spread quickly about Bakura's shoplifting incident, so all the members of the group were informed.
Bakura lifted his head, at the sound of Tristan's voice. He glared at everyone in the vicinity. Joey smirked at the hateful look twisting Bakura's face similar to how he looked during the infamous shadow duel with Yugi during Battle City. At the uncanny resemblance, Joey said, speaking softly for privacy reasons, then louder as his speech became less sensitive, "With the Millennium items you are just human. I'm not scared of you. You're just a crazy lunatic—"
He cut himself short when Bakura slammed his feet against the floor, indoor shoes smacking the tile floor. He walked over to Joey, never once touching the blond as he leaned over him, boring two deep brown, almost red, eyes into Joey's orbs.
"Don't assume I care about your opinion, you fool." He leaned forward more, knocking Joey off balance as he tried to jerk away from Bakura's looming countenance. "Fuck off you worthless simpering idiot," he said, leaving the room just as the teacher arrived.
Bakura ignored her calls to return to the classroom, and headed to the school toilets. His arm still hurt uncomfortably as the Band-Aids tugged at his arms, but after that altercation with the foulest, most loathsome members of Yugi's group, he wanted nothing more than to slide a blade across his arm.
Bakura palmed the door to the toilets, letting the rotating door bang loudly against the wall. He propped himself over a sink, breathing in deeply through his nose. He stared at his ragged expression in the mirror, putting off the inevitable. The door opened; Bakura looked over. He narrowed his eyes, feeling the tightening in his chest as the security of cutting was ripped out from underneath him at the presence of Marik.
"What?" he barked, conveying he did not appreciate the intrusion in a single word.
Marik stared at Bakura openly. He took in the desperation just behind the former thief's narrowed eyes. He stepped forward, and Bakura stepped backwards, like a caged, cowering animal. "What's wrong with you?" This wasn't the ally he remembered in Battle City, the fearless, ruthless, overly confident spirit of the Millennium Ring.
"Are you following me?" Bakura tossed out an accusation which they both knew the answer was an affirmative.
Marik simply widened his eyes, neglecting to respond to the easily answered question. "Why did you come to the toilets," he asked, settling for a safer territory.
Which Bakura, who had a hand in the front pocket of his uniform pants, tightly fisting the card, did not consider neutral ground. He shouted, "Leave me alone, fuck!"
"I don't think I should," Marik said honestly. Bakura ground his teeth together and, ducking into one of the stalls, slammed the door shut as he locked it.
"C'mon Bakura, talk to me, please? We used to be allies!" Marik called over the closed door.
Bakura pressed his back to the door, yanking his sleeve and jacket cuff back as far as they would go without tearing, blade poised, ready.
Marik's pleading gave way to silence as he listening to the sounds Bakura made in the stall. His skin prickled as he thought Bakura might be crying in there. He grimaced, tucking some of his platinum hair behind his ears as he tried to deduce the oddly placed sounds that reached him.
He heard the sound of fabric rustling and plastic, like opening an electronics package. Then a sound, Marik could not describe, barely audible, yet clear. Odd, he wasn't sure if it came from Bakura or emanated from the plumbing and electric systems circulating the toilets. Bakura inhaled, skipped a breath, then exhaled lowly. Marik furrowed his eyebrows. He leaned against the row of sinks, waiting for Bakura to exit.
The rustle of toilet roll reached his ears, another long moment passed, and Bakura flushed the toilet with his foot, visible through the crack at the bottom of the door.
Bakura stepped out from the stall, face impossibly smooth, a steep contrast from a few minutes earlier. His eyes were dry, not a hint of redness. Marik sighed, relieved, yet aware that something was still not quite right with Bakura.
"You're still here?" Bakura accused, some of the anger returning to his face. His eyes lit up, no longer flat.
Marik tried one more time, as Bakura washed his hands, not bothering to roll up his sleeves, allowing water to splash on his dark blue jacket, "You are okay, aren't you?"
Bakura declined to answer, simply leaving the toilets with Marik at his heels like a lost puppy.
…
Afternoon found Bakura alone in his bedroom. The silence of the apartment settled over him like a yawn, gradual and elongating. Ryou had yet to return from his impromptu therapy appointment, and Bakura felt the same emotion from this morning twist his guts in a way that forced him to grit his teeth. After his infection over the summer holiday; after the amount of cutting he had done over the past couple days, he really really should not find reason to cut.
Yet, there he was, fingers fumbling with the well worn Change of Heart card, and thoughts refusing to stop with the endless encouragements for self harm.
