Ryou's Story

Summary: This story is mine to tell. No, not the one whom most refer to as Bakura, the spirit of the millennium ring, just me. He already stole my name but I cannot- will not- let him take away the one thing that I have left…my words.

Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-gi-oh!

Author's Note: Some may object to this, but I find that Bakura is portrayed as a rather flat character in YGO. I'm writing this chapter to give Bakura some background, so he seems more tangible, more believable as a character in this story. It's much easier to sympathize when you realize that a person has a past, let alone a dark one.

Chapter Two- A Little History Lesson

I had once made a comment regarding my upbringing. You know, why I'm not exactly what one would consider to be a "normal" teenager. Why I fail to fit in.

My native country is in Britain. I was born in London, into an upper-scale family. Specifically, we lived on Knightsbridge road, just west of central London. Would you believe my family was one of the elite? We were very well off, which would be apparent to anyone who might be familiar with the miniscule strip that is Knightsbridge road—only the wealthiest reside there. It was my mother who came from a high class family, who was a member of quite a few country clubs and indulged in all the luxuries many people wouldn't dare to dream of. Truthfully, the details are a bit foggy, because I don't really remember much of my mother, you see. I had only lived with her for perhaps three, maybe four years.

Now as for my father, he was not so fortunate. Like the majority of the population, he fell roughly into middle-class rankings. He lived comfortably, yet he wouldn't be making plans for a trip to Greece anytime soon, either. To put it bluntly, he was not who my mother's parents would have chosen to be her husband.

What set him apart from the rest however, was his avid determination to get what he wanted. According to my father, in one of the limited stories he had enlightened me with, he wouldn't stop courting my mother "until there was no way she couldn't say no. She would have gone crazy if she had kept up with my begging much longer." Poor mother. With persistence like that, she wasn't left with much of a choice, now was she?

But in all fairness, I will attest to the fact that my father was quite handsome in his day. At least, judging from the pictures. He had a unique shade of blue eyes that was comparable to a friend of mine's today, Anzu, only they had flecks of gold in them. In some pictures I have seen, despite how they have worn and wrinkled with age, I could still see how those eyes must have sparkled when happy.

Notice I am speaking in past tense. And truthfully, it's not because my father's eyes had miraculously changed color, it's because I haven't seen his eyes in the longest time. We haven't made eye contact with one another for years.

He just won't look at me.

Even when we talk, Father just keeps his eyes averted. Is it because he is ashamed of me? Is it because I refuse to follow in my father's footsteps to become an archaeologist just like him? Or maybe, is it because I am a miserable reminder of his past…?

It could be because of his guilt. Perhaps he is guilty that he barely sees me once a month. Recently it had been less than that. As I had mentioned, he was gone literally all summer, digging away at decomposing tombs and salvaging junk.

I feel that my father's chosen career is perfectly ideal for him. It suits him. Archaeologists make a living off of sifting through the past, making sense of extinct societies. Many of them, such as my father, can even translate dead languages, and find meaning in what people like me only see as decaying debris.

But you see, that's as far as my father goes. He's stuck in the past, solving the mysteries of ancient times. I never said he could solve the mysteries of today.

He can't figure me out- that much I know for sure. Who am I? Where did I come from? Sometimes I feel he can't believe that I am his son. I suppose the separation from his wife, in addition to losing my sister, Amane, was too much for him to handle…

As I have said, my father is a victim of the past. He takes comfort in reliving the better days of his life, preferring to ignore the issues that stare him blatantly in the face today. And allegedly, he would not have it another way.

Sometimes, there are demons that are too mountainous, too frightening, to address directly.

There is so much that I feel I need to explain. I have never told my past to anyone before. I feel it's because no one cares. My darker half has conditioned me to feel this way, but I know I must resist the urge to remain silent and at least write this down, since no one will listen to me.

So I will continue with the telling of my story, rather than to allow myself to get distracted by my father's shortcomings.

I feel the need to explain a little more about my mother. As I had briefly mentioned, she was a part of upper-class society. She literally had everything she could hope for. The best clothes, jewelry, education… the best of anything, really. And my mother, I think, was quite beautiful. Unlike those who dye their hair blond, my mother's hair was naturally golden. It was a very light blond, almost white, reminding me of the morning sun. (Considering that my father's hair is a sandy brown and my mother's is essentially blond, I have no clue why my hair has no pigment in it at all…premature aging? It wouldn't be so surprising. I feel old, with the cursed spirit in the ring weighing me down)

I wouldn't have believed that the woman who clutched onto my father's arm in the only picture I have of my parents was my mother if we did not share the same eyes. I realize that most people can't recognize a resemblance between themselves and family, but that would probably be because they have the benefit of seeing them every day. I however, haven't experienced such a privilege. Whenever I stare at that picture of my parents, I always notice my mother's warm chestnut brown eyes returning my gaze. She looked kind.

