Rated for: blood, death, disturbing content, and, I suppose, dealing with the occult. Though, to be honest, if tarot cards bother you, I don't know why you're watching YGO!
As I watch the American dub, this story takes place in America, not Japan. Plus, I know nothing about Japan. Go figure.
I don't own YGO! Another go figure.
Also note that, while Evil Bakura is a tarot expert, I am not. Please forgive the ignorance with which the subject is treated. But my friend Ryani helped, and after hammering a few basic facts into my head, managed to get a semi-decent representation. Thank you, Ryani.
Birthday present for jeti, which explains the blood. Happy birthday, dear jeti!
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incardadine
Making the green—one red.
—Macbeth, Shakespeare, Act Two, Scene TwoHalloween night. The trick-or-treaters came alive, skipping down the streets with bulging bags of candy.
The teen—or rather, the spirit in his body—walked down the sidewalk, looking condescendingly at the store-bought costumes. Those? Deceive a spirit? Hah! Bed sheets do not a counterfeit ghost make.
And ghosts didn't giggle stupidly, clutching candy in fat, greedy hands.
He hated Halloween. It hadn't always been that way—he could remember times long ago, when people sat and shivered as the wind ripped by. Now...they laughed and ate candy and wore stupid costumes.
It really wasn't fair.
Another block to reach the apartment building. He sighed, brushing some white hair from his face. When the world was his, he would personally see to it that trick-or-treating was abolished.
Someone jumped in front of him. A boy, wearing green makeup. The white-haired spirit eyed the child uncertainly. What in the name of the nine circles of Hell was he supposed to be?
"Boo!" screamed the boy. "I am a zombie! I am here to eat your soul!"
The spirit resisted the urge to burst out laughing. "Go away."
The boy looked at him stubbornly. "I want candy first."
"I don't have candy. Go away."
"Yes, you do," the boy insisted. He pointed a grey-painted hand at the spirit's shopping bag. Well—that did have candy. His host's father had sent him to go fetch candy for the "charming little children".
He really hated Halloween.
"Look," he snapped. "I am going home. If you bother me again, I will eat your soul."
The boy decided to shift tactics.
"Your wig looks stupid," he informed the spirit.
"It's not a wig. Go. Away."
"Yes, it is," the boy said. He reached up and grabbed some of the white hair in question, then proceeded to pull on it.
The spirit shied backwards, knocking the boy over and sending him flying.
"That does it," growled the spirit. "Prepare to face—"
He found himself facing the boy's mother.
"It's children like you," she snapped, "that make one despair for humanity. And you stole his candy!" she added, murderously. "Give that. Now."
"It's my candy, you imbecile," muttered the spirit. The mother didn't appear to notice.
She neatly ripped the bag out of his hand, then helped her son to his feet. "Come along, Thomas, deary. You mustn't talk to strangers."
The spirit stood there in shock. In order to achieve peace, he would now have to walk back to the store, buy more repulsive candy, then make his way back through this stream of trick-or-treaters.
It was starting to rain.
The boy's makeup was thoroughly smeared on his hair. He supposed that, in the general spirit of the day, it would prove to be indelible.
He hated Halloween with every inch of his soul.
He dove into alley behind the store for a moment's quiet. To his horror, a trick-or-
treater sat there. There could be no escaping them.
This child, he thought, must have sat down to count her candy. The fake blood from whatever wound she had pasted on was dripping down her neck and chest. Grudgingly, the spirit admitted to himself the child's mother had done a rather good job with the blood—still, the falseness was plain.
He considered. The girl was obviously too engrossed in sugar to have heard approaching footsteps. Why not give the child a real scare? Nothing fatal, just something to keep her starting at night... A good revenge.
He stretched out one hand towards her shoulder. The second he touched it, the head lolled backwards.
The cut—a deep cut, nearly reaching the spinal cord—was not pasted on.
The blood that dripped onto the suit (a bunny suit, Evil Bakura noted half-consciously) was not fake.
The red-stained candy sat on her lap—bloody caramels and Milky Way bars lying placidly unaware of their crimson shells. The chubby, trusting face of very young girl looked up at him, eyes blank, face frozen.
The blood stained his hands. He'd have to wash that off later—and leave now. One of the girl's parents would be coming soon—he couldn't afford being found. He muttered to himself. Now he'd have to wash his hands, sneak home, change clothes—just in case—sneak out, buy candy, think of some convenient excuse for the length of time he took...
