|The Toy Maker
Author: Shadow Sanctuary PM
If Yugi doesn't obey, then both he and Yami will die.If he chooses to comply, then he himself dies.Is Yugi's love strong enough that he'll sacrifice himself to a madman for Yami?Rated: Fiction M - English - Horror/Angst - Yūgi M. & Yami Marik - Words: 1,514 - Reviews: 4 - Favs: 3 - Follows: 9 - Published: 10-24-05 - id: 2632298
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Murder and Mayhem
Violet eyes opened, lids parting sluggishly, eyelashes still twined together like a newly wed couple's hands at the altar. They were in that awkward transition between sleeping and waking. On one side, the hotel of deep REM was beckoning him, practically pleading to extend his vacation in Dreamland. On the other, reality was being equally stubborn, urging him to fly back to the present.
So far, Slumber Inn was winning his vote. Yesterday was a freaking insane asylum. Constantly studying, reading, or writing, he didn't even remember falling asleep in the first place. Beds were turning into Eden. Friends at school spun wonderful legends of them, gushing detailed descriptions of their mattresses, pillows, and blankets as if they were Indian royalty. He completed the terrible hierarchy, a peasant beginning to forget what his bed looked like. These days, he was beginning to doubt he ever owned one in the first place. Sheets and cushioning-what the hell was that, anyways? Some cruel fairytale invented by the rich? Probably. Silver spoon brats always had to hang their Cadillac this or Gucci that over his head. If he had his way, he'd kick them out of paradise and have them taste what life on earth was really like.
And maybe I'd steal some of those top-of-the-line water beds they keep yammering about. He mused. Just imagining the grand theft provoked a smile.
"Isn't that right, Yami?" the boy asked half-joking, half-serious. "You'd help me snatch some of their upscale stuff?"
Lazily, he swung his eyes to the sofa, expecting to see a mass of quizzically wrinkled skin. The counterpart wasn't used to hearing such obscene jests. Back in his good old Egyptian days, robbery was punishable by removing nails. It was unfathomable for the teen to think of-four people holding him down against a stony slab, his body thrashing madly as some crazy priest chanted curses to the gods, a temple keeper clenching hard on a nail, mumbling with his cohorts, grinning in horrible, nerve-wrecking suspense-
"Ugh…no thanks, man." He declared, a full-spine shudder spiraling through his body. "Just kidding, Yami. Count me outta that one."
Still ravaged with Egyptian torture methods, he eagerly awaited a response. Young ears strained to hear for even the slightest whisper, but none came. Purple eyes narrowed to dark slits in his face, searching the shadows for his counterpart. That was a lost cause. Only a slice of moon shone through the windows, a scythe gleaming against the Reaper's midnight sky robe. Any other time, it would feel majestic, beautiful, right. Unlike now, though. Something didn't feel so good. Something didn't feel right.
That was all he needed to check out of Snooze City. Groggily, he slid a hand towards his face, almost smacking himself. A drowsy palm went over one eye, then the other, mashing sleep away like a blender whipping potatoes. Moaning softly, he felt the tension of his muscles before lifting his head, skin and tissues in his neck protesting in angry silence. His poor, aching body was picketing for more sleep, desperate for fair treatment in exchange for all the hard hours of work clocked in for the week. Although he understood the complaints (and agreed on every single account), the request to rest was denied. When fear overtakes the mind, chaos settle in, and civil liberties are lost in the confusion.
Fingertips found their way to his head, ruffling blond, black, and red tangled hair out of sight. Some unruly strands were making life difficult, flopping straight into his sight after he had just slicked them over. Gritting his teeth, he repeated the haphazard grooming, but the same result followed. Finally, he sighed heavily, gracefully accepting defeat. He had been losing battles with his appearance since test dates arrived. Messy tresses, dark circles, and wearing unwashed clothes for days on end were becoming the norm. It used to bother him, with his neat, perfectionist standards grating at his nerves every time he passed a mirror. At the moment, if his damned reflection broke, he wouldn't give a care.
