A/N: Hi all, it's been a while since I've posted something. I haven't really been writing much due to a busy and hectic life, and I know it's a poor excuse, but believe me when I'm busy ;_;

EDIT: Summary changed because before I didn't know how I wanted to word it.

Anyways, enjoy my new story!

Etcetera, Etcetera
Prologue

It's a hard thing, but Jonouchi's got it all figured out there are hardships that he knows he needs to endure, though he knows he's been enduring ever since he was little. Since he was old enough to know what it meant to be alone. Jounouchi can remember calling out for his father, only to meet with a quiet silence in the end.

There are cards scattered across the mud-tracked carpet, in hopes that they'd cover up stains of old history. Remembrance, of the time his father hit him hard enough to bleed. It was an accident, in a drunken stupor; Jounouchi had provoked the man, yelled with words that cut through tough skin.

He can blame anybody, for the tiny scar that cuts at the corner of his lip. Jounouchi can blame many things, can blame many people, but he won't because the only person he can ever point his finger at is himself. He hangs his head, lets it fall onto the palms of his hands, as his fingers lace tightly through blonde hair.

"It's not too late," Jounouchi thinks. Forever living by a code, forgiving and forgetting, it's never to late to change the way you are. But it falls through each and every time, and he finds himself becoming more and more like his father each day.

Where did he go wrong. The memories are thick and hard to sift through, as though he's swimming through an abyss of quicksand. Jounouchi tries to pinpoint a memory, but it's hazy and a fog of doubt washes over it like a dark grey cloud. He doesn't remember having such a memory, doesn't remember having friends like these, the ones who offered him adolescent drugs for cheap.

A voice calls out, it's rough, powerful, but all the more compassionate. Jounouchi can hear it in his tone, one he's familiar with, one he longs to listen to while he's being cradled to sleep. He's forgotten his mother's voice, no longer a sweet lullaby to lull him back to bed.

"Pick up your things, it's time to go."

He grabs his bag off the floor, and heads for the door without turning back to look at the dueling cards swept throughout the bedroom floor.