Yu-Gi-Oh! Fan Fiction ❯ A Song for a Snake Charmer's Pipe ❯ Chapter 1

Disclaimer: All I could really ever hope to own is you - your attention, that is - for about ten minutes.

 

AN: This was heavily inspired by something I read for Lit class, though my sensei would probably use foul language if she got wind of this creative writing project ;) Naturally, this story is a lot darker and more perverted than the original source, but I think that people who have had the good fortune of reading Maxine Hong Kingston's The Woman Warrior will find a marked lack of original thought in this fic. I'm suffering from a ghastly sunburn right now, go easy on me. Incidentally, we didn't read the whole thing, just an excerpt from a chapter called “A Song for a Barbarian Reed Pipe”, hence the unusual title. The fic is set just after Ryou got the Ring, sometime before he transferred to Domino High. In conclusion, this sunburn is absolutely killing me, so don't forget to review like a decent human being.

 

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A Song for a Snake Charmer's Pipe

 

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Can you imagine what it would be like to be kept in solitary confinement for three thousand years? Well, neither can I, to be honest. The human mind simply can't stand the strain - or mine couldn't - so after a couple hundred years, it shuts down. I spent nearly the whole time in something like hibernation. I think the pharaoh lasted longer, though. I think that, because he didn't have his inner darkness preying on him, he lasted longer and broke worse, and that's the real reason that he lost all his memories instead of just those that he wanted to forget. Even so, I went through crazy and out the other side so many times that I lost track (there wasn't even a wall to scratch numbers on, you know). My mind is like a jigsaw puzzle put together by a mental patient, and I don't think I'm the same person I used to be - but then again, how would I know?

 

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When I was a child - I still have those memories, for the moment at least, and they shine like a mirage oasis - I was a shy little thing that hated loud noises. My parents shouted sometimes, not very loudly the way all parents do occasionally, but it horrified me. I think one of my earliest memories might have been of such a fight, but I'm not sure. I'm even losing my memories of memories...

 

My parents loved me very much - in the intense yet impersonal sort of way of people fighting every day to survive, like a shipwrecked man clinging to timber - and my sister always protected me from those who dared to mock my hair, fairer even than the sun-bleached hair of the field workers. Nevertheless, I always felt compelled to hide myself away from them. As I grew older, I went from hiding in some forgotten corner of the house to the roof to the shadows of an alley to up in the village's few trees to the dunes, always thrusting out farther and farther away...

 

Against those who teased me, I never said a word. I hated loud noises. Even accusing them to others was too assertive for me. I hated my gravely, loud voice.

 

When my father died, it drew us much closer together. For a time we were quietly frightened, because I was only ten summers and could not do my father's work, but we got through that with the help of my thieving. My mother hated it, but I was already quite good at it. Then a kind man who had likewise recently lost his wife saw our plight and took pity on us, and I believe he planned to marry my mother.

 

Then there was the genocide, and I lost my mind for the first time, the only time before the Ring.

 

The rest, as they say, is history. Sometimes I'm tempted to think that my argument with the pharaoh seems petty in comparison to three thousand years - but if you think I'm crazy now, I don't think either of us would like to see what I'd do if I gave up on my sole purpose. Just as crazy as I am, it took me several days to even notice, once he finally set me free.

 

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I was like the prisoner who spent so much time obsessing over light that he forgot what it was actually like, and thus stared into the sun when they opened the door and went blind. I think I might have gone mad all over again, that day, without even noticing.

 

The barrier around my mind was thick, but bits of thought and snatches of sound and glimpses of sight snuck through. Voices spoke in a language that I'd never heard before and understood perfectly, and there were white bangs falling in my down-turned eyes...

 

Ryou. I hated him. It wasn't instantaneous; for the first few days I just watched, feeling vague. I hated his pure white hair, so much longer and cleaner and neater than mine ever was. Surely he stood out worse than I ever did; the taunting he endured confirmed it. I hated the pensive, soft expression his face formed. I hated his sweet, soft, woman's voice. I hated his milky, unmarked skin. I hated how he didn't have any friends...

