Blood and guts for Adele. Hope you had the happiest of Happy Birthdays, love. Sorry that I'm a bit late.

(This is me working on my obsessive!Malik, okay? I hope he's not too out of character.)

Tell me the first word that comes to mind when you think "murder."

Violence? Death? Blood? Kill?

All of these are quite good choices. However, not the word I was thinking of. You do not pass.

"Torture," he tells me, "is the basic definition of murder. If you're not going to torture a victim, don't bother with killing him."

Everything in our relationship revolves around blood or death or gore or pain or torture. "Blood makes the world go round." He says.

Words of wisdom. The philosophy of Bakura.

Even our meeting was laced with blood and death. He threw himself in front of me, because even then he knew I was wrapped around and around and around his finger. I'd crash my motorcycle before I let it scratch him. Paint the alley walls with my guts. Smash my brain. Break my neck. Off with my head.

Tell me about the first word that comes to mind when you think of "love."

Romance? Hearts? Happiness?

If you thought violence, then you're learning something.

That's why I'm here. To teach you. Like he taught me. Philosophy.

But I digress; we should move on to history.

The first dozen or so victims have left indelible scars on my brain. Back when they were murders, before they were massacres. Before one a night became a dozen. Before insanity went insane.

Number one was a girl. Cute and short and chubby and blonde. I think she was a familiar face to him. She said "hello." She smiled. She waved.

He cut her hand off. She screamed. She bled.

It was all quick. Blink and you'll miss it. Knife, wall, hand, blood. Blurry, fast, painful. Her mouth fell open and formed the most perfect little O that I've ever seen. Her eyes, dull and brown, went wide. Like two perfect, little, brown, circular mirrors. They were so… scared. Scared mirrors.

First thing that comes to mind when you hear the word "beauty."

Appearance? Glamour? Pretty? Fear.

When you see something so beautiful, it drives you mad.

We'll visit psychology long enough so that I can tell you of Stendhal Syndrome. It usually occurs amongst individuals who come across art or beauty that is so amazingly stunning--it causes them to go insane. Fainting, dizziness, hallucinations, etc. It has also been know to occur in those exposed to great natural beauty. The Aurora Borealis. Niagara Falls. The Great Barrier Reef. The Grand Canyon.

See also, fear.

And the moment he drives the long, thin, silver object into her soft, sweet, innocent doe-brown eyes, I know that this is it. I know that this is what I want, crave, need. I know that I'll follow this sick, satanic, demon to the gates of Hell and back. I'll twist the knife for him. I'll burn the evidence. I'll ditch the body. I'll take the blame.

And today, we have a pop quiz. Tell me everything that you know about obsession.

Say whatever you'd like. Pour your heart out for me. Vomit words like love, adoration, desire, fixation, attraction, addiction, and insanity at my feet. See if I care. Study as hard as you'd like, kids, because unless you know Bakura and me, you won't be getting a perfect score.

And then, not even ten minutes after this poor, sweet, innocent, chubby little girl's heart stops beating--not even ten minutes after her chocolate orbs have been ripped from her skull, her face smashed in, her jaw broken off, her fingers chewed to bits--I'm in the same back alley, on my knees, with his fingers (hot and sticky from blood and organs) curled into fists in my blond locks, staining them a putrid shade of holy shit red. The mangled corpse lies at our feet, and I can feel it watch us as it slowly rots away. I try not to feel a sense of accomplishment at the realization that the Spirit is fucking my face and not her's, but I can't help myself.

The next murder took place a week afterwards, and I'm starting to wonder to myself how often the Spirit of the Ring goes about these things. How many people he's killed, be it in his host's body, or his own three thousand years ago. If he's ever found someone like me to follow him around and wipe the bloodstains off of his pretty face.

I like to wipe the blood off his face onto my hands, because my life his black and white next to his red rum technicolor. "I am a canvas," I'll say. "Paint me, mold me, fuck me, love me." He'll smirk, and draw a cross on my face with a smear of crimson regret.

"Heaven help us." And his teeth are so blindingly white and sharp and disgustingly attractive, that I'm starting to lose my patience. I cannot wait for the day when he pops the eyeballs from my sockets, and leaves them attached to my skull as two big white bloody tear drops, and cuts my stomach open, and fucks my insides, and kills me, and eats me.

But that's the future, and I know nothing of the future. Bakura hasn't told me of the future, and I only know what Bakura's told me.

"I hate you." And he says it with a smile on his face. A grin. A smirk. And it rips me to shreds. I hate it; that look. It's disgusting. I'm disgusted.

"I hate you," He repeats the phrase just because he can. Because he wants to. And this time, he smiles wider. "You're worthless and pathetic. You need to stop following me." I can't tell if the look on my face is made out of sorrow or anger, but he can. And how he loves it. Loves the way he can control me.

