Yu-Gi-Oh! Fan Fiction ❯ Spiritual Heart ❯ Chapter 2

"Bakura. Bakura. Bakura!"

He slowly opened his eyes, squinting at the brightness of the sun as it filtered through the curtains and came to rest on his face. He blinked a few times, then looked over at the doorway, finding the familiar figure of his father standing there.

"Bakura, it's nearly noon. Get yourself out of bed this instant!" his father instructed, tapping his foot impatiently on the floor.

"Yes, Father," Bakura replied, his voice strained and scratchy in his throat. He watched his father walk out of the room, closing the door behind him. He had known it would be late when he got up. After all, he ended up falling asleep around eight that morning. He was just thankful that it was Saturday. He raised himself to his elbows, grunting with the effort it took. His arms felt like rubber underneath his weight, and the pain that shot through his body was overwhelming. He was forced to lay back down on the bed, feeling his body shuddering in agony. New tears fell from his eyes, wetting the front of his face and dripping down onto the sheet less mattress under him.

"Stop your crying, boy. Get up."

Bakura opened his eyes, finding the Spirit of the Millennium Ring standing over him. He gave a startled gasp, but did as he was told, somehow finding the strength to lift himself off of the bed and onto the floor, steadying himself on the desk beside him. He made sure not to make eye contact with his Yami, for fear of angering him or provoking him at all. Instead, he guided himself over to the dresser nearby, opening the drawers and slowly pulling out clean clothes to wear for the day. He could sense his Yami's eyes watching his every move carefully, and a heavy feeling of dread fell over him. What could possibly be going through his Yami's mind now? He could never be sure.

"Bakura, go down to the store and pick up some bread for lunch," came the stern-toned voice of his father from the doorway again. Bakura turned, startled, finding his Yami vanished and his father looking over him with a inquisitive look on his face. "You slept in just that?" he asked. "Weren't you cold?"

Bakura shook his head solemnly. Indeed, he had been in too much pain last night to even think about how cold his shivering body had become.

His father stayed in the doorway, regarding his son as if he were a stranger to him. "Where'd you get those marks on your wrists?"

Bakura looked down at his hands, seeing for the first time the black and blue bruises staining the snow white of his skin. He continued staring at the bruises, remaining silent until his father gave up and left the room again. Bakura studied his wounds for a few more minutes before turning back to the task at hand. He pulled out a new pair of boxers, along with a shirt, a pair of pants, and some socks and maneuvered his way back over to his bed. He was finally able to slip his shirt on, unlike the night before, and he finished dressing in about fifteen agonizing minutes. He reached over and retrieved his brush from his desk, settling into a more comfortable position on his bed to straighten his tangled hair.

Each stroke of the brush was hell and brought out a line of pained tears. He dipped his head down as best he could, trying to give his arms a little less distance to have to travel to reach his soft locks. Still, it ached terribly in his arms and eventually he decided that nice-looking hair was not worth the pain he was going through. He knew he would regret it later, but he put the brush down and left his hair the way it was: A little disheveled, but not terribly upsetting. He then guided himself out of the room and into the hall, following the wall into the living room. His father was sitting on the easy chair watching some news show on the television.

"Was wondering what was taking you so long," his father said, not looking up from the screen. "Get down to the store so we can eat. The money's on the counter."

Bakura walked painfully over to the kitchen counter, eyeing a fifty-dollar bill sitting there. "A fifty? To buy bread?" he inquired, curiously.

"That's all I have," his father replied. "Don't lose it."

"I won't," Bakura promised, taking the money and folding it up before sticking it into his back pocket. He then walked out the door, closing it behind him and stood in front of it for a moment.

The day was very gloomy, an overcast sky and gray clouds stretching as far as he could see. There was no one on the sidewalks and the streets were quiet. He did not even hear any birds singing or people talking. It was silent and looked abandoned. Bakura felt a strange feeling deep in the pit of his stomach, looking out at the deserted city, but he would not dare disobey his father. He began walking down the sidewalk, his head held low and limping on his left leg. Every step he took proved to be more agonizing than the last, and he resorted to shutting his mind off from his body and from the surrounding environment, hoping to distract himself from the throbbing pain that continued to make itself know throughout his entire body. He continued walking at a brisk pace, ignoring the cramping in his right leg as all he thought about was getting to the store and back as quickly as he could. It was all he could do to snap back into reality in time to stop himself from ramming into a figure that had suddenly appeared in front of him.

