Dedicated to my mom. I miss you.

warnings: mentions of suicide attempt and suicidal ideation


Chapter 22: Letters to the dead

Bakura didn't know what he expected to see. Ryou was so protective of his bedroom Bakura would not be surprised to find something terrible lying in wait in the middle of the carpet, or something highly embarrassing, or... something. There was nothing out of the ordinary, though. It was just a regular bedroom, kinda cramped and untidy, like the rest of the house.

The curtains on the single window were closed, but there was enough light filtering in for Bakura to be able to take a look around. His gaze traveled from the unmade bed to the horror movie poster that was hanging above it. Nosferatu. Hm.

Bakura took another step in, the sound of his boots muffled by the carpet. One wall was occupied by a closet and a chest of drawers, and the other featured two heavily laden bookcases. Pushed against the remaining space was a desk, its top crowded with an assortment of various items.

He approached the desk. It seemed that his landlord had turned it into some sort of workbench, full of half-finished miniatures, pots of paint, scalpels, brushes, knives and tubes of glue. Two lamps stood in the corners, both of them off at the moment.

Carefully, Bakura picked up the miniature that lay under a magnifying glass in the center of the desk. It was the robed figure of an old, stooped woman holding a thick book. Ryou had coated the entire thing in black paint and seemed to have just started adding grey highlights to her hair. Bakura turned the thing over in his fingers a couple of times, then put it back where he'd found it. On a shelf above the desk lay rows and rows of finished miniatures: soldiers, spellcasters, monsters, armored skeletons, monks... All sorts of fantasy creatures and RPG classes.

Bakura had never expected Ryou would still be into miniature painting or anything related to RPGs. Not after Memory World. Since Ryou seemed to carry an intense aversion to anything that related even remotely to his yami, Bakura had expected that, after the diorama he'd made him built, his landlord would have sworn to never touch a miniature again.

He kept eyeing the miniatures. They were all meticulously detailed. His landlord must have spent hours and hours into each of them. Did he ever actually use them in a game? Or did he simply paint them and leave them on the shelf? Judging by the accumulated dust, it was the latter. From what Bakura had seen, his landlord hardly had time for sleeping, let alone play tabletop RPGs or—god forbid—have fun with his friends.

Bakura shook his head. What a sad existence. No wonder Ryou was constantly on the edge.

Alright, now focus. He had a mission; he wasn't here for sightseeing.

He looked around again, huffing. Where could the Spellbook be?

He started with the bookcases. He peered through books and notebooks, searched the space behind them, even shook a few, in case anything fell out. Then he moved to the bed. Feeling a little silly, he searched under the pillow and among the covers. He tried not to touch anything too much but still, as he probed under the blanket, a delicate, pleasant scent rose from it. It kicked him back to the past, to days when his body was Ryou's body, when he used to smell like that all the time, and—

It was funny, how little this smell had changed. He'd recognize it anywhere.

Bakura took a minute to clear his head. Focus. Spellbook.

He crouched to look under the bed. He ran his hand under the mattress, then did the same in the space between the wall and the bed. When he found nothing, he went to rummage in the desk drawers. He found more brushes, spray cans, varnish, scraps of fabric, tiny pebbles and fake moss, but no Spellbook. He tapped the carpet, listening for the tell-tale crinkling of paper. Still nothing.

The closet. Maybe it was in the closet.

He opened the closet doors and came across a row of clothes on hangers. He went through them hurriedly, looking for anything with pockets big enough to hide the pack of Spellbook pages. Then a different thought crossed his mind, and he went through them again, looking for Ryou's old black trench coat because hell, finding it again would be cool. It might even be fun to wear it and freak Ryou out, just for the heck of it.

Just when he was about to give up looking and accept that Ryou had probably gotten rid of it, his eye fell on the bottom of the closet. Something black was folded up and tucked in the corner, hidden behind all the hanging fabrics. With a grin, Bakura stooped to pick it up, then paused. There was more stuff there. Boxes. Shoe boxes, five or six of them, stacked one on top of the other.

It was strange. Ryou couldn't have this many pairs of shoes, or he wouldn't be going around in that sad, tattered pair of sneakers. No; this had to be something else. A hiding spot, maybe.

He picked up the box that was closest to him and turned it around in his hands. There was no label on it. Bakura opened it.

