One Second


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Dear Nameless Pharaoh,

I'm writing you this letter to let you know that I know. I know you come out at night, that you pace around in my bedroom. I know, because I feel tired when I wake up, and sometimes my feet ache. I know, because you don't stay inside the bedroom and sometimes go outside and stare at the stars high in the sky, ignoring the cold, leaving me to wake up with chattering teeth. I know you don't do it on purpose, and thank you for the extra blanket on my feet.

The problem is, that sometimes I don't know where you start and where I end. Or where I start and you end. I don't mind it, really - I'm here to help you. So let me help you. Allow me to help you. You're quite strong and confident, or rather arrogant, as other people like to think of you. You don't mind it, or you don't see it, because you create a distance, subconscious or not, with everyone you meet.

Except for me.

You latched on to me. I understand. Really, I do. It's not always easy. I understand. This world is strange, and so unlike the one you remember. The one you claim to remember, because you don't have many memories. I can only imagine how frustrating that must be. I sometimes see your face lit up in surprise or in recognition, and you yell a triumphant "A-ha!", only to fall silent and wonder about what it exactly was that triggered your memory. It slips from your hands, those shreds of something akin to a memory, out of your grasp. Again.

I know what you're doing. I'm here all the time, you know. You're a part of me, you're inside of me. I wish I knew everything of you, like you do of me...but I'm some kind of undiscovered territory, and you're exploring me like you always do in a situation: meticulous, patient, diligent. Unless you lose your head and stampede through a duel. Thank you for winning my soul back, but well... it wasn't really necessary in the beginning, don't you think?

Sometimes I think you're afraid of this world, and that's why you’re so focused on me. You're rather intelligent and you quickly get the hang of everything; you even programmed my cell phone faster than I could. Still, it's so much different than what you're used to - or what you think you're used to, lost memories and all that - that it scares you, that it frightens you. It's all right. I know you won't ever tell me, because whatever fear you have, it's not like you to talk about it.

Why am I writing this all to you? I don't know. Maybe because it starts to bother me. Maybe because sometimes, just sometimes, I really want to be alone. Alone, without someone in my head. I know, it sounds rather strange for someone so attached to his friends as I am, but really...really, sometimes I just want to be alone. Not to ponder any deep thoughts, the existence of the universe and the cosmos and my place in this world, or to... to do private things, what any hormonal sixteen, almost seventeen, year old boy would do. I'm rather healthy in that department, you know.

Of course you know. You know everything, and you want to know everything. If you don't pay attention for one second or something else catches your attention for just a moment, you ask me what I've been doing. I have the sinking feeling you keep track of everything I say, and that you cross-reference it with your own notes. Oh, you're so very meticulous. It takes you ten minutes to write down a sentence because you're left handed, and you're afraid that the 'ink will spill' and smudge over the paper. No matter how often I tell you it's just a simple ball-point pen, and that they don't stain or spill any ink. It's endearing to see how concentrated you write, and on the other hand, I'm very thankful that you help me out with school every once in a while, like with that algebra test.

I didn't notice that I had dozed off, and maybe you felt guilty for exhausting my body at night when I needed the rest, but you took that test for me and scored my first -and unfortunately, still last- A for me. I did have some explaining to do about how I solved the questions in particular, because you used a rather...outdated and unconventional method, but the answers were right, undeniably so. My mother was very happy with it, and so was I, even though it wasn't exactly my own achievement. Heh, some of my fellow classmates told me that I was unusually focused that afternoon.

Is there something wrong? No, I don't think so. I'm glad you're my friend, and that you want to help me, even though that sometimes goes as far as to...being stalker-ish, I presume. Maybe I should use the word 'obsessive', I think that's better in this context. It's like I can feel you pass judgement on anyone who I meet, classify them according to your own system and assess the potential threat they can be. It wouldn't be the first time that you would whip out your mind-crush to shatter someone's soul into oblivion because he or she looked at me funnily.

I can't shut you out. I can't ignore you. I can't tune you out. I can't lock you up. Not that I want to do that, oh no. It feels...strangely comfortable, having someone as close as you; close as can be, how can anyone top being so close as to be in one's mind? However, it's almost suffocating me, choking me, weighing me down. It's me, Yuugi, but sometimes I don't know if it's really me or you, Nameless Pharaoh.

