Yu-Gi-Oh! Fan Fiction ❯ Shattered ❯ Shattered ( Chapter 2 )

Why did I write this chapter? I don't know. It just kinda popped out. :shrugs: More angst than the first chapter. Probably more confusing, too, though, so beware. I only half planned on continuing this story. But, for once, to warn you, don't get confused by the switching of the POVs in this one.

 

Paniwi: Thanks for the review! The ending's fixed now.

 

Gutterflower: Wow…10 of 10 on everything!? oO Thanks a bunch! :hug:

 

Milady17: All very good guesses, but no. Thanks for the review, though!

 

Plus an extra thanks to all three of you for being more understanding than the reviews/reviewers I got at ff.net…

 

Alas, no one guessed correctly what Ori means. Oh well. :shrugs: I'm not going to tell you. :insert evil laugh: It's a secret…for now. XP Oh, by the way, in case you were wondering/confused, Ori is not Yami Bakura's new name. It's just what Ryou calls him. After all, Ryou can't exactly call him “Bakura,” now can he? :P

 

Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh, Duel Masters, or Pringles, but I do own this story and plot, James, Alex, and Mikale.

 

- - Part 3 - -

 

I awoke with a throbbing headache, beating against my skull. I reached up to press a hand against my head in an attempt to subdue to the pain, but encountered tuffs of sticky hair in the way. It was then that I realized that someone was lying on top of me. For a moment I forgot where I was, but then I soon remembered.

 

But not without other memories first. Memories of last night. The screams; pain and terror bleeding into my soul. I didn't know I could feel that way. These feelings are only for normal people. Not me. Not the evil I am.

 

And how evil I am. I did something…awful. Terrible. Evil. I couldn't even bring myself to repeat was it was. I never stopped to think - just kept on going as if it was the natural thing to do. But it wasn't. It was evil, and wrong, and mean…but even more than that. Words couldn't even being to describe what I did to her.

 

Along with the screams was the feeling of sheer terror coursing throughout not only her body, but mine as well. Why was I doing this? What immoral indulgence provoked me?, I had thought. My logical thinking was in the back of my mind then, I presumed, but now it was back to haunt me. I - and Ryou - thought that I had changed. I guess we were wrong.

 

Just then, the mass holding me down that I could only assume to be Ryou stirred, and weight was lifted from my shoulders. Not the real weight, though. Not the one that was really holding me to the grounds of Hell. I began to sit up as well, once again experiencing pain all throughout my body; but this time it was caused by the shards of glass strewn about the floor and my person. I winced, and again reached up to hold my head. There, my fingers pressed against a familiar hot and sticky liquid.

 

“Ori?” a strained voice asked. The name sounded blurry and distorted; thousands of miles away even. “Are you okay?”

 

A stupid question, really. I just punched a mirror with my unguarded fist, sprinkled the pieces like confetti, smashed three holes in the wall with the same fist, then had a Swiss Army knife's blade cut into the skin of my right cheek…but I'm perfectly fine. I mentally snorted. Not to mention what happened last night…

 

Ryou didn't wait for an answer. I guess he figured it out. He's not stupid, after all. “Come on, let's get you cleaned up so the doctor doesn't have a heart attack when he sees you.”

 

“You too,” I blurted out, without thinking. Was it second nature again? No, couldn't be. Those two events had nothing in common…they were genuine opposites. Good and evil. Funny how I could commit the quintessence of both within a 24-hour period. What time was it anyway?

 

Ryou laughed, or at least tried. Halfway through the joyful rhythm transformed into coughing. “Yes, me too. Now come on.” Without meeting his innocent eyes - I just couldn't - I let his soft hands lead my shattered soul down the hall and up the stairs. I wondered how he was more able to move than I was when it was he who had been knocked down multiple times. Even though his grip was gentle, my skin still throbbed under the pressure. Ascending the stairs seemed to take forever. Then we still had to walk through my room to my private bathroom, where he finally left me with the water running from the shower faucet, a light pat on the back, and a piece of comfort. However, he needed comfort as well. As I stared at the water rushing down the drain, I heard his knees hit the floor as he stumbled out the door.

 

Five minutes later the same water beat against my back in an attempt to relax my strained muscles. The blood ran off in a steady stream, turning the bottom of the bath a strange shade of pink. While some shards of glass fell off and stuck above the drain, others stayed imbedded in my skin. I guess that's what happens when you close your fist against a broken mirror. Strange, but the sharp edges weren't what really hurt. What hurt the most were memories.

 

Can you really call them memories when they were only from a number of hours ago? The word “memories” seems to give off more of an older connotation - say 5,000 years for example. But what else could you call them? Things you remember? That's what memories are, aren't they? I couldn't be sure… I had only been speaking English for a minor percentage of my long life. This long life, in which so many things have happened.

 

But I had to take what was so nearly perfect and just screw it up with my indescribably horrible ways. Why did I do that? Why did I cause her so much pain? I thought it was for a moment - just a moment - of my pleasure, but pleasure was not among the so much that I recalled. Every few minutes I heard another shrill scream. It almost made me shrink back physically. I did mentally.