In it were folded up pieces of paper, so many that they nearly spilled out of the box the moment Bakura lifted the lid. He swiftly caught a couple of them they fell and paused, holding them in his hand. They didn't have the off-white color of the Spellbook pages but... This was weird. Bakura unfolded one of them, just to see what this was about, and saw that the paper was filled with Ryou's handwriting.

Dear Amane,

He froze with his gaze on the top line.

He knew what this was. He'd seen his landlord write this opening line countless times. Dear Amane.

Ryou had used to write one of these every day, back when he was younger. Bakura knew, because he'd watched him do it. He would hover over Ryou's hunched figure and gaze at the ink that flowed from his pen, wondering why on earth Ryou even bothered. Why would one write to a dead person, anyway? But Ryou had always been weird like that. Painting miniatures for games he'd never play and write letters that would never be read.

Bakura wondered if Ryou kept writing these. How old were these letters? Could it be that they were recent—maybe even mentioning Bakura?

He smoothed out the paper in his hands, his curiosity making his pulse beat high in his throat.

Dear Amane,

It's been such a long time since my last letter. I'm sorry for that. How have you been?

Here things have been more or less quiet. Studying takes up most of my free time. I work a lot at the store, and if all goes well, by the end of the year I might move to a better area. Maybe someplace close to Malik's. Who knows? It would be nice, I think.

I still miss you and Mom a lot. Tell her I said hi.

I'll try to write again soon.

Love,
Ryou

Bakura looked at it over and huffed. This could have been written whenever, really. There was no useful information; just the usual daily drivel Ryou used to put in these letters. He should keep looking if he wanted to find anything worthwhile.

He sat cross-legged on the carpet and left the box in front of him before picking up another letter.

Dear Amane,

How have you been? I hope you are well.

I'm afraid I don't have good news. I failed my exams again. I'll have to retake the whole semester. ̶W̶e̶l̶l̶ ̶i̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶h̶a̶r̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶s̶t̶u̶d̶y̶ ̶w̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶I̶f̶ ̶I̶ ̶d̶i̶d̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶w̶o̶r̶k̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶m̶u̶c̶h̶ It's I'll have to talk to my professors. Maybe they will show some understanding if I explain that I had to work overtime to afford rent.

It's been very cold lately. One of the worst winters of the decade, people say. It snowed a bit yesterday, but then it mostly turned to ice.

̶H̶o̶n̶e̶s̶t̶l̶y̶,̶ ̶I̶'̶m̶ ̶s̶o̶ ̶t̶i̶r̶e̶d̶

I haven't been sleeping much lately, what with work and the exams. I hope I'll get to catch a break soon.

Tell Mom I said hi.

Love,
Ryou

Bakura had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. He dug inside the box and grabbed a letter from the bottom.

Dear Amane,

I know I had promised I'd talk to Dad, but it wasn't easy. I tried, today, but when I reached the Museum, I couldn't go a step further. I kept looking at the doors and ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶f̶a̶c̶e̶ ̶w̶o̶n̶d̶e̶r̶i̶n̶g̶ I don't think he wants to see me. I didn't want to hear him say it to my face. What if he shouted? ̶W̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶i̶f̶

I stood outside the doors for fifteen minutes and left. I knew that, if you saw me, you wouldn't be proud, but I couldn't do it. I'm sorry.

I don't know if I want to try again. Maybe I'm not ready yet. I feel that, if I am to face him, I should be ready for it, you know? I should have accomplished something, or achieved something, so when he sees me and asks about it, I'll have something to show him. Something he could be proud of. Maybe then he'll change his mind about me. But I couldn't face him today. Not like this.

I'll try again when I'm ready. I promise.

Tell Mom I love her.

Take care,

Ryou

Wait, Ryou's Dad? So, his landlord and his father were not on speaking terms anymore? This explained a lot. That was why Ryou scowled like that whenever Bakura mentioned his father. What was it that he'd told Bakura? ...'Bold of you to assume I want anything to do with him,' or something like that.

Just what exactly had happened between Ryou and his father? And what was this thing about 'accomplishing something' before he saw him?

This was way too interesting to let slip between his fingers, so Bakura reached at the bottom of the box again, fishing another letter.

Dear Amane,

How are you? I miss you so much.

Sometimes I wish I could actually hear you and Mom. It's so quiet here all the time. My head still feels so weird without HIM inside. Dad still hasn't called.

I'm so lonely.

I hope you are well.