Failure. He couldn't do anything right, not even something as simple and mindless as his fucking former occupation. Akin to his cutting, Bakura wished he could scrub away the memories of the last couple days, of everything, of the last eight months, of his existence as a mortal alongside Ryou and his friends. This wasn't life. The endless day after day bullshit monotony—he never lived that way as a thief in Egypt.
Why? Why can't he just fucking conform? Go to school, come home, sleep, eat, play the fucking rat cycle, and be content.
Instead, as Ryou found complacency at his therapist (to discuss the be all, end all boundless inadequacies of living with himself—hell, even Bakura tried to cut himself away), here he was, seated, cross legged, in his drab and dull bedroom. The Change of Heart card and protector rested on one knee, while two blades spilled out onto the floor, a sliver of something novel amongst the haphazardly thrown long sleeved shirts and myriad of bottoms. Fuck. Bakura rubbed a hand down his face, fingertips trailing over the contours of his nose and lips. He curled his fingers inwards, scratching the rest of the way down his chin, lungs expanded in self hatred.
Failure. Pointless. Piece of shit. Over and over, relentless tape track unwinding in his inner monologue. Thoughts not always concrete, but certainly tinged with negatively and revulsion. Fuck it.
And any restraint, any hesitance, any teensy desire to not pluck one of the little blades dissolved sucked away in the vacuum of his inner diatribe. Fuck it, and self control peeled away with each angry slice to his forearm.
With the familiar heat of blood dripping down his arm, he sucked in a deep breath.
Bakura slipped the blades into the back of the card protector, and let it fall to the floor with the rest of the trivialities of his modern life. Slowly, the cuts clotted, blood congealing in crusty remnants of its former silencing glory. The forced calm melted away, but the worst of the thoughts were chained behind new pinpricks of pain. Bakura slumped against his bed, head falling into the plush of his comforter.
He had fallen asleep before Ryou returned from…therapy, and slept through until morning without adding any new cuts, regardless, something had to change.
…
How did…yesterday go; How…was therapy on Monday; Are you…still eating: The questions hesitated as they probably would if Bakura expressed them verbally, clung to his thought, a pressing force. He should ask; for himself, and for the return of the once peaceful atmosphere in Ryou's apartment, for the days a month ago when he could think, if only to himself, that the apartment was theirs. But, as each day blurred into the next, Bakura remained silent, stoic as he routinely swallowed down his miso soup and rice, and Ryou followed suit, cautiously (but thankfully, still) eating his own breakfast.
On Saturday, after a week of restless redundancy and forced politeness, Ryou broke the new and entirely uncomfortable routine; he asked (with no hint or information pertaining to the past therapy appointment—the emergency one on Monday nor his scheduled appointment), if Bakura had any plans for his afternoon.
"Yugi invited us over," Ryou explained.
Bakura swallowed back a sarcastic quip concerning the term 'us', and forced his face to remain neutral despite the urge to eloquently raise an eyebrow in a mockery of the idiot Pharaoh or the simpletons that formed his group of friends. He never had plans—and Ryou knew it. However much he would rather sit, locked in his room, and drag a blade across his arm, part of him wanted to restore the delicate balance he and Ryou had crafted by August. He wanted a time where every thought didn't turn to the dueling card in his pocket, where he once forgot to grab his razor blades…
They were beyond that point, Bakura reminded himself as the repetitiveness of practiced and composed social niceties he and Ryou had maintained washed over him. Stilted then halted breakfast conversations, lunches spent alone at his desk in the classroom as the others enjoyed the fall weather, a farce of dinners separated by rooms: Bakura found himself shrugging and muttering an affirmative. In his own self pity, he didn't notice the way Ryou's eyes brightened or how his face seemed to relax.
"Great." Had Bakura been listening, really listening, he'd have head the enthusiasm lighten Ryou's voice. Instead, Bakura plucked a chopstick-full of vegetables disinterestedly, and he silently dreaded the ending of school.
…
The realization hit him with a heavy thunk in his gut as Bakura walked away from the group congregated in front of the Kame Game Shop, away from Ryou, away from what felt like his only haven. He should've shut his mouth, threw himself on a couch, and ignored the verbal taunting, then, eventually, allow it to bleed away on the edge of a razor. Why couldn't he ever shut his mouth, just not speak when his mind screamed at him to stop? The thought flittered away, only to be replaced with worse, crushing in the descending despair.
