Author's Note: So, yeah, I decided to write another chapter. I don't write angst often, but writing angst makes me happy afterwards. I wonder why?

Who do you think I'm doing this for?

I feel your head on my hand, as I push it on the ground. Your laboured breaths fill up the silence. Your long, snow-white hair tickles my palm as the wind blow through it. I hate that feeling. I cut it short with a jerk of my knife.

Your tears run down your face, streaking lines as they race off - meeting a bitter end on the harsh carpet floor, greedily soaking up each drop. Tears or blood; it really makes no difference. It soaks it all up eagerly so.

"You're pathetic; a crybaby. You'll get no where in life."

You clench your teeth and close your eyes as I wind up for another blow in the face. I stop. You look up expectantly, and I execute it right in the eye.

You flinch back, clutching it in pain. Tears threatening to fall again.

"You're pathertic; you deserve to die."

Who do you think I'm doing this for?

I give a ferocious kick in the stomach as you just stare pointlessly at my face. What are you hoping for? Salvation?

You sputter. You cough up blood. It splatters red all over my shoes, and you cringe knowingly at it. Oh, yes; you see what you did. You know what I'm going to do. You roll up protectively as I threaten you with my flip-knife.

I pull you up by your hair. That beautiful white hair of yours, coated in a layer of dust and dry, crusty blood. Your tears flow like a river now, and your whimpering starts up again.

I hold up the knife by the jugular of your neck. "So easy now." I whisper into your ear. You shiver at my voice. "So easy to kill."

Years earlier this quavering mass would have been nothing by now. You would've been a mere puddle on the floor. A pathetic excuse for an ex-host of mine.

Here, now, you still have the energy to whimper like a half-dead puppy. Big improvement.

I throw you to the side, pocketing the knife. "Still pathetic," I mutter at your flying back.

Who do you think I'm doing this for?

I crouch down by your face, and you look up instinctively. Drooping, expecting chocolate brown eyes meet auburn. You wince as you stare into my half-crazed eyes. Your mouth opens an inch, as if wanting to comment, but closes in a snap. Stop hoping.

I grab your shirt by the collar and hold you up in the dark lit room. The quick altitude change leaves you glossy-eyes and dazed. The running blood from your scrapped head doesn't help, no doubt.

"You have something to say?"

You tremble in my hands. Eyes watering up yet again. You never stop, do you? Such a crybaby. I strode in the kitchen. You look at the drawers - knife drawer in particular - and I let your own fears play out in your mind.

With a quick push with my hand, your head disappears in the sink. I let the tap run by your ears, but you neither flinch nor move at the sound. Your breathing, however, tells it all. The sink fills. I push your head in. You suffer in silence, bubbles rising to the surface.

You flail your arms as you run out of air. I keep you under. Spasms of your chest tell me you're drank up water, and I let you up at last.

A flicker of gratitude fills your face before it disappears completely. You cough - coughing turns to hacking. You drop to the floor when I let go of your arm.

Who do you think I'm doing this for?

Life is not all fun and games. Life is never fair. Life should not be taken lightly.

I grab you by the arm, and flip you over. Your back on the floor. My foot on your stomach. I press down, water and saliva still spewing down the corners of your mouth. You grab at your throat, but I know you won't choke.

I stare you in the eyes. Your glistening brown eyes, no longer bright, but covered in a layer of darkness and death. You blink furiously to focus, and I just push my foot harder in response.

You're getting there. These eyes of yours are finally fitting for this vicious world.

You think an innocent boy would last a chance in this kind of place? The world is harsh and not for the weak. The weak minded; the weak strength. They will never survive.

You may scream all you want. You may swear all you want. You may hope all you want. You may cry all you want, but I'll never stop hurting you.

Just who do you think I'm doing this for?

You're just a pathetic child, kept in a blanket of comfort for much too long. The world will eat you alive out there. You'll never know what hit you.

I'm just preparing you for that onslaught.

Who's to say I'm really the bad guy here? Who's to say those schoolmates of yours are right? They can do however they please. They can die whenever they please. They don't concern me one bit.

You, my bodily reincarnation, on the other hand…

I give you a kick on the side, watching as you turn around, gasping for breath. You heave on the floor. I crinkle my nose in disgust at the sight.

You breath stays laboured. Your limbs wobble and give out without a notice. You clutch your stomach in pain, slowly drifting off. I push you out of my way with the back of my foot, watching as darkness claims you.

"There's still more you have to work at." I mutter to no one in particular.

Really, just who do you think I'm doing this for? It's for Ryou's sake, of course. Preparation for the cruel life onwards.

A/N: So Ryou's slowly dying inside, and Bakura thinks he's actually helping the poor boy. That's life. No one said it was fair. No one said it wasn't filled with misunderstandings. No one said you'll survive it with your sanity intact.