Love,
Ryou

Bakura paused, looking at the capitalized 'him'. 'My head still feels weird without HIM inside.' He couldn't have been talking about anyone else, right? He meant Bakura. He must have.

'My head still feels weird—'

Bakura reread that sentence a couple of times. He thought of his own head, of the way it felt on his first days there. The novelty of the silence. The feeling of space in the absence of Zorc.

Could Ryou be talking about something similar?

Maybe there was more about it in some other letter. Maybe there were more mentions of Bakura.

The thrill made his throat feel tight. This was a free peek into Ryou's mind. His landlord, who kept such a tight lid on everything, except maybe his anger. Who refused to disclose the slightest information about his life whenever Bakura was around. His landlord, who liked to repeat just how little Bakura knew, and who grit his teeth every time Bakura asked something personal. He'd tried so hard to make sure that Bakura would know as little about him as possible, and now Bakura held these letters in his hands. Free for him to dissect.

He could still clearly picture Ryou from yesterday, looking at him with his face distorted in hate, acting like there was this big thing that Bakura couldn't get. As if he didn't understand.

Bakura thought he understood perfectly, and these letters would verify it. And, next time Ryou would tell him that he had no idea about x or y thing, and that he just didn't understand, Bakura would know exactly what to say to make him shut up. He would know the exact words that would make Ryou lose his color. Just like old times.

He went back to the closet and grabbed two more boxes. He opened one and started unfolding letters at random, scanning them quickly for anything that might seem interesting. He didn't know what he was looking for, but he knew he would know it when he found it.

Half a dozen letters later Bakura exclaimed in triumph, pausing his search.

Dear Amane,

I have bad news. I had a fight with father. He came by to see me this morning and

I don't know what I did wrong, Amane. How could I have made so many mistakes without realizing it? Father was disgusted by me. You should have seen his face.

He asked me about my bad grades, he asked why I failed my exams again. He kept asking and asking, and I didn't know what to say. How could I say anything? How could I explain a thing? How to tell him that his son grew up with a demon in his head? How to explain what that did to me? He was waiting for an explanation about my grades, but how to tell him that I was blacked out through most of high school? How?

Amane, there was nothing I could say. He saw the empty bottles in the kitchen. He he asked me to explain myself. There was nothing I could say. What could I have said? That I can't bear the silence in my head? That sometimes looking in the mirror is enough to cause me a panic attack? He'd lock me up if I said any of that. Anyone in his place would. So i just stared. I said nothing and I just stared at him. Is it better if father thinks I'm a failure, or if he thinks I'm crazy? I really don't know.

He said he's ashamed of me. And he said that this is it. He's not gonna send me money anymore. He won't pay my rent. He said he doesn't consider me his son anymore. He called me a parasite. A parasite, Amane. And he told me not to contact him unless I stop being a burden on society.

He was all I had left. I don't know what I'm gonna do. I'd never thought I'd lose him too. Not after you and Mom.

̶I̶t̶'̶s̶

Dad is gone. He's gone because of HIM. Because of what HE did to me.

I don't know what to do. I need your help. What should I do?

Love,
Ryou

The word 'him' was ran over by the pen many times, the letters bold and fat. Ryou had pressed the pen with such ferocity the paper had a small him-shaped indent.

Such hate in such a small word. The sort of hate Ryou only reserved for Bakura. And, apparently, always had.

He reread the parts of the letter that talked about Ryou's school. Ryou said he failed his exams again. 'Blacked out through most of high school—'

Had that made his landlord's father so ashamed that he had wanted nothing to do with his son? Enough to make him stop sending him money? That would explain why his landlord had changed apartments and why he had to work so much at that store.

'He saw the empty bottles in the kitchen.' Bakura stared at that. Did that mean—?

He should have known. Bakura's body had been very tolerant of alcohol since day one. Of course, he'd suspected, but...

This shed new light to it. How old was this letter? How old had Ryou been when writing it? How long since—

'I can't bear the silence in my head.'

Bakura gazed at the sentence. There it was again: the memory of perceiving the wide vastness inside his head for the first time, and marveling at the quiet and the clarity of his thoughts. He'd never forget the feeling. But—

Ryou said he couldn't stand it. That was... unfathomable, actually. For Bakura, this silence had been the most wondrous thing he'd ever experienced. He'd trade it over the ghosts' whispering and Zorc's seething every day. Who wouldn't?