Bakura set his lips in a thin line, pressed tight so to not reveal the swirling abyss of emotions, the maelstrom that thankfully did not reach his eyes. He wanted to cut; every nerve ending sent out rapid fire alerts that he should… But he couldn't; even as Bakura stormed away from the Mouto's, his arms ached. The dozen or so fresh cuts just from the past week throbbed and stung in varied beats—just enough to keep the untoward display of emotions at bay.
His chest hurt, but he pushed away the pain, the tightness in his throat, the fatigue of his lungs as he forced himself to inhale and exhale, with each occurring spasm. And eventually, his breathing returned to normal and his mind cleared.
The little park he had visited in the past few months welcomed him as it always did. The quiet sound of children in the slight distance from the thick of tress Bakura nestled himself under reached his ears, white noise, which he ignored as he looked at nothing in particular. The idea of a piece of nature, a quieter, slower world than he had come from, in the midst of urban Domino City soothed his overwrought nerves, and here, amidst the shadows of trees, Bakura could almost forget everything.
An hour or so passed, before he realized no one was coming; the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting an orange glow, providing a warmth Bakura did not feel a part of. He wondered if he ever felt like the congregations of people slowly exiting the park. As the sun set further, quicker the park emptied, until, finally, Bakura pulled himself from the spot of grass underneath the tree he frequented.
Similar to a crying jag, Bakura felt used up, withered, and so cold—coldness the brisk early autumn night did not influence. He plodded his way back to Ryou's apartment, his steps sullen, formerly lifted with the increased temperatures of summer, when Ryou and he had been, almost, friends.
Or what Bakura could consider as friends. Ryou, his former host; Ryou, the ever forgiving teenager who acted twice his years with his level headed reasoning; Ryou he could almost let his guard down with. But, he didn't have that option anymore. The sickly feeling of guilt constantly barraged him, a subtle reminder that the course of this existence would be altered—maybe for the better (maybe not, as his mind clung to the image of the Pharaoh's face as he first noticed the blood dripping from Bakura's sleeves),
Not that he felt any remorse for stealing from the convenience store. That brought a smile to his lips. Of course not; the sentiment Bakura felt was genuine. A stupid little corner convenience store run by a mulit-million yen company—a foreign company at that, so, no, Bakura could care less about the employees or management he may have affected, nor the potentially increased prices he had been lectured about.
Hell, he would shop lift again. If he wanted to. If his pride hadn't been stripped away, the last of his former occupation, his formal identity and self sloughed away in that moment he had felt the security guard's hand upon his shoulder, and the sharp, "Excuse me, sir," sliced into the final layer.
The dark and empty apartment, devoid of its owner, dissolved the rest of Bakura's thoughts, or rather diverted them.
"Ryou?" Bakura said, not really expecting his inquiry to reach Ryou's ears, therefore not raising his voice. So, he was left alone here as well. He ignored the rising disappointment taking form as an image of the blades always at hand tucked away in his front pocket. No problem. Oh fucking well, he forced the tangible, worded thoughts to run across his mind. I don't care, he told himself, better off this way.
At the very least, no one would judge him; he wouldn't have to deal with Ryou's sad eyes, upturned and slightly moist, nor the Pharaoh and his idiotic band of monkeys glowering glares, nor his own eyes, downcast at the floor, visibly watching his feet turn and walk himself away from the Kame Game Shop. Here, in the darkened apartment, he didn't have to censor the accusations torn from his lips, nor did he have to choke back his own defenses, even as pithy as they were—because, really, how far did he expect a string of expletives to get him with Joey and Tristan ganging up on him, ignored by Ryou, egged on by the Pharaoh and Marik and their ever questioning gazes and faux concern? No, a week later, and nothing had improved, and, it seemed, nothing ever would.
In the end, he would've been better off holed up in his room, alone save for his blades, than trying to play nice with Ryou's friends to…to what, exactly? To make nice with Ryou? And, know what, he was much better off this way. Alone.
…
A/N:
Just a reminder that in 1998, schools in Japan ran from Monday to Friday, with a half day of school on Saturdays. I can't find information on how the day is structured—like, do they lose classes on Saturday or are all the classes shortened? Are the students present for lunch? It's really bugging me, so I try, as I'm sure you've noticed, to not mention the details of a Saturday school day.
In regards to the convenience store, it's not important to the plot that it is a foreign owned company, I was just having a bit of fun with information I learned last week. Let's play "guess the name of the store Bakura shoplifted from". Haha. When I write about it, I'm always thinking of a cross between WalMart and CVS, but that's because they're the stores closest to where I live.