So of course the question is raised: why is my mother no longer in my life? What happened to her?

Ironic, isn't it, that such wealth that my mother enjoyed comes at such a high price.

As I have previously mentioned, my grandparents (sounds strange to say) did not approve of my father. And they were absolutely resentful that out of all the men my mother could have had, she chose an ordinary, lower-middle class commoner. Truth is, they already had a gentleman waiting to court my mother, one who was rich, well-known, and of course, even more rich. Did I mention he was rich?

This man's name was Magnus Cleaver. According to Father, he was talented at almost anything: sports, card games, debate, charming people with his words. However, there was one thing that this gentleman needed improvement on- controlling his temper. I was told that Mr. Cleaver was a sort of a "rageaholic," and took no mercy to any soul who evoked his wrath. (Actually, this sounds very much like my darker half.)

Now how do you suppose my fair-hearted mother would have felt about this?

My grandparents were blind (I'd say, they still are). They failed to see how much of a danger they would be putting their daughter in if she had married Magnus Cleaver. Instead, all they could see was money. Lots of it. As a major determining factor, Mr. Cleaver often invited my grandparents to social events at the wealthiest country clubs. And to maniac social-climbers, my grandparents were ecstatic.

And yet, despite such persuasion, my mother was not moved. I would like to think that, as a woman with a good head on her shoulders, she saw Mr. Cleaver for what he was worth: behind the money, essentially nothing. So she turned her head the other way and decided to marry my father instead.

In the eyes of society, big mistake. In doing so, not only did my grandparents disown her, she officially put herself out of Mr. Cleaver's good graces. And I word this in the most euphemistic way possible because, not too much later in my mother's future, this would ultimately come back to haunt her.

Upon the excommunication from my grandparents, my mother and father decided to move to a quieter location in Britain, opting for a small town to settle down in. Living in a world that was fast-paced and superficial, I completely understand my mother's desire to go more suburban.

With my father just getting a job from a nearby cultural resource management firm as a field supervisor, my parents lived comfortably. And my mother, of course, still had a considerable amount of money stashed away under her name. Together, my parents lived hidden from a world full of corruption, quite happily I might add, for about three to four years. During this time, my sister and I were born, but I'm not writing this to address the miracle of life.

I'm here to address how my parents' lives had been brutally destroyed, all within the premises of about an hour.

My father had been away on another one of his trips, this time to a site in Egypt. The British company he worked under, which had an alliance with a firm in Egypt, had recently discovered an uncorrupted, untouched, tomb and they were more than eager to send their representatives to work. This was the first time that my father had ventured out to Egypt, as opposed to a nearby site in Britain. It was then that he fell in love with the country, and would volunteer to continue working in Egypt for many years later.

So that left my mother alone, with me at the age of three (or was it four?) and my newly-born sister of six months.

As the story had been told to me, I am under the assumption that both my sister and I were sleeping away as the most vile, most detestable thing happened to my unsuspecting mother.

Do you remember Mr. Cleaver? He was notorious for his temper. His thirst for vindication could never be satiated until he could act upon his rage. He was apparently still angered over the fact that my mother rejected him. In his ignorant eyes, he probably wondered how someone did not want to marry him…if not for his "dashing" good looks, his "charm," then for his money.

And sometimes, those who have lived their lives getting everything they could ever want simply cannot take "no" for an answer.

How he managed to find my parent's humble home, I do not know. How he managed to find out when my father would be gone, I also do not know.

And how that bastard could be so inhumane when he brutally murdered my mother, I do not know.

But I do know this: if that demon had even the slightest bit of humanity and had not killed my mother, perhaps I would have still had a chance for a normal life. Undoubtedly, my parents would have still been together. My father would not have wallowed in his grief to the point of becoming a workaholic. He would not have neglected both me and my sister.

He wouldn't have felt so guilty about his consistent absence away from me…because he would not have left as often. If my mother were still there, he would be too. And in turn, my father would have felt no need to bring the cursed millennium ring to me.

The details as to how my mother died are gruesome. For a so-called gentleman on the top of the social food-chain, I would say Magnus Cleaver pulled off the murder comparable to the skill of someone who had lived in the slums all his life.

My mother had been outside tending to the small garden in the front of the house. Completely unaware and lost in her world of botanical beauty, it was then that Mr. Cleaver attacked.

I was told that she wore a white sundress the day that she died. When the police filed the report, it was noted how her dress was completely stained with the very soil she was tending to, in addition to her own blood. Whenever I think of this, I can't help but compare this to how my white shirt had been stained in blood the day the ring took possession of me. I can't help but think that in a way, I had died too.