He let the letter fall and searched in the box again. He found more of the same stuff:

Dear Amane, I still can't believe Dad left. I haven't tried calling, but he hasn't either. Should I call him?

Dear Amane, I tried to call Dad today. He didn't pick it up and he didn't call me back. Maybe I shouldn't have called.

I can't blame Dad for thinking I'm a failure. My whole existence is a joke—

Bakura unfolded letter after letter, skimming over their contents as fast as possible.

I don't think I'd be able to look Dad in the face even if he agreed to meet me. What would I tell him? That I can barely make rent?

Dear Amane, I got fired today.

Malik had to lend me money again. I hate this. I hate having to depend on him, it's pathetic—

'Barely make rent.' 'Fired.' 'Malik had to lend me money.' Bakura twisted his mouth. His landlord had it that rough, then? Well, at least Bakura could relate to not wanting to rely on Malik's charity. He'd had to turn down the Tomb-Keeper's offers to help him plenty of times, too. This, he could understand.

"You're proud, ain't ya?" Bakura murmured to Ryou's handwriting as he unfolded another letter.

Dear Amane,

I am sorry I did not write to you the previous day. I was kinda out of it.

I'm so embarrassed. Yesterday, Malik found me passed out in the bathroom. I don't know what did it. Probably the alcohol. He keeps calling today to make sure I'm okay. He brought me more aspirin.

On one hand, I'm grateful, but some part of me wishes they would all leave me alone. I can't bear seeing the pity in their faces, over and over again. And I don't know why the hell they still keep me in such high regard. I'll only end up disappointing them, too. So I just wish they'd leave me be.

Bakura paused, the letter still in his hands.

Shit. Passed out in the bathroom? That was—

Was this Ryou? It wasn't like him. Bakura knew Ryou. He'd known him since he was a child. This wasn't like him.

'Malik found me passed out in the bathroom.'

Bakura knew what that meant. He'd seen all the poor bastards that blacked out on the Golden Egg's counter, drooling on the wood with a glass still in front of them. But even in his worst nights, Bakura himself had never blacked out completely. This was some next level shit.

He tried to wipe away the image of his landlord passed out on the bathroom floor. He tried not to imagine Malik finding him, or trying to wake him up and carry him to the couch, or to the fucking bed. He tried not to, because—

Shit.

This couldn't be Ryou.

He hastily unfolded another letter.

Dear Amane,

How are you? Studying is so hard. My thoughts feel scrambled all the time. Sometimes I stand still for hours, waiting to hear HIM in my head again. I stand, frozen, so panicked my heart feels like it's going to burst. And then I realize hours have passed and nothing has happened, and I've forgotten what I was supposed to be studying about.

I don't know how to make this stop. Drinking helps the fear, but it doesn't really help with the studying. I don't know what to do. Please help me.

I wish he'd stop haunting me from beyond the grave. I wish he'd just stop. I'm so tired.

Wow. Bakura breathed out, frowning at the letter. This was...

His landlord was more of a mess than he could have ever imagined.

He unfolded another letter so impatiently he nearly ripped it. His eyes darted to the top of the page, ready to read the all-too familiar Dear Amane, and instead he found himself staring at the word,

Spirit,

He paused and blinked at the word.

This wasn't a letter to Amane. This—

Spirit. Spirit.

That had been what Ryou had used to call Bakura, after Duelist Kingdom. At first he'd called him Koe, and then—

It had been just this. Spirit.

This was a letter addressed to him.

Bakura swallowed. He didn't move. He stood, still staring at that first word.

Feeling like his heart might jump out of his throat, he resumed reading.

Spirit,

I don't know why I keep writing to you. It doesn't make sense, considering how I badly I wanted to get rid of you. But nothing makes sense anymore. So here I am.

I guess it's a shame, in a way. I feel like I'm wasting my freedom by doing this. On the other hand, it doesn't feel like there's much to waste.

I don't know why I keep coming back. I thought that after writing a hundred times how much I hate you, I'd eventually run out of words and move on. But there's nowhere to move on to.

Hate has been such huge part of my life, I can't seem to be able to live without it. I remember how things were towards the end. You had almost snuffed me out. All there was, was you. You, and your hate, and your rage. I was nothing in this. Just a speck. I was nothing. But I remember wishing for you to go, to finally leave. I remember wishing for peace and for the freedom to have my own feelings and my own thoughts.