"Maybe I'd even laugh about it." The boy murmured, plucking a piece of paper off his cheek.
Casually, he held the sheet between two fingers, amazed at its fresh wetness. He raised a brow, parting his lips as he stared at what was supposed to be homework.
"How in the world--" he started to ask, then dropped the question. Tracing the side of his mouth, he discovered the water source. "Mmm, yum-homemade drool pie-all over my research project for history."
Without skipping a beat, he slopped the back of his hand across his left cheek, cleaning saliva along the way. Gross, but it had to be done. When finished, he wiped himself off on a blue pants leg, not even grimacing as he did it.
"Crap, this is worth two test grades!" he griped, tossing his work aside. Before frustration set in, he took a much-needed breath, calmed down, and blew out through dry, cracked pursed lips. Rolling his eyes (kindly recognizing yet another loss), he shook his head, imagining his grade falling with the paper to the floor.
Now here was the tricky part. Getting up. Man that was going to be a bitch. On the first try, he groped, caught the edge of a coffee table, and lost his grip. Falling on his Barbie butt wasn't the greatest feeling in the universe. Especially not at three thirty in the morning. Rattled and stung from the impact, he tried again, this time using the floor instead of newly polished furniture to support him. Success! Standing upright had been achieved without hitting the ground!
More awake on his feet, the teen blinked rapidly, adjusting his eyes to the dark. Gradually, objects in the room faded into place, like phantoms making themselves known to man. An average living room equipped with basic fixtures rather than added home décor. To the left, a sofa sleeper sat, a lazy body relishing in cushiony relaxation. Towards the front of the modest room, a mid-sized TV, some video games and systems, and other electronics gathered, a strange ritual dedicated to the gods of Sony, Nintendo, and Magnavox. Some minor fittings included a bean bag chair, reading lamp, potted fern (overgrown, in dire need of TLC), and, of course, that gold ole damned coffee table, covered with so many school supplies and text books that no one would be able to tell what the furniture was. So, the place isn't the most likely candidate for America's Most Wanted Homes, but it's livable. Plus, functional is better than dysfunctional. Having somewhere to stay is better than being on the street.
Stepping lightly, the boy went to his right. Another couch was around somewhere over there. He just had to find it. Going one pace, then two, then three, he barely missed the edge of the end table's hard edge as he slinked across the carpet, a mouse crawling in a serpent's empty stomach pit.
Within seconds, he reached his destination, only he was at a loss for what to say or do. Words might constrict his throat further, restricting his breath. Taking immediate action might be dangerous, considering he could go on a killing rampage if he ever found the criminal responsible for this. Forgetting himself, he dashed for the couch, almost tripping over a food box in his path. The container of Cheese-Its took a devastating blow, belching its fragile insides in every direction. Ignoring the spill, he dropped to his knees, feeding the carpet bits of cheese crackers. His features froze in shock. His body followed suit. His skin lost color, and his mouth went dry. Violet eyes poured over the gruesome sight, unsure of how to react.
"Yami…" whispered the terrified boy. "Yami, where's Yami?"
In place of his roommate's body lay a dead bird. Wings spread, eyes glazed over, beak slightly open, he estimated it to be fresh kill. A raven, painting the couch cushions red, a brilliant contrast in the dim setting. Raking a trembling hand through his matted, dirty hair, the teen sat on his heels, completely floored.
"What…What the hell?"
By the bird, scrap paper waved at him. He didn't want to be here, believe what was happening, see the letters scrawled across the flapping page. Squeezing his eyes shut, he splayed his fingers and ripped the sheet from the raven's claws. Crisp autumn air fondled the apartment's curtains, causing the white material to roll on the breeze. Briefly, they brushed the boy's clammy forehead, like a succubus issuing her victim the kiss of death. In his mind, he was still asleep, dreaming the dreams he wanted to dream, far away from the nasty threats of the present, but oh-so-sickeningly close to the murder and mayhem yet to come…