From what little information I had managed to squeeze from my father, my mother was dragged into her own cramped garden shed and viciously raped. In the end, I wished I had not asked my father about that part because it still makes me nauseous to even fathom such a bloody death. But it is my responsibility to understand how my mother died and why, so I suppose I had no choice.

There is more to the story, though. After her body had been violated, it was then that the monster had slit her throat. I only hope that her death came quickly after that.

To this day, I still cannot wrap my head around the extents to human cruelty. Is there even a limit to the madness? Are we all creatures of temptation, destined or programmed to desire only evil deeds? Does pure benevolence even exist? I fear the answer is no…

Neighbors who had heard the screaming called the police too late. Why they personally failed to act themselves while my mother still had a fighting chance for survival, I do not know. Actually, I feel there is a lot I do not know. For instance, why did Magnus Cleaver only get sentenced to 30 years in prison? Weren't his actions horrible enough to bestow him the death penalty? I don't care that Britain no longer endorses such a punishment- doesn't he deserve it? He destroyed an entire family's life without a second thought. To think that now, in a little under 20 years, that horrible man will have the right to walk the streets again. And I can guarantee you, women and men alike will still desire his company, all because of money….

Upon the phone call from the police, my father immediately rushed home, perhaps somehow believing that it was only a cruel joke being pulled on him. After all, how often do these things happen? What kind of maniac plots out the death of the woman who rejected him, years later?

My father was in complete and utter disbelief, even to the day that the funeral commenced. As it can be expected, not many showed up for my mother's death. She was excommunicated from her own rich world after all. Many refused to acknowledge her existence. To be sure, it makes me completely sick to think that so many people can lose all sense of compassion over the superficial things in life. Cars. Jewelry. Clothing. Shoes. Resorts. VIP rooms, glasses of champagne, and fifty-dollars-a-bite hors d'oeuvres. Everything that matters to so many people is all materialistic.

But don't they know? It can all go away with the blink of an eye. Perhaps I see this more than anyone else because of my unusual circumstances. Everything that I had treasured before has been trashed or corrupted one way or another by the demon of the millennium ring. I quickly came to realize that most things tangible are not worth living for. To think otherwise, I would go insane.

Going back to my father, he was always one to ignore the skeletons in his closet. Although I only vaguely remember attending my mother's funeral service on that cold autumn day, I remember my father's strange reaction to it even more.

He pretended that my mother was still alive. He carried on through life as if everything were the same, ensuring that I kept up with all the things my mother had wanted me to excel in, such as piano lessons, language classes and regular tutoring. Even at my very young age, my mother wanted to treat me as if I still had the same opportunities as any wealthy child, and of course only wanted the best. Although I detested all the lessons I was bogged down with earlier on, I very much appreciate it now. For example, had I not learned Japanese at such an early age, could my father and I have really survived when we moved to Japan?

But it took years for my father to even acknowledge that my mother was dead. He would refer to her in the present tense and would say odd things such as, "your mother wants you to get ready for bed now." I realize now that he was emotionally unstable at the time, and shudder at the thought that he was forced to raise both me and my sister while still balancing his work life. Who can effectively deal with that when your spouse just died?

He did have help, though. While away on his longer trips to different sites, he would hire several "nannies," if you would prefer to call them that, to watch over my sister and I. Really though, they were more like tutors to me. They were paid handsomely, thanks to the money under my mother's name, to enlighten me on topics that many children haven't even heard of at my age. I quickly learned to become fluent in several languages, primarily focusing on English, Spanish, Arabic and Japanese. It was an odd combination. But my father insisted that I master the languages of countries that fostered the largest CRM firms in order to live the life of a successful archaeologist (which is a contradiction because there isn't such a thing. I believe he was hoping that I would magically move up from a field technician to the director of a CRM firm or something). Realize that even then, my father had my future mapped out for me.

I did enjoy some aspects to the 24/7 cram session of all knowledge, however. For instance, I loved learning how to play the piano. Learning to master any musical instrument is a long and arduous road of practicing and patience, but in the end I believe it is very much worth it. What better way is there to express yourself than to communicate through music?

My mother didn't bring much from her old life back into her newer one in the suburbs, but there was one thing that she could not leave behind: her grand piano. Its impressive size and superior quality granted this instrument the richest sound known to the human ear. I have yet to hear something more beautiful than every note that graces the piano my mother used to play. Even at my young age, as I would sit down to practice at the instruction of my tutors, I would appreciate the piano for its exceptional beauty…perhaps even more so because of my mother's absence. Is it not true that absence makes the heart grow fonder?

By the time I had grown old enough to play simple melodies on the piano with a certain degree of expertise, my sister was beginning to branch out on her own talents as well.

Amane was an artist at heart. It all started with a basic box of crayons. Given to her as a means of distraction from bothering the nannies, she began to scribble out all kinds of shapes and objects. The unrecognizable doodles of a child soon transformed into the coherent etchings of an artist with vision.