You don't like sweets - how can anyone not like ice cream? - but if I don't pay attention, you put so much honey in my tea that it almost becomes a solid gob of...honey with a slight taste of tea. You like rice, you like salty snacks, which I figured out when I had my mouth full of some seaweed dish and didn't know how fast to spit it out. You sneakily add an extra belt when I'm not looking, or when I pull a shirt right over my head. Jii-chan was beyond amazed and shocked when he had to retrieve his classical music CD's from my room, and you change the radio channel all the time. It doesn't matter, because we share, and we learn. I drink the gob of tea because I know honey reminds you of your home. I eat something salty after something terribly sweet, just to please you. I only sigh and leave the extra belt, and I bought a classical music compilation CD just for you to listen to, and it's a minor movement to change the radio channel back.

You write my essays on Ancient Egypt in history class, and you wrote my paper on political views on the world. You got a little wordy on that, and you threw a temper tantrum because we got a B for using archaic language to express an 'outdated, sheltered' view. All and all...you're not of this world. You're dead. You died to protect this same world, and you would do it again if it were asked of you. I admire your strength and courage, but all I ask of you is...

...to leave me alone sometimes.

It's like...I can't always deal with your presence. Like I said, I can't turn you off, or tune you out. You're just always there. It's too much, you know? I would love to tell you, and to say it's not your fault, nor is it mine. You didn't ask for this to happen, and neither did I. We're stuck in this situation, and we both are trying to make the best out of it.

I respect you, and ask of you to respect me. To rest when I'm resting, to leave my body alone and not constantly...be on my mind. I can't deal with it all the time, no matter how much I want to. Would that be too much to ask? I'm not sure. I'm really not sure. You see - you're very hard to read. I don't know everything of you, and you can be very difficult. Your eyes, your fiery crimson red eyes, they sometimes scare me. I know you would listen to me, but you wouldn't hear me. You would take this personally, and more than probably, you would start to wonder what you could do about it...but not in the way I want it to. Can't you see how difficult it is?

Can't you see...can't you feel how much I long for silence in my head? I'm not asking for 24/7 of silence, not by a long shot. I want you...I want you to be this close. Only sometimes...we need a little distance, you know?

I wonder if you know. You have a narrow view of the world, which isn't your fault - you died at a very young age, and it has been three millennia. That's all we know at this point, and I feel sorry for you. No one deserves to die at a very young age, but that doesn't mean that you can continue to be the person who you are...who you think you are. People change. The world changes. Situations change.

You're my friend. Really, you are. Some things are yours, some things are mine. My mother compliments me on my tidy desk, sighing that it only took me ten years to learn. Jii-chan pours me tea in the morning, after more than ten years of pouring orange juice. He looks at me, because he knows, and then smirks at me when he serves me scrambled eggs. You hate eggs, but you would barely eat at all if someone else doesn't remind you. An old habit maybe, and it's what makes you you - an unique personal, an individual, just like me.

Only lately, I've been asking myself how much of an individual I still am. Would you...will you understand that? I'm almost finished writing this down. There are only so many ways of writing this without sounding repetetive. Maybe if you read this, and think about it, it's easier for you to understand. I rather not... confront you about this, because I know you will be hurt, and you will look at me and say "If that is what you want, aibou", which will show me that you missed the point, and you don't like missing the point, and I don't want you to miss the point.

Because, the truth is, the point is, that I just want some distance. Some silence. Not all the time, but sometimes, you know? It's not about asking me what I've done and where I've been, because I love to talk to you and to make you even laugh. I like to hear you laugh, because it's cold and dark and creepy inside your soul room, and I think that with a little bit of laughter it looks so much better. That, and a thorough redecoration.

It's not about...I can't think of how to explain it. I've been rambling far too much about it already, this is the fifth sheet of paper I'm using, and I have very small handwriting. I don't want to justify myself for something that I want, something that I ask for myself. It's not like I ask much for myself. Not like you ask much for yourself either...the only thing I can do now is to express my hope that you understand. Because I'm going crazy...no, that's not true. I'm getting very mildly annoyed...no, that's not true either.

Because I'm afraid I'm losing myself. Who I am. I want to be Mutou Yuugi, with all his faults and mistakes, with all the things he does right, with all the things he's known for. Some traits are mine, and I want to keep it that way. I've learned a lot already - I have grown, I have gained confidence, gained experience in life. I just don't want to wake up with a craving for some food or drink that I know it's not mine. I just don't want to go to the library and find myself perusing books on Ancient Egypt while I need to do research on volcanoes. I just don't want to look in the mirror and ask myself who I am seeing there.

I hope you understand. Sometimes it's just too much, mou hitori no boku. I'm sorry.

Yuugi aibou

-- Yuugi



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