And then you did leave. I had all I ever wanted. I have all I ever wanted, and yet all I can feel is hate. I hate you. I hate what you did to me. I hate me for allowing it to happen. I hate me for being weak. I hate my friends for not seeing the obvious. I hate my friends for not helping me earlier. I hate my father for giving me the Ring. I hate him for many reasons. I hate you most of all. I hate all the things you ever said to me. I hate all you did. I hate my body, because it hosted you. I hate my life, because it was barely mine.

Sometimes I wonder if you messed with my head. If, after so many years of hosting you, I'm turning into you. The thought makes me want to fling myself off a bridge.

Maybe I've always been like you, deep down, and maybe that was why I was chosen to be your host. Maybe, just like you, hate is all I'm capable of.

The letter ended there, with no signature. Bakura's gaze hovered over the bottom of the page, staring at the last stroke of Ryou's pen. He didn't move. He didn't know what to feel.

He reread the whole thing. His hands had gone numb.

Ryou had written a letter to him. He had—

He had said 'I don't know why I keep writing to you.' Which meant—

There were more letters addressed to him in these piles. And... Well. He was entitled to them, right? They were meant for him. Sure, most dead people didn't ever read the letters meant for them, but—

He wasn't most dead people.

He found another letter.

Spirit,

I went out looking for you again, I guess. I don't know how else to describe it. I went to that bar. Do you remember? I'd woken up there once or twice, with my pockets full of money. When I asked you about it, you just laughed and said it was rent.

I don't really know why I went there. It's just that when I'm there, my head is not as silent. ̶S̶o̶m̶e̶t̶i̶m̶e̶s̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶y̶ ̶r̶e̶c̶o̶g̶n̶i̶z̶e̶ ̶m̶e̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶

Some people in there avoid me. Some greet me. I don't know what the hell you used to do there, but I just drink, and they let me. They never try to talk to me, which is good. I guess I have to thank you for that.

I wonder if you're happy with the mess you left behind. I wonder if you'd even care.

Who am I kidding, right?

It ended there, on that question. He read the last few sentences again. His heartbeat had turned into a dull, quick thud in his ears.

Happy? No, Bakura wouldn't say that this made him happy. This shit was—

And, what bar was he talking about? What—?

Oh. That bar. Yes, Bakura remembered. On some nights he'd been too bored, so he'd snuck out in Ryou's body to look for entertainment. Sometimes it had been a fight, sometimes a good gamble, and there had been a bar downtown that had been a good place for both.

But why the hell would Ryou go there willingly? 'Looking for you'? What did that even mean?

Why would Ryou ever look for him? He hated his guts. Going there to celebrate his freedom with a drink, that Bakura could understand, but...

'...when I'm there, my head is not as silent.'

That was, to use Ryou's words, a mess. A fucking mess. A bizarre, twisted, senseless mess.

He moved on to the next box. The light was dying, but it was still enough to read Ryou's words by.

Dear Amane,

I saw him in my sleep again, just when I'd started thinking the dreams had stopped. I saw his face as if not a day had passed. How come the memory of him is so clear, when I can hardly remember Mom? It's not fair.

Why does this keep happening? Hasn't he tormented me enough? Wasn't it enough for him?

I hope you are well.

Love,
Ryou

He unfolded another letter.

Dear Amane,

Dad forgot my birthday again. I'm not even surprised at this point.

The guys made me a cake. I think it was Malik's idea. He's being so kind to me ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶I̶ ̶d̶o̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶n̶ ̶k̶n̶o̶w̶ ̶w̶h̶y̶

I wish you and Mom were here.

Love,

Ryou

Then another.

Dear Amane,

I can't believe he's gone. ̶I̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶

I fear he's still somewhere in there. I swear there are times I feel him in my head. I can hear his voice ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶I̶ ̶d̶o̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶k̶n̶o̶w̶ ̶i̶f̶

I know he's gone but I keep hearing him say LANDLORD even though there's no one here. I keep thinking I'll see him looking out of a mirror. I can't sleep.

There was an uneasy feeling in the bottom of Bakura's stomach, and it got stronger the longer he read.

Moving without thinking, he reached for another letter. When he saw it was addressed to him again, his stomach dropped.

Spirit,

I don't know why this keeps happening. You are gone. It should be over.