Or.
He hadn't considered that.
He regarded the body with a kinder eye. Ever since the pharaoh's obnoxious friend had "killed" the spirit, he'd been lying low. Yes, the pharaoh and his posse were a bunch of half-wits, but the spirit had not lived for three thousand years without learning that there really is a time for everything—including inactivity.
Now, something to do that did not involve the pharaoh. It would be refreshing.
He'd spent three thousand years tracking one immortal murderer. Why not a mortal one?
(Also, he could probably wash that candy off... It wasn't as if the blood had contaminated it. He could just tell his host's father it was a variety pack.)
Two minutes later, a dog limped into the alley. It sniffed, smelling something faint and untraceable in the air. Maybe blood...it sniffed again. No, the smell was too faint to tell...
There wasn't anything in the alley—except a fluffy white ball. The dog, being a dog, went up to chew on it. Soon it was nothing but some ripped pieces of white fuzz, lying scattered across the alley. The next morning, they would be swept up and tossed into the trash, along with a derogatory comment on dogs.
The fluffy white ball, as it happened, was the tail from a bunny suit...
——
The day after Halloween. A woman lounged on a couch, looking at the TV, and apparently very bored. Yet at the same time, she looked tense...
Ring!
She looked up from the TV at the door unemotionally. A concerned friend, no doubt—she'd had her fill of those. Now, if he came...that would be different. But he wouldn't come. Not yet.
Her friends were all so funny: Mary, poor Mary, we're sure the police will find her, we're sure everything will be all right; poor, poor Mary... Couldn't they see that this way, everything was all right, not the other way? (Well, of course not. They'd never understand that there were things worth killing for...)
She giggled to herself, just a little. Friends—so stupid. But useful.
Ring!
The announcer on the TV was explaining one of many equally uninteresting sport scandals. Still, she'd rather listen to that than hear herself called poor Mary one more time. She could apologize later, tearfully.
She was running out of tears.
"Mary?" came an uncertain voice through the door. She sat up, electrified.
His voice...
"I know you're there," he continued, "because I can hear the TV...and you might not want to talk to me...but I wanted to say..."
The door swung open. She stood there, dark brown hair coming out of its tight bonds. Her face was flushed.
The object of adoration was a tall young man with a handsome, but stupid, face. He looked taken aback, and perhaps embarrassed. His name, as it happened, was Thomas.
She waited impatiently for him to tell her that everything was all right; that now there were no problems; waited for him to show more brain than her friends. She was not prepared for his first words:
"I'm so sorry..."
She wanted to scream at him that it was just the two of them, and no one else: he could be honest! He wanted everything this way—she had, too—they were the only people in the world that could ever know.
"...really, Mary..."
He didn't understand...
"...out to dinner, maybe you'd feel better then..."
"Dinner would be lovely," she said. She smiled at him.
Perhaps it was best that he didn't understand.
Very few men would understand that they were worth killing for.
After a contented dinner, Mary dropped onto her bed, eyelids drooping...and closing...
Laughter.
Low, and rough, echoing through the hallway. She looked wildly around: nothing but the normal doors...her bedroom, the closet, the bathroom... All scarlet and twisted, a demented child's nightmare...
"Child," mocked the laughter. "Child. Child. Child."
It knew.
How...?
Her hands. Of course. Her hands were stained. That was all...she would wash her hands and the laughing would stop... Once the blood was gone, the laughter couldn't know, could it?
She staggered towards the bathroom door... Reached out one bony hand... Collapsed onto the tiled floor... Dragged herself up to the sink... Let the red water flow over her hands...
Water wasn't red.
The tangy metallic smell of blood, rising from sink, told her what she had done... Soap! Soap could still clear this away with soap...soap and water, blood and water...it made no difference. Soap could clear this all away... A little soap...
Like they taught at school...
But there was no soap.
Nothing but the blood, splashing over herself, and eating away at her... Her features melted...and the laughter became sobbing...a little girl's sobbing...interwoven still with the rough laughter...and she could see—
——
A figure stepped slowly out of Mary's back porch. He appeared to be carrying several boxes.
...Do I want to know why you just stole every bar of soap in her house? inquired a voice in his head.