 

I'm not sure just how long I watched him before finally making my presence known, but it was long enough to become convinced that every one of his days was exactly the same. I couldn't understand how anyone could live like that, especially after all the time I'd spent in the darkness... Every morning he would get up, get dressed, and eat his morning meal with his mother and sister - I gathered that his father was usually gone; perhaps being surrounded by nothing but women was what had turned him so feminine? - and then he'd head off to school. The city as I saw it through his eyes was so horribly different that I preferred not to watch. The school was different, too, but it was too interesting to block out. I couldn't understand why all these healthy boys willingly spent all day inside, doing nothing in particular. Maybe they couldn't understand, either, and fell to tormenting each other out of boredom...

 

One group in particular seemed to target Ryou. With their straight black hair and squinting eyes that seemed to be typical of the people in this place, they spat the words `foreigner' and `woman' at him... What business is that of yours? I couldn't help but wonder - and yet I understood why they kept it up, day after day. He never said a word. Not to them, not to the teachers, not to his sister; it must have seemed like great fun indeed.

 

Some days they would only taunt him in the halls, or perhaps in a classroom while they waited for the teacher to arrive. Other days he would move too slowly after the day's last lesson, and they would corner him after everyone else had gone. I watched all this passively from my comfortable cocoon in the back of his mind. His torturers were horrible amateurs for the most part; it was funny, really.

 

Afterwards he would lie where they left him for a while, recovering his strength or maybe waiting to be sure they had all left. Eventually he would pick himself up off the floor, possibly uttering a small, wheezing moan, and would go to the men's room. There he would stand in front of the single large mirror to fix his hair and would wash any cuts or scrapes out before going home. He even carried a small first aid kit with him. I hated him for that, too.

 

It might seem strange, but watching these beatings only increased my hatred for him. Out of all the degrading questions they asked him to justify their behavior, I never heard him answer one. He never spoke to anyone at the school, in fact, unless a teacher called on him. I was sure that even I was never that bad. The thing that really disturbed me, however, was how he never cried. He never lashed out at others, or took it out on himself either, and I was certain that all that pain had to be going somewhere. The thought of such a fragile little boy bottling all that up inside, and of what he would do when it got to be too much, was something I'd rather not have thought about. I guess that was why it bothered me so much, when he finally did crack enough to shed some tears, alone in the bathroom. I couldn't figure it out; today hadn't seemed any different from yesterday to me.

 

He cried quietly, with only a soft hiccupping sound now and then, hands clenched hard on either side of the sink before the mirror as if he was about to be sick. I wanted to ask him why he was crying, and I called out to him in a way that I was sure he should've been able to hear, but he didn't answer. Then again, I mused, even if he had heard, he probably would've just thought he was crazy. Perhaps the way I'd been calling out to him the past few days was what had upset him? But that was stupid, I just wanted to talk to him - and then, in his moment of weakness, I finally understood the odd feeling I got whenever I tried to talk to him. Things looked strange; rather than staring into the sink through blurry eyes, my vision was clear, and I could somehow see the back of his head. A moment of wrenching vertigo - and then I looked up, into the mirror and into my own eyes. I looked different, too - I flinched to see how long my hair was, how pale my skin was; inhabiting him had changed me - but, even without the scar across my eye, the expression on my face was the same. Even in the dim half-light of the bathroom - the only light was the dusk glow coming through the dusty little high-up window - I could see that my body wasn't entirely there, like a ghost's, but somehow it didn't bother me too much.

 

His quiet sobbing continued; he obviously hadn't noticed me. I couldn't stand that - he was so caught up in his own misery that he didn't pay attention to his surroundings. I wondered what I should do for a moment or two, and then, like a man entranced, I reached out to touch his hair. So horribly soft, woman's hair, like cobwebs that I could take with two hands and rip apart... He didn't seem to feel my first gentle touch, so I wrapped a lock of it around my finger and gave it a quick tug (though I wasn't quite sure what I'd do if it really did come out in my hand).

