Abstract Art

Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh! If I did, Ryou, Duke, and Bakura would have more screen time, Bakura and Yami would be... Not going there... ^)^U Marik would lose to Bakura, Tristan would have a personality, Tea would either act human or drown, and Mokuba wouldn't have to carry Seto's heavy ass briefcase a la Fort Knox around.

Notes: This is dark and disturbed, just as a general warning. I'm in a generally homicidal mood and decided it would be nice of me to torture certain bishies to let off steam.


Mutilation. Such a strange word attached to such a beautiful thing. It's the type of word that sticks to the back of your throat and refuses to be said; a halting, unsure term used for an art beautiful beyond the simplicity of words. People label this art with a long, dark "X", forbidding it's fluent grace from being exposed to the world.

But why? Do they know what kind of an euphoric feeling it is, to be able to paint the canvass of your skin with whatever your heart desires? Do those people, so afraid of the superstitious "imperfection" of scars, even have an inkling of an idea of what it's like to be able to feel the cool metal caress your skin with the lightness of a lover's touch?

Of course they don't! This "mutilation" is like a taboo to those close-minded creatures. To touch it is like eating the forbidden fruit; they want it, but dare not eat of it for fear of the repercussions. Hell, I'm sure some of those fear-ridden simpletons are afraid of the pain.

I can't fathom why. The pain is one of the most delicious things a person can ever taste in their whole life. But, it's not the dark, clawing depression fastly attached to pain caused by other vicious beings. It's a wonderful, warm pain associated with the simple fact that you have control over something in a world overcome by controlling chaos

As I said, it's an art. The art of rebellion, control, and bloodletting all wrapped into a single gleaming blade. This form of expression can be done in so many ways as well. In any language, any direction, any image you want that loving, cold metal to trace, it will do so without question or fail.

But like all other artists wonder, once you collect all the correct utensils, what do paint? What do you base your next breathtaking portrait on?

Maybe another portion of your life.

Or maybe something more symbolic?

Maybe, something simple is in order. Not just an ordinary line, but nothing overly extravagant.

I, personally, have chosen to etch my knowledge of the ancient customs into my skin, a continuation of the lavish depiction of the Pharaoh's memory on my back. Cultured more elaborately by my accomplice in the ways of my ancestors, their history now spans the length of my arms and most of my chest.

Each hieroglyph has been carefully planned for, the graphic words traced and retraced to assure that not even the test of time will wear their radiance.

I appreciate that which I have carved into my skin, entranced by the symbols' simple beauty and thankful for the release that they gave to me at the time of their painting. I appreciate the handsomely crafted blade that my hand guides over my skin, hued with life-giving red and cold with the finality of never turning back.

This art which I proudly display for all of those narrow-minded cretins to see, is scowled upon and fretted over. People that see me can only stand in fascinated horror as I walk by, scars, new and old alike, on display like the ethereal tail of the proud peacock.

They look at me from shielded eyes and point at me behind raised hands. I can feel their scorn, hearing their silent laughter as they ogle at the exotic carvings on my skin.

But in the same way, I laugh at them. Chuckle at their two-faced antics and shake my head at their simplemindedness, their fear of taking control and expressing who you want to be.

They laugh at me for "mutilating" myself.

I laugh at them for never know the staggering beauty that comes with the lover's touch of the cold blade or never experiencing the warm feel as the regal blood flows down uncharted skin.

They call it mutilation.

I call it art.


...I feel better now. If I disturbed anyone, gomen nasii! ^)^U

Rock hard, rock long, rock out!