No. You don't.
...And the cleaning fluid...
Be quiet. You're interrupting my concentration.
At this point, the figure's foot landed solidly upon a cat. With a screech, the cat sent him flying backwards into a bush of the holly variety. Something that sounded suspiciously like Egyptian cursing could be heard.
The figure stood and, collecting the boxes, stiffly made his way down to the sidewalk.
——
She jerked awake, and put a hand to her forehead... She sat there, quite still, holding her breath, until she noticed her hands were getting her forehead damp.
It was sweat.
It had to be sweat.
She pulled the hand back...and stared at the dark stains on her palm.
How did the stains get there? How? She'd worn gloves—and she'd been so careful not to stain herself.
Suddenly, she went up to her dresser, looked at the mirror...she couldn't see the blood...but—
She held up a hand. It reflected back at her: clean, white, perfect.
Looked back down.
She could feel the blood—she could see the blood—it was there. She grabbed some piece of lacy decor, and rubbed her hand furiously with it. Nothing happened—the lace stayed unstained, the blood did not move.
She tried something else—she laid palm of one hand onto the back of the other, lightly, then pulled her hand back. The hand was now stained on both sides.
This had to do with her dream, somehow. Which meant...soap.
There was soap, of course. She had plenty of soap.
There was no soap.
But she needed soap. Or else—well, she didn't know what would happen. Something would, though—and she could hardly knock up the neighbor now. It wasn't really that late—nearing midnight—and there would probably be a convenience store open...
She drove to the convenience store, bought the soap, and stepped out—then stood still. How funny—this had been the place where—
"—me?" asked an apologetic teen beside her.
She looked at him blankly.
"Sorry," he said, looking somewhat like a confused, guilty puppy. "I was biking, you know, and something's gone all funny with the bike..."
I don't have time for this, she thought. Out loud, she said, "Biking at midnight?"
"Yes...well..." He smiled sheepishly. "Needed something, couldn't get it in the house, don't know how to drive—you understand."
(He looks like a sheep, she told herself, down to the white hair and intellect...)
She might as well help him. Now that she had the soap, it didn't matter. And perhaps helping this sheep solve his problems could serve her own purposes...you never knew.
The bike leaned against the back wall in alley, and about halfway down, she realized two things:
It was sitting in the same spot as the girl had.
There was nothing wrong with it.
A sudden attack from behind, and the soap was ripped from her hands. The boy sprang back, and she wondered if this was the same boy. His eyes had changed, somehow...
He had the bag hooked over one arm, and appeared to be shuffling a deck of cards.
"Interesting, your forehead," he said in a raspy voice. "Wasn't there another kin-killer who was marked there?"
He laughed.
It was the laugh from her dreams.
He could see the blood on her hands—the blood on her forehead...how? How did he know?
"Give me that soap," she snarled.
He regarded the bag lazily. "No... I won't."
She didn't have her knife—but there was sure to be broken glass—she could claim self-defense—say it was his blood—
He drew a card.
She inched towards a promising piece of glass, saying nothing.
"It's the Fool," he told announced, to no one. "Which could mean a child, or a betrayal..." He grinned. "Or the betrayal of a child, perhaps?"
The glass was closer...
Another card.
"The Tower..." His face looked at her, mock-apologetic. "It's upside down... I wonder how I made that slip? ...Death."
Closer...
"And now...the Wheel of Fortune. Retribution. The cards don't like you."
She grabbed the glass. It cut into her hand, and real, tangible blood welled up...
"Don't you want your soap?" he asked. "I personally find blood difficult to wash with."
He reached into the bag, pulling out a bar of soap. Then he stepped aside, as a small hand accepted the soap. A little girl look shyly out from behind him, then smiled, mouthed "mother"...
She recoiled. Who is he? How can he do this?
There was no hope of killing him now—not with that thing between them—
The girl ran forward, holding out the soap...came closer...reached out a hand—
Mary's scream ripped through the night air, waking everyone within earshot. The startled neighbors and workers arrived to see an empty alley, with a bar of soap lying on the ground...
One little boy tugged at his mother.
"The soap's bleeding," he informed her.
"Don't be silly. Soap doesn't bleed."
"But I can see—"
"Shush."
Finis.
That was...........odd. Anyway, constructive crit. is always welcome, so gimme.
And, again: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JETI!