I'm afraid of going to sleep because I know I will see you. I keep seeing you, even when all I want is not to. I want to forget the way you sounded, but my head won't let me. I guess you fucked me up pretty well. There's no other explanation.

Why won't you leave me alone? Why does this keep happening? I don't want this anymore. I don't want to see you. I want to forget. I want this to stop.

I keep seeing you and I smelled blood in my sleep and I'm tired of waking up trembling and sweating and panicked and. You took enough. Leave me in peace. What more do you want from me?

I don't get this. I DON'T GET THIS.

I shouldn't be feeling like that. But I keep waking up feeling happy to see you. Fucking happy.

I am going mad.

I hate you.

Bakura's heart skipped a beat. 'Happy'. 'Feeling happy to see you.'

Was this a sick joke? Was this a prank? Had Ryou planted these letters for him to find, just to have a laugh with his bewilderment, or...?

He couldn't see Ryou writing these as a prank. But he couldn't see Ryou writing these either way. He fucking hated Bakura. That was irrefutable. It was one of the constants of life.

"What the fuck," he whispered, reaching for another letter. Maybe if he read more. Maybe he'd fucking understand.

Dear Amane,

I feel like I wanna shift to the side and out of my skin. Maybe do that ghost hovering thing i used to when HE was in charge. God I hated that. You know how I hated that.

What wouldn't i give to be able to do that now.

I shouldn't want that, right? After spending so much time outside of my skin, I shouldn't be wishing for more, right? But it seems it's all I know. All I feel safe doing. People talk to me and I catch myself trying to drift away. Or I stand, poised, my nerves on end, half-expecting to be thrown out of my body.

He's not here anymore. I know he's not. I should be relieved. Maybe that's why I feel so guilty all the time: because I'm not as relieved as I pretend to be. How messed up is that? Who wants to be a ghost, after all?

Bakura shook his head. He blinked. He huffed, scowling at no one, and reached for another letter.

Dear Amane,

I think I am about to crack. I feel like I'm on the edge of losing my shit, and the only thing that holds me back is numbness. Deliberate numbness.

I seek out distractions and try not to poke at my thoughts too much, because they feel like a black hole in the back of my skull, or quicksand: if I allow myself to step in there, I ain't coming back out. People talk to me and I'm heartless as concrete. Cold. I'm thinking, this isn't really happening. So don't think about it.

It's all too much. Too many things to take care of too much of a sudden and

I am just a person. A fucking tiny person who has no idea what to do and feels lost 24/7. Everybody expects things, expects me to come up with answers or solutions like the shiny clever strong person that I am, and I am just sitting here thinking I'll crack. Sometimes I'm thinking I might like to crack. Just give up and let it all tear me down.

I want to tell everyone to stop expecting things from me. I am not who you think I am. Stop talking. Stop asking. I can't take any more

Shit.

Bakura could—

He wasn't happy about it, but he could relate to some of that. This 'deliberate numbness' his landlord was describing... He knew what it was like. That was why his room was peppered with empty bottles, or why he worked out to the point of exhaustion.

Why had Ryou reached that point, though? Was it just this 'void' in his head that had done it? Bakura's absence? It didn't make any sense.

None of this made sense.

He unfolded another letter.

Amane, I tried. It didn't work. Malik found me, and he took me to the hospital, and

Amane, it was horrible. Horrible. Malik cried so much, I hated seeing him like that. He made me promise I would never do it again. So I promised. I'm so sorry Amane, it was horrible, and I don't want it to happen again I'm sorry I don't want to go there again I

The letter cut off abruptly, and the paper looked as if something wet had dripped on it, leaving faint round stains. Tears.

Bakura put the letter down, feeling slightly queasy. If this meant what he thought it meant...

Of course he did. He could put two and two together.

"Shit," he breathed.

Things couldn't have been this bad for his landlord. Not this bad. This was—

He didn't know what it was. He didn't know what to think.

Nearly mechanically, his fingers reached the next letter.

Dear Amane,

̶I̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶k̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶r̶ ̶b̶r̶o̶t̶h̶e̶r̶ ̶i̶s̶ ̶g̶o̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶m̶a̶d̶.̶

I know I had promised to meet you soon. But what if I see him too? What if I end up where he is?

I had promised, but I am afraid. I don't want to see him again. I don't to.

I am terribly sorry. Please forgive me.

Amane, I think I am going mad.

Bakura put the letter down.