 

It was like flicking a switch. Just a little tug, and he went completely silent, totally still. Very slowly, he raised his head to meet my eyes in the mirror. My eyes were narrowed in cool interest; his were wide and still wet with tears. It felt like we could just stand like that forever, staring into each other's eyes even though he stood with his back to me. I could see dust particles drifting through the single dim shaft of light out of the corner of my eye, but I couldn't seem to look away from him.

 

Eventually it became clear that he would not make the first move; it was up to me. “Why are you crying?” I demanded. Still he stared into my eyes in the mirror; I pulled him around to face me by his hair, and then hurriedly let go of it because it was so slippery, like holding a fish. “Answer me. Why won't you answer me? You know if you talked to those bullies, really stood up to them just one time, they'd leave you alone.”

 

He just kept staring at me, wide wet brown eyes shining in the half-light. I observed his still, tense face in the silence. It revealed no emotions more complex than sheer terror toward me. His skin was so dry and soft-looking, like dough, like a woman wearing powder. His lips were too full, too red, disgusting. My lips were always chapped from the desert's dry air and sandpaper wind. His bangs fell in his eyes; suddenly conscious of my own hair, I pushed it out of my face and back, so that I could see in the mirror that it stuck out at all crazy angles. “Answer me,” I demanded. “Talk to me. Why don't you ever talk, huh? Just answer that. Just tell me. Why don't you talk to anyone? Why don't you tell your teachers what those guys do to you? Why don't you tell your sister?”

 

He didn't step back or move at all, even when I leaned in close to pose my questions. His eyes, though, grew more liquid, threatening to spill over, and his lip quivered. I circled him like a city knife fighter, so tough, like a jackal circling a wounded gazelle. “You're really pathetic, aren't you? Are you just stupid? Are you scared? Just answer me that. Tell me yes or no.” I'd never seen such delicate skin, almost translucent like a thin sheet of mother-of-pearl but not hard at all. I reached out to touch his cheek, and he didn't move; I pinched the skin between thumb and forefinger, and recoiled immediately at how limp it felt. I could have ripped it right off the bone with my bare hands, I was sure of it. One tear spilled over.

 

“Why are you crying again? Am I scaring you? That didn't hurt, not the way they hurt you. Are you a man or aren't you? Why don't you tell them off? Why don't you ever hit them back, huh? It's not that hard.” I reached out and yanked his hair again, a bit more roughly than the first time. “Go on, hit me. I bet you want to. I won't hit you back. I'm telling you to hit me. Go ahead. You really are stupid, aren't you? Do you even understand what I'm saying to you?” I jerked his hair again, and again for good measure, and I knew I wouldn't pull it out now, but now I was morbidly fascinated by the way his head jolted to the side each time. What if I snapped his neck? What if his head fell right off and all of a sudden I was just holding it by a few strands of hair?

 

“Come on, talk to me. Tell me to stop. Just say `stop', and I will. I'll go away and not even talk to you for the rest of the night. Don't you want to know who I am? Don't you want to know where I came from, and why I look like you? Just ask me, and I'll tell you. Just say `why?'” Did he even have a spine, any bones at all in that ridiculously long, thin neck? Perhaps his head would unbalance and topple off on its own if you pushed him too hard.

 

Pink splotches appeared on his pasty cheeks, and tears were leaking from both his eyes now, but he didn't say a word. I couldn't stand it. Didn't he know that I really would stop if he just said something? “Go ahead. Just scream. Call for help. No one will come, but I'll go away if I just hear you call for help. Just open your mouth and scream. Just scream.” The tears kept coming, so much water, dripping off his chin, and he made sniffling sounds as he tried to keep his nose from running. “Do you want a tissue? I could get you some paper from the stalls. Just say `yes, please'.”

