It was either the characteristic squeak of the third step or the light breathing that had Malik awake and standing at attention. He wasn't fast enough though, to attempt to block the fist traveling towards his face. As it connected he did something of a pirouette and then started to collapse to the ground. Marik grabbed Malik before he hit the ground and slung him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Marik carried him up the stairs and then dumped him unceremoniously onto the cracked linoleum floor. Malik stayed where he was, knowing better than to try to get up. He knew that whatever Marik had in mind would only worsen if he tried to stand and take it. He could only prepare himself mentally for whatever it was, and then even though he wouldn't really feel the pain, he could still cry and scream.
Marik shoved his foot underneath Malik's back and flipped him over onto his stomach. In his hand was a makeshift brand, made of out paperclips and a coat hanger. Malik noticed with a detached bemusement that the brand was glowing red, and he only realized how much this was going to hurt when the brand was already pressing into his hip and he could smell how sweet his skin was when it was cooking. He could hear the sizzling the fat and oils made as they were burned.
Malik thought Marik was screaming, and after a few seconds realized that he was screaming as fast as he could draw breath and oh my god his hip hurt so much his hip was on fire oh my god he was going to die - and all the sudden it stopped and he was swimming in this darkness, swimming up from the darkness into something like awareness.
He was in the shed, and his arms hurt terribly, but his hip burned. Somewhere in some insignificant part of his mind he realized that he must have a concussion, that Marik must've kicked him in the head or something. He lost time swimming into that darkness, and Marik was back in the shed with him, wrapping duct tape around his mouth. Marik was saying something, but Malik couldn't seem to understand any of it. Marik was suddenly gone and the lighting in the shed seemed to be all off, which was rather bizarre, because Malik could've sworn that he only blinked. His head didn't just ache, but felt like it was about explode. It was like someone had decided that his head was a zit that was ready to popped and there was just this squeezing that wouldn't stop. Malik blinked again, and this time the lighting was off again, but he could think somewhat clearly. He was handcuffed in the shed, his hip was burnt, and he had a concussion. From some distant memory he could remember Marik's malevolent voice saying something about, "A whole week to fast and pray upon your sins".
Malik chewed on that thought for a while, and finally figured out that he was going to die in the shed unless he got out. Marik would be gone for a week, so there would be no food, no water, no sustenance of any kind. Slowly he looked up at his wrists, and saw that they were handcuffed around the wooden leg of an old table. Giving a jerk on the cuffs, he realized that although the table looked old, there was no way that leg was going to break anytime soon. With that plan out of commission, he glanced around, hoping to see something of use.
Nothing. Abso-fucking-lutely nothing. Malik glanced at the table leg again, and then looked at what was on the table. If he could shimmy the chain down, and somehow lift the table up far enough, he could get free. Then all he would have to do is find the key to the cuffs. Wasn't there a spare in the kitchen? Malik was sure there was, but if he was wrong, then he was in deep shit. But, first, he had to get free. Malik started to slouch down and realized that doing so wouldn't work, so he went the opposite way. Using his shoulders against the lip of the table he pushed up with his knees and tried to detach his arms from his sockets. Grunting, he shoved up with his shoulders and quickly falling to the floor he scooted forward, trying to get the chain out before the table came crashing down. For a horrifying second he thought the chain had got caught underneath the leg, for his arms wouldn't move, when suddenly they could move without any resistance. He was grinning underneath the duct-tape, and he now shoved his way out of the shed, across the back yard and into the house.
Stumbling into the kitchen, almost graying out, he saw the key just sitting on the counter, gleaming silver in the afternoon light (for the microwave clock showed 1:47).
Malik somehow grabbed the key off the counter (it seemed really high for some reason), and he got the key into the lock, unlocked it and took the cuffs off himself and then he did gray out.
When he drifted back up from the fog someone was knocking on the front door, and the clock showed 2:00. Malik grasped the counter above him and pulled himself up, his hip screaming at the effort. He dimly realized that he still had duct tape around his mouth, and he peeled it off, bits of lip and skin going with it. Shuffling to the front door he opened it, not really knowing who it was, and almost graying out again when he saw that it was Bakura standing in the doorway, a smirk on his face. Malik did his best to look normal, but he could see from Bakura's fading expression that he looked worse for wear. Malik could feel himself graying out again, and although he tried to push off the persistent fog he felt himself falling down, and then felt himself being carried away.
X
The afternoon sun glinted off the young man's white hair as he walked down the street at a leisurely pace. He'd gotten a few looks from people, but for the most part he was left alone. Bakura was happy to be enjoying the day, instead of sitting in some dreary ass classroom, learning geometry (the bane of his existence), and watching Marik and Anzu passing notes to each other. He wondered what Malik was doing, wondered if Malik was even at school, so he turned right onto the next street and continued to stroll towards the pale yellow house with the unkempt hedges. He bypassed the little walkway leading to the front door and instead jumped over a hedge and up the stairs. Bakura smirked and started to knock, wondering if anyone was home. He had known Malik to skip some days, and today he might just get lucky.
Hearing footsteps inside Bakura stopped knocking, trying to think of some witty line to use just to be funny, when the door opened and his heart about stopped. Malik wasn't leaning against the doorpost but practically clutching it to keep him upright. Blonde hair matted with blood, his clothes disheveled, and his beautiful violet eyes had a flat, vacant look to them. Not for long, though, as Malik's eyes rolled back into his head and he started to fall forward. Bakura leapt forward, catching Malik, his breath coming in fast hitches as anger started to course through him.
Bakura picked Malik up, and slung him around so that he was giving him a piggyback ride. The whole walk home he kept running scenarios through his mind, trying to think of any reasons why Malik looked like this. One possibility kept shoving through, but he didn't want to acknowledge it. Reaching his home he opened the door and carried Malik up to his room, laying him on his bed. For once he was happy that he'd taken a first aid class, and after getting the kit he started to work on Malik, becoming more worried at each bruise, cut, scar, and burn he kept finding. After treating everything that could be treated Bakura sat down next to Malik, gazing at the wounds, and hoping to whatever reigned above that Malik would be okay.