 

“BAKURA!!! Why are you doing this to me!?”

 

It coursed through my veins, haunting me, tearing me apart.

 

“BAKURA!!! BAKURAAAAA…!!!!!”

 

The way she had screamed my name unleashed thousands of feelings all at once. I cannot forget it. I cannot forget her. I cannot forget the pain, the agony, the heat, the pressure, the method, the process, the touch, the breath, the words, the feelings…the everything. I remember it a thousand times clearer than I remember Kul Elna. Because it was a thousand times worse.

 

“What have I done?” I asked, gazing at my hands soaked with blood and water, as if the shower itself could provide an answer… It didn't.

 

Sometimes, I feel as if I died that night. And maybe she did, too.

 

- - - - -

 

The entire time the cool water was washing off the blood and hatred, I was wondering what happened that could have made Ori so upset. He seemed downright depressed. If only he would tell me…but I doubt he would want to talk about it. Whatever “it” was. All I could assume from the struggle that had occurred downstairs that “it” must have grand and life-changing. Enough to keep him past the normal time at which he arrived home. Enough to keep him from speaking more than “You too.” Enough to have tears and anger intertwine.

 

The cuts across my face stung when immersed in water, but they must have stung much worse for Ori. After all, it was he with the true problem. The full force of the memories must be painful; whatever those memories consisted of. I was deeply worried for him and the apparent changes he was experiencing.

 

After finishing cleansing myself of my tears, his regret, and both our pain, I stepped out of the shower and into a quick outfit of khakis and a white vacation shirt. However, soon after I dressed, I realized white was not the best choice of colors, since blood was still somewhat creeping out from underneath my skin. Not feeling up to changing clothes, I chose to stay in the previously chosen apparel. That decided, I threw on a pair of shoes and walked out into the hall.

 

Ori was standing there, just standing there, in front of the door to his room. His eyes were focused on a random point on the floor below; his right hand placed gently over the scar on his cheek. A white T-shirt just a tad too small pressed against his firm figure, complemented by loose jeans and a pair of plain sneakers. This was his lazy, “I don't care” outfit. Ironic, considering his probable state of mind. Slowly and cautiously I stepped forward, subconsciously fearing that another struggle would develop.

 

But my fears were for not. I placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, saying, “Come; the faster we manage to arrive the better.” In reply, he did nothing but nod and turn to the ground floor. Together we descended the stairs and exited the house, which by now had earned a cold, dark, and musty feel to it. Before I closed the door behind me, I looked back into the interior filled with the broken mirror, thoughts, provocation, and the butler sweeping up the mess. He had clumped several pieces of nothing, everything, and something together in the middle of the room where an event I thought impossible had taken place. Even though it was just an hour or two before, it seemed an eternity ago - but the experiences were as clear as crystal in our minds.

 

I thought I saw James glance at the holes in the wall, of which until that moment I was unaware, but then he returned to sweeping the floor. I shook my head to clear my thoughts. By the time we had seated ourselves in the limousine, the chauffeur had already started up the engine.

 

We spent most of the ride to the hospital in silence, with Ori leaning against my shoulder, carrying a depressed frown. He periodically rubbed his hands together; whether this was to clear the pain or refresh thoughts I still do not know. I looked down at his fragile figure sitting there - a once-proud stature, crushed under the weight of…well, whatever that grand event must have been to arouse such actions in him. Once, I ventured a chance at discovering this event.

 

“Do you - ” The entire question could not even escape my lips before he interrupted.

 

“No.” The reply was cold and empty, like a reflex. Well, of course. Ori never wishes to talk about anything, even his workday. Still, the answer he usually provided had more backbone to it, but this had nothing behind it, as if his attention was focused not on the question and reply but wrapped up in his own thoughts.

 

“Well, let me know if you change your mind.” To this, he answered with a shallow growl. At least, now, a reaction I was used to. I knew he would not consider another option for at least a few days, so I turned to gaze out of the glazed window at the streets rushing past.

 

Within the next 15 minutes or so, we reached London City Hospital. Once there, I helped Ori out of the car and up to the door. Although, I had to admit to myself that the wounds inflicted in me were biting into my nerves; but the cool shower did well to soothe them.

 

“Dr. Arthur, please,” I told the receptionist, while Ori waited a few feet away. His arms were crossed, and he was - again - stating at the floor. His eyes were wide, as if great terror bubbled inside of him. “I need to see him immediately.”

 

“Yes, sir, Mr. Hakuoh,” she replied, (A/N: <-- Yonder Duel Masters crossing-over piece <_<) and without skipping a beat she rose from her seat to fetch the doctor. I suppose she must have noticed the blood seeping from my open wounds, and thus comprehended the emergency. Meanwhile, while I waiting for the doctor to arrive, I walked over to Ori's location. My eyes narrowed and an eyebrow raised in question when I heard him mumbling over the hum of the air conditioner.

 

“Why did I do that? What have I done…?” he whispered, his voice racked with despair.

 

“Ori…not to worry,” I told him in a comforting tone, not that I knew what grief I was condoling. No sign of reaction. “It will be okay, whatever it is.”