Soon crayons would not suffice. So the nannies more than happily granted Amane with a child-friendly paint set, consisting of around ten colors. With this set, my sister would set out to paint anything her critical eyes would scan over, no matter how trivial. Nothing was too small to not be considered for a painting.

I do not recall everything my talented sister had subjected to her artistic vision, for my father eventually burned her artwork you see, but I do remember one that was my favorite. There was an apple tree that resided near the back of my old house, fairly aged but sturdy and strong nonetheless. It used to bear the most delicious and juicy red apples, with each bite like an explosion of tangy and sugar-sweet flavor. My sister and I used to sit under the tree's long shadow in the lazy afternoons of autumn and indulge in every apple that would come into our limited reach. I distinctly remember my sister taking a large bite out of a lollipop-red apple with its sugary juice streaming down one side of her mouth. It was a comical sight really, but I'm sure I looked no less enthusiastic.

And how happy those eyes were! They were so carefree yet full of mirth. I can still see the sparkle in her ocean blue eyes now. Unlike me, she was ever the optimist.

Her idealistic nature shone through at its best when she painted what turned out to be my favorite piece that she ever completed. It was of the apple tree that we always sat under together, the same one where we would spend many hours climbing through its thick branches. The year that she painted it, the old tree finally failed to produce any fruit and stood lonely in the backyard, completely barren. The leaves were just starting to turn color, as even a few began to fall off its branches, making the lack of apples even more apparent. I was dismayed by the tree's "poor health," fearful that it would eventually die. There was obviously something that was eating away at its core, rotting the tree from the inside out from disease. It would be a slow, but inevitable, death.

Amane had given me her painting when she had finished it, and I was overjoyed. True to reality, the apple tree that was put to life on paper lacked the fruit that should have graced its branches. However, hidden amongst the blotches of green and the faintest hint of orange leaves, was a tiny red splotch. My sister had painted a single apple on the dying tree.

"Even in death there can be life," my sister had explained upon giving me her cherished painting. She was so young. How could she possibly be so insightful, seeing what so many adults still cannot?

It was a quote that I would remember, even today, to help bring my weary mind at ease. Above anything, this memory gave me hope.

Even when my hopes and dreams crash and burn as easily as they come, I desperately will continue to cling onto the wise words of my little sister.

Considering how unexpectedly my mother's death came, I should not have been the least surprised when Amane's time on this earth had come to an end as well.

She was being taken to one of her art lessons. One of my nannies saw my sister's potential and felt that she should expand on her talents. It was a dark and cloudy day, with thunderstorms threatening to occur at a moment's notice. The air was cool and still, to the point where one's breath could easily be seen as a puff of vapor. When she left for her art lesson that day, we barely gave one another much of a goodbye, always assuming there would be a next time.

I have learned to never assume.

As expected, my sister died in a car accident. There was a drunken man speeding down the road, failing to process that a red traffic light screamed "STOP!" with its harsh unforgiving glare. As the nanny drove past the intersection, the drunk's car crashed head-on into hers, smashing the back seat and trunk of the nanny's car entirely.

I am told that my sister died immediately. At least the Angel of Death granted her a quick release from the excruciating pain that must have been inflicted on her small body.

Now as for the drunk driver's death, I only can hope that it was slow and unrelenting.

The nanny who had driven the car survived. Unfortunately, she was so shaken by the collision that she resigned from her job as my caretaker. She was a kind woman, and I only hope that she had the strength to eventually forgive herself. But since that day, I never saw her again.

My sister's death brought my father's job assignment to an abrupt close yet again. It was when he finally made it home, and saw my agonized face, that I saw him cry for the first time. I watched him while he sank down to his knees, covered his face with his calloused working man's hands, as tears of pure grief rolled down his aged face.

I believe it was that day when it finally registered that he no longer had a family. True, he still had me, but taking one look at my eyes would indicate to anyone that I might as well be dead anyway. That spark of youth was long gone, replaced instead with a passive gaze that would stay with me even now.

From early on I was conditioned to stop caring.

Even in my father's grief, when he resolved to burn everything that reminded him of my sister, including the painting she had given to me, I couldn't help but look on with an inert acceptance.

This was my life, and I knew it was never going to get any better. It would be in my best interest to just stop asking why and to simply let it happen.

Have I felt truly happy since the day Amane died? Honestly, no. If I did, I can't remember. She was really all I had left in this world of black and white. My father was never home and the nannies were just doing their job. My mother was dead, now my sister was dead, so what did that leave me?

Nothing.

So that day when the spirit of the ring told me, "I choose you," I now know why.

Because only a person without a past, present or future without any connection to the world could serve as an adequate vessel to the havoc that the spirit planned to inflict upon anyone within his reach.