For the first time since he took these boxes in his hands, he felt bad for what he was doing. These thoughts—

He doubted Ryou had ever said these things out loud to anyone. These were more than private. This was Ryou's soul laid bare, and Bakura—

He really shouldn't be doing this. He wasn't Zorc anymore. What the hell was he doing?

And—How long had Ryou been planning to...?

'I know I had promised to meet you soon. But what if I end up where he is?'

Oh, good. At least, his hate for Bakura apparently had made him put off fucking killing himself or a while. Good.

Fuck.

Promising Amane to 'meet her soon.' And then apparently trying to, and, apparently, Malik had found him and to him to the fucking hospital, and—

What was this? What the hell had happened while Bakura was away? How had all this happened?

He reached for another letter.

Dear Amane,

He tossed it to the side and picked another one, then another one. He moved from letter to letter with hands that shook. The paper rustled in his hands. He paused only when he saw the word Spirit again.

Spirit,

I miss you so bloody much I can hardly stand it. Why is this happening? What is wrong with me? What did you do to me?

It's all wrong. I can think of so many things I hate about you and what you did to me. About what you were. I know I hate you. Here, let me count.

You were cruel. Arrogant. Obnoxious. Pretentious.

Oh yes, what a fine hypocrite you were. Lies flooded out of your mouth as naturally as breathing. You could be charming when you wanted to. You could hide the coldness and the brutality and YOU, the whole you, you could just hide it and make it appear as if you were somebody else. It amazes me sometimes, how one can live like that.

So yes: cruel, arrogant, obnoxious, pretentious. Egocentric. You had your little plans and you just HAD TO achieve them. You had to go through with them, do what YOU wanted, you, no matter who might get in the middle, who might get stomped, crashed, burned, hurt beyond recognition. No matter who you might drag down with you. No, not as long as you got what you wanted, right?

I hate you.

I hate you.

How many more shades can I paint this I hate you with?

Sometimes I think I can win by being better than you. By being everything you never could. Be the bigger man, the better man, the I-will-rub-it-in-your-face-and-prove-it-to-you kind of man. I really want to, sometimes, just to prove to myself that I'm not like you, that you're better off whenever the hell you are and that now I can finally go on and make this right.

Yet I look around and I see them, people with sad faces, or angry ones, or cruel and arrogant and obnoxious and pretentious and egocentric like you had been. I look at them and I feel nothing. That's not how it was.

That's not at all who I was.

I feel that I've wasted my share of caring by caring too much and worrying too much. So now I'm just left like this. Fed up. Hollow.

So here I am, not being the bigger person. Not being better. There I am, being every bit the weak little shit you thought I was. Being every bit your pathetic other half. And I hate myself as much as I hate you.

The worst part is, it didn't have to be like this. It didn't have to come to this.

You were too caught up in your schemes and plans and yourself to realize how petty all of this was. If you had let me, I could have shown you another way. I know I could. We could have been happy. We could have, if you had given me the chance, but you didn't. You left, leaving me with no chances and half a soul I don't know what to do with. You left, taking away all the possibilities without even letting me try.

You left.

And I hate you for it.

Bakura stared. His mind was static. The words floated in front of him, and he kept reading them, again and again.

You left. And I hate you for it.

This couldn't have been Ryou. Couldn't. This was—

This made no sense. Ryou shouldn't be saying these things. Ryou should hate him, period. No buts. No further explanations. No further... Whatever this was.

I could have shown you another way. We could have been happy.

There was that word again. 'Happy.'

No one had ever said something like this to Bakura. No one had—

Why would anyone ever wish for happiness alongside someone like him? Why would anyone ever want such a thing? How can someone think that after everything?

'I miss you so bloody much I can hardly stand it.'

He gazed at the words.

'I miss you so bloody much'

He kept gazing at them.

'I miss you'

He heard the sound of the front door a tad too late. Until the noise registered, there was already the sound of harried footsteps down the corridor. He could do nothing more than sit there, letter in his hands, and stare as the door swung open and light flooded the room, revealing Ryou on the threshold.

.

.

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Author's notes: This chapter contains a small excerpt from 'Falling Apart', a Ryou-centric collection of drabbles I've written. Feel free to check it out; it is a sort of unofficial prequel to the Last Puzzle (except for the smoking thing, I retconned that)

Thank you all for reading and commenting, I appreciate each and every one of you. Until next time, take care~