The One I called Myself Me Once


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Sometimes

"What do you want?"

No answer. Not that he expected an answer. Not that he expected anything. Anything at all. If he didn't expect anything, he couldn't get disappointed. God knew how many disappointments he already had in his young life. Mother. Sister. Gone. Sometimes he wrote letters, yes, he wrote letters, he wrote them and kept writing and wanted to write until the ink had dried up and he was pressing the pen so hard against the paper that he was tearing it. His writing had long been illegible by then; as if he was screaming on the paper, to the paper, expressing himself by bending the tip of his pen, scratching into the table top.

He realizes that writing is the only way of expressing himself without his interference.


Sometimes he thinks

"What is it?"

He answers. Unexpectedly, out of the blue, suddenly, but he answers. It's different every time, though his voice remains the same. There's malice in his words, venom dripping of every syllable, yet there's a strong-willed determination behind each and every one of his sentences, his own beliefs expressed with everything in his power. Almost passionate, a fierceness hardly matched by anything his friends say. It's hard to make a distinction- is it really him picking up that knife, or is it his doing? Is there a 'he' in the first place? Another him? There's only this golden pendant, the Sennen Ring as others like to call it, and he doesn't even know why he's wearing it. It's heavy- solid gold, dangling from a cord around his neck. It's pretty.

He knows there's a lot he doesn't know, and he knows there's a lot that he knows.


Sometimes he thinks killing

"Why..?"

Sensations, feelings, his senses on fire. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last. As he arched his back, his legs trembling from the cramped position, his hair would plaster to his face, sweat-soaked, and his eyes would be closed, closed in concentration, concentration on his senses, as excitement ran through his body, as his breathing quickened and would hitch and oh fuck gods yes! Fingers on him, stroking him, touching and prodding and sometimes squeezing, gripping, and he'd scream, throwing his head back, scream out in frustration, relief and need.

He would wake up alone, damp sheets wrapped around his pale limbs, his pajama pants would be... somewhere else. In the corner of his room, haphazardly thrown away, cast aside. He would feel a little cramp, a dull pain... but that was only physical, and it was nothing compared to the pain in his heart.

He figures he isn't the only one doing this... but is the only thing he does that to himself.


Sometimes he thinks killing himself

"What do you think it is?"

He couldn't remember when the voice actually started talking to him. As in "really talking" to him. Asking, demanding. He continued to cut- his bread, a tomato, a slab of meat, and when he opened his eyes he would find the food slaughtered on his counter, his hand on the knife's handle, the ingredients cut up as if a madman had been butchering it, attacking it again and again. He wasn't very strong physically- but he doubted if it would take much physical strength to achieve this. It would be rage. Blind, dark, raging rage. He acquiesced- he just simply acquiesced to it. He didn't want to lose his friends over this. He didn't want to involve them. Not again.

After all, it only took a few minutes to clean up the kitchen and start all over again... and sometimes those cut-to-shreds ingredients could be added to soup or some other dish. Why make a problem out of it?

He reminds himself to forget about it; if he forgets about it, it doesn't exist, right?


Sometimes he thinks killing himself isn't that bad

"Why do you think I'm asking you?"

It's never silent anymore. If it's silent, something's wrong. He always had appreciated silence, minding his own business in relative peace, going about his business without being questioned, without being contested. There are so many kinds of silence one can enjoy; but suffocating silence was never one of his favorites. Had he been punished? Rejected? Discarded? What had he done wrong, and why was he asking himself this? Where his mother and his sister taken away from him because of his mistakes, his faults? The silence he used to know... was that a punishment from whatever divine being?

Empty, everything feels empty if he doesn't feel the presence. His presence. No, that can't be right, there isn't any other presence. Doubts, fears- it's just fear of being alone. Who is he kidding, hasn't he been alone all his life? He would seek refuge, solace and warmth, into the depths of his mind by lack of someone in his life, someone who would lie next to him, someone at his side. He wanted to feel an arm around him, the comforting gesture of a hug, wanted to hear that everything was going to be all right again. He would find his silence and he would find walls, icy walls, and he would feel like he rammed them, smacking into them head-first, only to be thrown back miles away.

He denies finding himself on the floor, finding himself in a room he wasn't in before, finding himself in any situation he wasn't in before.


Sometimes he thinks killing himself isn't that bad, but not today.

"Who do you think you're talking to?"

He didn't recognize the sound, but it really was the doorbell- so strange to him, because he couldn't recall the last time someone rang the doorbell. Who would want to visit him? He has work to do- crafting a whole RPG from scratch was time consuming; he even neglected his own homework for it. The sound is distinctive, though- and urging to boot. Moving his feet, he didn't know if he was walking to the door of his own free will or that he was curious. After all, he liked to know... everything.

Opening the door was an endeavor to him- it would probably be some mailman, someone to deliver a package or ask a stupid question, and he would close the door, not caring what any other might think of him. Had he changed? Was he still the same, or not? It was his hand on the doorknob, turning and twisting it a little, opening the door in that peculiar way as he'd always known it to open.

He claims to be the one to open the door, but it's him who watches, who is in control.


Sometimes he thinks killing himself isn't that bad, but not today. Today, someone

"Why do you still think you can be rescued?"

He once had friends. Friends who cared, friends who called him and asked him to come hang out with them. Friends who wanted to play with him, board games, card games, a role playing game. It stopped after most of them ended up in a coma, after playing a game with him- and it didn't take long for him to retreat into himself, searching for... what, actually? Relief? Comfort, that silent voice that told him that everything was going to be all right? He'd allowed himself to be deluded by that small lie, as everything went downhill from that moment, and he started living by the day, instead of looking backward, instead of looking forward, only the here and now counted.

He recognizes the young man at the door as Malik Ishtar, the one from the Battle City Finals, the Egyptian with the God Card. He musters up a smile, the corner of his mouth slightly twitching.


Sometimes he thinks killing himself isn't that bad, but not today. Today, someone else will die.


"Why is it you're still not believing me?"

Feeling safe. At ease. Eyes narrowed, he invited him in. Yes, such a pleasure to see each other again. Yes, he's doing fine, and how about you, Malik-kun? He's looking good. He left immediately after the Battle City Finals for Egypt. He left. Like everyone else in his life, and he shouldn't be so surprised about it. There was only one constant factor in his life- him. Even though he barely talked, even though he barely cared- still, he was there. So why not..? Why not obeying him, why not listening to him? After all, he never lied, right? Malik is in the living room, admiring all the figurines and the neat, meticulous board game. What is it he's trying to pull here, anyway? Ask for forgiveness? Repent for his sins?

He keeps smiling, pleasurably, softly, and sanely. The Ring weighs heavy, but it's glowing with anticipation. The Darkness calls for satisfaction, for a sacrifice, for a sign. He'll give it to him.

Because he is him, and he is his.



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