 

I had to admit, his silence was really impressive. Who taught him to stay so quiet? “I know you can talk. You talk to the teachers when they ask you a question. You talk to your sister and your mother. I heard you at home; you were calling for your sister, nice and loud. You're not mute. Just say something. Say anything. Even `a' or `the', and I'll go away.” He sniffled hard, great big tears rushing down his face, but he didn't even raise an arm to wipe them away on his sleeve, like he thought I wouldn't see him if he stayed completely still. I narrowed my eyes, feeling the impatience really starting to grow now, and slapped him lightly across the face. He gasped but didn't cry out, and didn't raise his hand to his stinging cheek but just stood there, head still turned to the side. I growled my frustration, grabbing his chin and turning his face around towards me again.

 

“Just talk, dammit! This is for your own good, you know. Your family isn't going to take care of you forever. Don't you want to be rich someday? Don't you want to get married? No one will even notice you if you don't talk. You can't even have a personality if you don't talk. It doesn't matter if you have one on the inside; if you keep it to yourself like this, then to other people, you'll always have about as much personality as a plant. Is that what you want? Are you really that stupid? Do you want me to hit you again? If you don't say `no', I'll think that you're asking me to. Just say `no'.” He stared at me, wide overflowing brown eyes, churned into mud. I hit him again, harder on the other cheek, and he stumbled back a step but still didn't raise his hand or make any sound other than a soft gasp.

 

Rather than turning his head again, I walked over to where he was facing, because his skin was too soft and damp and I didn't like touching it. A terrified, hiccupping little sob escaped him. “What is wrong with you?” I demanded incredulously. “Don't you want me to stop?” I threw up my hands in exasperation, and he flinched away slightly, but I just stalked into one of the stalls and came back a moment later with a handful of tissue paper. He was still just standing there; he hadn't moved a muscle. “Why didn't you run away?” I insisted as I roughly mopped the tears off of his cheeks, off of his chin and neck. “You're disgusting. Don't you even want to blow your nose?”

 

He still didn't answer. I was starting to feel defeated, so I just fell silent and stared back at him. He wasn't crying anymore. His eyes had a dead look in them, as if he knew what I was going to do next, which was more than I could have said for myself. I just couldn't stand the silence, and the room was too small, and I never did like mirrors - the old legends said that stepping between two mirrors would suck your soul away. I hit him again, but I realized as I did it that that really wasn't what I wanted to do anymore. I wrapped my arms around his matchstick little body and sighed, into his slippery-smooth hair and delicately curving ear. “Why did you let me do all that?” I asked. “I'm done playing; you can talk now.” He still didn't make a sound, so I pulled his head back by the hair, very gently, and pressed my lips to his.

 

It wasn't really a kiss. I didn't like him and I didn't think he was beautiful, so it couldn't have been. I didn't even really enjoy it. His lips were too soft, like jelly. Too red, too, I was surprised to not taste rouge. “You're exhausting me,” I chided. “What will it take to get you to talk? Don't you want to yell at me now? I just violated you. Aren't you mad? Aren't you going to tell me off? Look, if you talk, I'll leave you alone. I won't ever touch you or kiss you again. Or do you like being kissed by a guy, is that it?” I kissed him again, and he just stood completely still in my arms, so I thrust my tongue between his too-soft lips. He tasted too sweet, like he'd been eating chocolate recently. “Did you like that? You're disgusting. Listen, do you like chocolate? I'll get you some if you talk. What kind do you want? Come on. Just say `please'. Just say `Baby Ruth'.”

 

My spirit for this game was broken, though. I was just ranting on and on. I felt so strangely repulsed, especially as he started crying again. I wasn't quite sure why I was kissing him, because it really seemed to be taking it a bit too far, but I suppose I was too crazy to really care. Plus, I was getting angry again, angry that even kissing him had been a wasted effort. I pushed him out of my arms and away from me, slamming him against the mirror in the space between the sinks. He didn't even gasp this time, held it in and stared at the floor while he cried. It had gotten darker, now, so that I had barely been able to see his face, but now a faint orangish light from outside the window flickered into being. From all the knowledge of this modern world that I had gained from him, I knew it was just a security light, but it cast an eerie atmosphere over the room. It was a very lonely feeling, to stand in that light, because it meant that it was night now, and the day was over.