"Hey, watch where you're going!" the figure snarled as he too, was forced to stop suddenly. "What's your problem?"

"I'm so sorry," Bakura apologized, avoiding all eye contact with the stranger before him. "I- It was my fault. I wasn't watching where I was going."

"Damn right it was your fault!" the other agreed, raising his voice a bit. "You better stay out of my way, you little white-haired freak!"

Bakura flinched a little at the insult, but remained silent. It was hardly the first time anyone had called him that before, and a confrontation was the last thing he wanted right then.

"You gotta problem?" the stranger asked him in response to his flinch. "What? You don't like to be called a freak?"

Bakura still said nothing, glancing down the street to see if anyone who would be able to get him out of this happened to be walking his way. There was no one.

"Hey! I'm talking to you!" the stranger snarled, grabbing the front of Bakura's shirt collar and pulling him close. The white-haired boy visibly flinched and made a little whine of protest as his body throbbed with more pain. "Answer me, you little bitch!"

"It's-- It's all right," Bakura replied, trying to think of a way out of his mess. "I-- I don't mind. Really."

The stranger looked him over, regarding him as if he had completely lost his mind. "You don't mind being called a freak?"

Bakura shook his head, hoping the confrontation would soon be over.

"That's crazy," the stranger said, releasing his tight hold on his shirt. "Nobody likes being called a freak." He looked him over a bit more closely this time, examining the boy's bruised skin curiously. "What're those from, huh? Your daddy beat you?"

"No!" Bakura protested, a little more loudly than he meant to. His father would never strike him, that much he was sure of. And it bothered him immensely when anybody assumed that the bruises he got everyday were placed there by his parental figure. His father was kind to him for the most part, even though Bakura was not always the first thing on his mind.

"Don't get smart with me," the stranger snarled in response to his outburst. "You want me to teach you a lesson about respectin' your elders?"

Bakura shook his head in terror. He had no idea what this boy had in store for him, although he was sure that this "lesson" he spoke of was not one he wanted to attend. He took a step back from him, hoping to find some way of escaping his predicament, but his wrist was seized in a tight grip that caused him to flinch.

"Where you think you're goin'?" the stranger demanded. He yanked on Bakura's arm, producing a small whine of protest from the white-haired boy. "You don't think you're gettin' off that easy, do you?" He reached over and grabbed a handful of Bakura's hair with his other hand and pushed him forward, guiding him painfully down the sidewalk until he took a sharp turn into an abandoned alleyway. Bakura struggled against the strong hands that held him, but to no avail. Frightened tears began to sting his eyes and he could hardly see where the stranger was leading him. The boy released Bakura's wrist to open a creaky door in the side of an old building, shoving him forward onto the concrete floor. Bakura put his hands out in front of him to break his fall, landing on his hands and knees while the stranger stepped in and closed the door behind him. The room he had brought him into was dimly-lit and it took a moment for Bakura's watery eyes to adjust to his surroundings. He was in a warehouse, probably abandoned from the looks of the old boxes littering the floor and stacked up in the corners. As he looked around he noticed more and more rough-looking teenagers occupying the room as well. Each one had a cigarette or a blunt in their mouths as they regarded him with blood-shot eyes.

"Who's the bitch?" one of them slurred.

"Some kid that ran into me," his captor answered. "Got smart with me too."

"I-I didn't mean to," Bakura whimpered, thoroughly shaken by his encounter thus far.

A beer bottle came flying through the air at him and Bakura screamed, jumping out of the way before the sharp glass shattered against the floor. A chorus of choked laughter followed.

"What're you gonna do with him?" another of the teens questioned in a husky voice.

The boy shrugged. "I dunno. Got any ideas?"

Bakura looked around, frightened. It was apparent that he was not the first to be brought here to these boys and he was quite sure that they would have no remorse for his well-being while they did whatever it was they were going to do to him. He visibly trembled in fear, hot tears staining his pale face.

"Look at him, we ain't even touched him and he's bawlin' already," one of the boys remarked.

"Betcha he'll squeal real good," another said, flicking a still-burning cigarette at Bakura who flinched in response and moved backwards until he was leaning against the wall. His original captor reached down and pulled the frightened boy to his feet by his wrist. Suddenly, he brought his fist back and socked Bakura in the gut.

Bakura groaned and doubled over in pain. He could hear the laughter of the other occupants of the room as the pain in his abdomen forced him to his knees. His captor still had a tight grip on his wrist and he pulled him back to his feet.