 

His face fell. Good, he heard me: a sign that he was at least somewhat still in the real world.

 

“No, it won't,” he answering definitively. Before I could reply, a nurse called out:

 

“Mr. Hakuoh, the doctor will see you now.” And so, we stepped into the first stage of our healing.

 

- - Part 4 - -

 

Soul repair is a slow process, even when the damage is minimal. So imagine how hard it must have been for him. The damage was obviously immeasurable by far, to take a solid man like him and knead the substance into a soft, pliable dough. However, after a certain amount of time, the dough hardens once more, but is forever easier to be smashed again…

 

For a week I managed to keep Ori at home to put the pieces back together. What was left of him, anyway. I felt there were still some pieces of the puzzle that had gone missing. His friends at the bar offered to help, but he refused to call them. Refused to talk. Refused to do pretty much anything besides eat, think, and sleep. For hours and hours on end he stayed in his room, lying on his bed and staring at either the ceiling or the wall. Even after he returned to work the week after he spent most of his time at the house in that mode. Most of the time silence shrouded his chambers, but every now and then the sounds of Nickelback drifted through the floor. Once I opened the door a crack and peeked in to find him lying there where he always would, except this time brushing his finger against a photo, the occupier of which was blocked from my view. My only fair guess was that it was a picture of his girlfriend, and then wondered: Was that the same “her” he had been mumbling about? What did he do to “her”?

 

Of course, I had no idea what he was up to while I was gone at school or a meeting, but it seemed as if he did not move much during those times.

 

He walked home from work slower these days. No longer did I hear the familiar squeak of the front door at 9:15, but instead as late as quarter of 10. Apparently he walked there slower as well, since he left earlier in the morning. In addition, periodically he would decide to stay out…God knows what activity he was participating in. If Friday night was when this decision was made, poker with his friends from the bar was most likely the endeavor - either that or a meal and a movie. But what intrigued me the most was that every time he called to say he was staying out later, the same conversation took place:

 

“I'm going out tonight,” he would greet without even a “Hello.” I dared not ask where or what. The first time I did, he refused to reply, indicating that prying was a futile effort.

 

Next, I would say, “Do you know when you will be back?”

 

And every time: a sigh, followed by, “Before morning.”

 

With that, a click. What he specifically meant by that statement I was never really sure, but I was certain it was related to the Incident. (I know you are aware of what I am referring to.) At least he always spoke true. The latest he would ever return was quarter before midnight, and that was still technically before morning. Once he came back accompanied by a few of his companions from the bar. This time, when they opened the door, no squeak was heard. The hinges only squeak when disturbed slowly, after all. Even though Ori had previously told me that they were coming over, the disruptive commotion still surprised me. I had been used to quiet for the past few months or so.

 

“Whoa, Bakura, man - did you do that?” one of them asked. I recognized the voice as Alex, one of Ori's coworkers. I crinkled my brow in confusion as to what he spoke of, but then turned slightly around from my position in the dining room to see him pointing to the three holes in the wall. I'm not sure why I never had those fixed. A reminder I suppose…although who would want to be reminded of that? Not that I needed to be reminded. That day was as clear to me as the crystal glass in my hand.

 

“Yeah…” Ori slowly answered, a hint of embarrassment leaking into his tone. His strangely foreign accent contrasted Alex's one - one that belonged to a native Brit.

 

“Oh, was it during your fight?” Alex continued, then chuckled and playfully punched Ori in the shoulder. Good - a question that did not truly expect an answer. Not that Ori would have given one anyway. I wondered how much he had told them. My faith and trust in him brought me to think that it was no more than he had told me, but that was very little.

 

“Leave him alone, Alex,” warned the other young man standing beside Ori. His sleek, black hair clashed Alex's ruffled blond curls. “You know what can happen when this guy gets mad.” He jabbed his thumb at Ori, who snorted and headed towards my location. Soon after, they followed and grabbed seats at the table. One of them pulled out a deck of cards; the other a bag of multicolored plastic chips. After taking a can of Pringles out of the cabinet, Ori sat down as well.

 

“You want to play, Ryou?” he asked calmly yet inquisitively, earning my attention. I shook my head.

 

“No, thanks, I think I'll pass,” I answered with a “sorry” type of smile. As always, Alex tried to tempt me into joining them. Also as always, I determinedly yet politely refused.

 

“Alex, you are so annoying sometimes…” the black-haired man interrupted. In return, Alex stuck his tongue out childishly.

 

“Oh, shut up and deal, Mikale,” he ordered, sliding the deck across the table.

 

“Fine, Chicken Man.” At this apparent nickname, a short chuckle drifted into my ears. I looked at Ori in surprise - it sounded like him, but I had not heard him laugh in such a long time! A satisfied smile crept its way onto my face. Oh, how glad I was for him to be having fun again. I hoped that chuckle was a sign that his life was becoming livable again, that the burdens were being lifted, and that the worries were subsiding…

 

Little did I know that a quick reminder could bring it all back.

 

- - - - -

 

Okay, I'm planning on another chapter (as you might have been able to tell by that cliff-hanger-ish ending), but not until a large portion of The Long Road is written and posted. So hold your horses, please.