 

I walked over to him, planting a hand on the mirror on either side of his head, and wordlessly leaned in and kissed him. He started to slide down the wall out of shock, but I just grabbed him by his upper arms and held his limp body up. I pressed up close against him as I continued to defile his mouth, feet on either side of his feet, blatantly suggestive and intimate, to see if claustrophobia would make him speak. He only moaned, however. Even I had to admit that it felt good enough to make me squirm, kissing him like that. I told myself that he was more feminine than any of the women I'd had, anyway.

 

I pulled away from him enough to pull his shirt off - his flaccid arms neither helped nor hindered as I maneuvered the sleeves around them - and laughed cruelly at his underdeveloped and bruised body. “You need to eat more,” I informed him. “That chocolate would've been good for you. Are you sure you're even a man? Just say `yes' or `no', come on.” He didn't answer, of course, so I did the obvious thing and unzipped his pants. I observed his face carefully; his eyes grew even wider, I thought, but that was the only change I could see. I reached between his legs, encountered another layer of cloth and impatiently pulled it away to run my fingers along his already half-erect length. It was really much easier to pleasure a man than a woman, I reflected distantly as he shuddered and groaned and bit his lip, or maybe he was just sensitive. Still he didn't say a word. I grabbed his shoulder and wrenched him around, and finally he at least moved his hands, instinctively bracing himself to keep his face from being pressed against the mirror. “Just tell me to stop,” I rasped into the hair that I hated. He didn't answer, just rested his forehead against the mirror and choked back a sob, eyes screwed shut. “Just say `stop!'”

 

I was faintly aware of unzipping my own pants, of shivering at the feeling of being pressed against his tight entrance between his legs. It was so warm there, but much warmer still when I pushed up. He whimpered and keened and scratched at the glass; I gasped deeply into his tiny, pale ear. He was so much tighter than a woman, his hair was so much cleaner, his skin so much softer... I moaned as I moved rhythmically into him, totally overwhelmed by how great it was. His breath came in choking panting gasps. I looked at his face in the mirror, at his parted too-full, too-red lips framing perfect white teeth, at his pink cheeks, at his tightly shut crying eyes - eventually it was too much, and I had to look away, looked at my own flushed face instead, and just the thought of what I was doing was enough to send me over the edge.

 

Afterwards, his knees gave out again, and this time I just let him slip to the floor. I could barely hold myself up, but I stepped back and made myself stand, panting with my hands resting heavily on my knees. He knelt, his head resting against the grimy wall, pants still around his ankles and matted hair mostly covering him. He had a large bruise in the middle of his back, I saw, and another on his upper arm, and another, half-concealed, on his knee...

 

“Why didn't you tell me to stop?” I wondered, speaking more to my reflection in the mirror than to him. I sighed to fill the null silence, thought for a moment to find the way, and let myself fade away back into my comfortable place in his mind. He lay where I had left him for a long time.

 

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I didn't speak to him again for ages. In the dark of the night, however, I dealt justice to the ones who had tormented him. Eventually he didn't have any bruises any more, though he didn't seem too grateful. Obviously, I was wrong about his family not taking care of him forever. Even when he left them out of concern for their safety, I found myself taking care of him. He found a new family, in me and in the friends he finally made in the new place. I was jealous of them, because I found myself wanting to be his only family. He was right to leave his mother and his sister; I would have killed them, just to prove myself right or just to be alone with him, or something... Most of all, though, I was jealous of these new friends because he talked to them.

 

I asked him once why he talked to them, right from the beginning. He answered contemptuously that it was because he liked them, but he never spoke that way so I knew that he was lying. I couldn't understand it; that had been my initial goal, sure, but I had been convinced that I had screwed it up so badly that he would never talk again to anybody, ever, and they'd have to put him in a mental institution. It doesn't make much sense, even to me, but I think that maybe, after that day, he became too scared to not talk.

 

I guess he'll always be weak, no matter what I do. And I'll always hate him. I'll always hate his hair, fairer even than the sun-bleached hair of the field workers. I'll always hate the way he hides himself away from those who care about him. And when I look at him and it's just like looking into a mirror, I'll hate him most of all.

 

Owari