"Who wants a shot at him?" he asked the others. He released Bakura's wrist and put an open hand on his back, shoving him forward to the center of the room. Bakura stumbled and fell to his knees, scraping them against the concrete floor. He cried out when he felt a painful force slam into his side, knocking him over. He gazed up at his second attacker, one of the other boys, still clutching a smoking blunt in his teeth. He smiled through the smoke and kicked him in the side again, sending him rolling a few feet away. He came to a stop at the feet of the boy who had thrown the beer bottle.

"Damn, he's like a little girl," he remarked, taking a handful of Bakura's hair and raising him to his feet. "What's a matter, pussy? You want your mama?" He laughed, yanking several strands of hair from their roots, causing Bakura to cry out in pain. A hard fist swung through the air and made brutal contact with Bakura's delicate jaw, knocking him sideways into yet another boy.

"Fuck, he ain't no fun," the boy said, taking hold of Bakura's arm. "He don't even fight back." He pushed Bakura away from him and into the side of a large wooden box. Bakura's skull banged against the hard surface and he slumped into a pain-ridden pile on the floor.

He blacked out for a split second and it took him a moment to regain his bearings and remember what was happening to him. His arms ached tremendously and his head throbbed in pain. Tears were streaming down his cheeks as he remained still with his eyes closed, hoping that for some reason his attackers would leave him there until someone came to help him. But no one came.

"Shit, what a pussy," one of the boys remarked. "Betcha if we tie him up and get out the tasers he'd be real fun."

"Or what about this?" another boy volunteered. Bakura dared not open his eyes for fear of discovering what excited the other boys so much that a round of shouted agreements came from the room. He remained where he was until he felt a hand grab his shirt collar and pull him back to his feet. He found himself face to face with the boy who had brought him there in the first place who promptly took Bakura's wrists, holding them together. Bakura felt the all-to-familiar touch of rough rope to his wrists as his hands were tied together in front of him. He bit his lip, trying to fight against the terror that consumed him as the boy pulled him by the rope, leading him into the center of the room again. There, hanging from the ceiling was a metal hook, suspended in the air by a thick chain. Bakura whimpered a protest as the boy lifted him off the ground and looped the rope binding Bakura's wrists onto the hook. Bakura found himself dangling a good six inches off the floor, his arms screaming in pain from the pressure put on them.

"Who's goin' first?" the boy asked the group.

"Why don't you do the honors?" another voice replied. "He's your bitch."

Bakura held his breath in anticipation, dreading whatever was to come to him. He waited for what seemed like hours. But nothing came.

"What's that in his pocket?" somebody asked, and Bakura felt a hand slip into his back pocket, removing the fifty dollar bill his father had entrusted him with. "Hey, look what I scored!"

"Damn, what's this pussy doin' with fifty bucks in his pocket?" somebody wondered. "He got anything else on him?"

Bakura felt his pockets being invaded by strange hands that found nothing else but lint in his jeans pockets. The hands retreated and his captor was prodded to continue with his idea from before. Terror overcame Bakura again and he held his breath, waiting for whatever it was that was coming for him. And this time it came. A sharp, protruding pain slapped against his back, producing a loud smack sound and a scream from the white-haired boy. The boys in the room chuckled in delight.

"Yeah, this one's a keeper," his captor declared, slapping Bakura once again with the object he held. Bakura's scream echoed in the cold room and hot tears streamed down his face. He sobbed loudly, blood dripping from his lip where he had bit down. A few moments passed until he opened one eye and then the other, finding his captor standing in front of him, clutching a leather belt in his hands. "This bitch is great. Screams real nice. Somebody else wanna give him a shot?"

Bakura's body trembled in pain. Even his Yami had never been this cruel to him. He watched as the belt was passed on to a different boy who came around behind him and slapped him across the back with it, not as hard as the first boy but still enough to get a cry of pain out of him. He felt somebody grab the back of his shirt collar and then felt something cold go down his back, cutting the fabric of his shirt down the middle and up the sleeves so that his shirt fell from his body onto the floor beneath him. A harsh slap from the belt onto his bare skin caused him to yelp in pain and another produced a frightened whine. He could feel warm liquid running down his back and suddenly he felt not only the sharp leather on his skin, but also a sting of hard metal to his spine. The belt buckle. Bakura's screams and pleads of mercy served only to delight the boys further and his body was treated to more and more punishment. Each agonizing blow was worse than the one before it and the last thought that went through Bakura's mind was how upset his father was going to be when he found out he lost the fifty dollars.