"I--" And I open my mouth to return the sentiment, but my throat runs dry. I can't do it; can't tell this beautiful, sick, twisted creature that I hate him just as much as he hates me. (This isn't the first time this has happened; he's trying to teach me a lesson. "Have no attachments," he says. "Hate everyone.") All I can choke out is the phrase, "I know."

The smile drops from his face faster than you can say "love." His pale hands are at my throat, and his long sharp nails--claws--are digging into my skin. "I hate you. I hate you. I hate you." It falls from his pallid lips like a prayer; and all I can do is try to nod inside of his death grip. My skull cracks against the sordid alley walls, and I see stars. I feel dizzy. I think that he may be kissing me, but he probably isn't. The next thing I feel is a cold sharp knife against my abdomen, carving out a long thin straight line. A tally mark. This makes number seven; seven times that he's tried to teach me this lesson that I've failed to learn. Lucky seven.

I think that seven is my favorite number, but I'm not sure. I don't really remember many of my favorites outside of color, name, and weapon. (White. Bakura. Knife.)

And I'm thinking that the number seven might be a big deal for the Spirit, too. Because he seems more upset than he usually is (or maybe my head is still a little fuzzy from that bash against the wall.) And he says it again.

"I hate you. And not just because I have to. Not just because you're a human being. Not just because you exist. I hate you, because I hate you." And he shoves me against the wall again. And again. And again. I'm seeing splotches of purple and gold, and I'm thinking that they could have been my favorite colors. I think that they were. A long time ago.

And the knife goes up and up and up, and I feel blood pouring out of my flesh like sweat, and he must really be upset, and I can't keep myself from caring about this. He presses it against my neck, digs it into the flesh, and it feels cold on my skin.

"Kill or be killed." He says. More wise words. And the knife is this close to my jugular, I can feel it.

And maybe it's just the headache blossoming at the base of my skull, or maybe it's just the blood filling and spilling out from my everywhere, but I pull out a knife (one that he gave me; naturally) from behind my back, and smash it into his.

Stabbed in the back, Bakura. How's that for "I hate you"?

And he gasps, and his redbrown (like a mixture of blood and chocolate) eyes go wide. His jaw falls open, he looks at me. And smiles.

"I...hate...you." And for such an eloquent intelligent guy, those are some God-awful last words. (Are they even last words? I haven't killed him, just his vessel.) But those words, (and how many times have I heard him say them?) inspire me to pull the knife from his back, and jab it into his front.

His throat. His guts. His heart. Stab, stab, stab, stab. (I stab his heart more than once--maybe just for the poetic justice of it.) He falls to the floor of the dirty alley that hold more memories than a dirty alley should (or maybe it doesn't hold any, maybe all dirty alleyways just look the same), and I don't know what to do with myself.

First thing that comes to mind when you hear. Greif.

I crave your words, Bakura. Tell me something. Tell me what to do. Guide me, hate me, fuck me, kill me. Don't just sit there lying isnide of a dead shell. Looking at me those dead eyes that you don't even own.

Stab. Stab. Stab. Your blood is probably the most beautiful thing that I've ever seen.

And my mind is a whirl. I think of all of those times you had me on my stomach, forcing me to kiss dirt, as you tortured me in all of the ways that you loved to. And now I'm thinking, that I didn't even torture you. I have your blood on my hands, and it's lovely, but I hardly deserve it. I couldn't even follow your own goddamned advice. And even in death (weren't you always dead?), you make me hate myself.

No time like the present. And even if it's not your body, I'll just have to fuck it, anyway.

Your clothes are gone in nanoseconds. I do my best to imitate a smirk of yours, and it feels like it's about to rip my face in half. How could you do it? Smile so wide without tearing apart that innocent boy's face--that innocent boy that certainly never smiled. Not in the way that you did.

And I lean over you (hang over you, haunt over you; like a ghost), and move. You feel tight and wonderful and warm, but that might just be the blood that I'm using to make this easier. Easier on who? I could probably rip your eyeball out and fuck the socket if I wanted to. But I don't.

(and that's the sad thing. maybe I never wanted fucking. maybe I just wanted to make love.)

"I'm breaking all of the rules, Bakura!" I scream as I move faster and faster and faster. "Can you hear me?"

And oh God. We're back to Stendhal Syndrome, and I'm falling into madness all over again. The Spirit's vessel is lifeless and trapped between my hot, needy body and the cold, hard cement. I smash my hips against him. Over and over and oevrover and over. Like clockwork.

And it feels so wonderful, and I'd probably be fucking him crazy if it were possible for a corpse to go crazy. I see stars again. The world turns white (my favorite color...) and my mind goes blank.

And now. Tell me the first word that comes to mind when you think "happiness."