Treatment


AU Illusionshipping for the fourth round of the Yu-gi-oh! Fanfiction Contest Season 9 ¾.


I usually don't like giving warnings because I feel like they spoil things… but…

TRIGGER WARNING: Semi-graphic-ish descriptions of nonconsensual sexual content. Rated M for a reason and all that. P: Also, a fictional representation of amnesia.

SECOND PERSON BECAUSE I CANNNN.


The butcher paper is cutting into your legs—it's your fault, really, for wearing a skirt, but that doesn't stop you from resenting the feeling. Like every other doctor's office in the country, this one has those typical posters plastered on the wall advising teenagers not to get pregnant and how not to get the flu and "Cover your mouth when you sneeze" and so on and so forth. You're bored enough to look at them and observe that they're old enough for the edges to start curling to reveal the equally old, if not more so, wallpaper. There's also a bit of mold in the corner that you stare at for a long time until you think you see it move. For a place that is supposed to help prevent diseases they're doing a shoddy job.

When the doctor comes in you are instantly suspicious. This man is supposed to help you?

He probably jammed his fingers into an electrical socket before he came to work today, judging by his impossibly styled hair and twitchy smile. There's a tattoo of a golden eye smack dab in the center of his forehead. How professional. And, whoa, whoa, wait, are those earrings? You were too distracted by his other oddities at first to notice the numerous piercings decorating his ears, one of which looks to be horribly infected.

"Hello, there, dear. I'm Dr. Ishtar."

You curl your lip a little at the gritty, garbled voice and him addressing you as "dear" like he's some elderly man (he doesn't look a day over sixteen) and as if you are five years old (if a five year old had a chest like yours there would be cause for some alarm).

"Mai," you respond shortly, trying to convey how very much you hope that this appointment will be done and over with ASAP.

He has his clipboard on his lap with his elbows resting on it and his face in his hands as he leans forward, a too-big too-toothy grin on his face. "What seems to be the problem?"

It is at this point you get a little uncomfortable—you really, really don't like talking about this, particularly not to total strangers who sound like they guzzle corroded nails on an hourly basis—but…

"My boyfriend thinks that I have amnesia."

"Oh?" he quirks an eyebrow. "And why would he think a silly thing like that?"

Silly? You internally snarl.

On the outside you just say stiffly, "It may have something to do with the fact that the other day I couldn't remember his name." Or your name, or where you live, or how old you are, or— "Look, I just wanted to come here to get a recommendation for a therapy group—"

"Therapy is overrated, believe me," he interrupts, idly scratching his throat as he lets out an undisguised yawn. "Why don't you tell me about something more interesting? What's your boyfriend like?"

You feel a little miffed about being cut short but you begrudgingly begin to answer anyway, calling up the image of his face into your mind. He's winking at you from over his shoulder, one brown eye sparkling from between his blonde bangs—a shade of blonde much nicer than that of the platinum color the bristly mane of the doctor currently sitting in front of you sports—and he's smiling that cute little smile.

And then quite suddenly you can't recall anything about him. At all. You blink, once, twice, and try to tug something, anything out of your memories, but…

Then the image itself vanishes and you're left dazed and wondering what you were trying to recollect in the first place. Or why you're in a doctor's office. This is a doctor's office, isn't it? It strikes you how grungy it is. And the man in front of you is presumably a doctor. It strikes you how grungy he is, too.

He is looking at you expectantly, a grin plastered onto his face. "Something the matter?"

"Uh… no," you take a moment to force your voice to stop sounding so shaky as you add, "I'm fine."

He continues to stare at you a tad too intensely with a pair of unblinking violet eyes. Unless your imagination is getting increasingly paranoid, those eyes are incredibly interested in roving your body. You're about to call him out on it, but instead you avert your gaze for a long few moments before clearing your throat.

"Well, I… guess I'll leave now." The appointment is over, right? He's not asking you any questions.

The doctor tilts his head to one side at a rather uncomfortable angle and squints one eye. "Weren't you about to tell me something? Something… important?"

Unsure of how to answer you settle for a lame, "No, I wasn't."

For some reason he laughs; it's an incredibly unpleasant sound, like a rusted knife scraping against bone.

You feel a bit of relief when he stands up, signaling that you can do so as well. When he holds out his hand you hesitate, and the smile on his face that is supposedly reassuring doesn't help at all. Finally you accept the handshake, which he proceeds to prolong for an uncomfortably long time.


Some strange people talk to you when you're wandering aimlessly through a local park (better than meandering around in the street like you were before). It's about mid afternoon by now and you're contemplating how to get home. Where home actually is and whether or not you have one is still up for debate.

You hear someone run up behind you with short, brisk footsteps and before you know it one of your hands is being clasped tightly in a little chubby one. You instantly wrench out of the grip before turning on the person. You blink when you don't see anyone behind you and slowly your eyes travel downward. A little kid with ridiculous hair is staring plaintively up at you.

"Do I know you?" you snap, and his large purple eyes get an increment larger.

"Mai..?" If he looked sad before he looks crestfallen now. "It's me. Yugi."

Mai? The name rings a bell in your head, and but the latter doesn't spark even the faintest bit of recognition. But Mai is your name, isn't it? You nod slowly and he brightens a little. He proceeds to insist that they—he gestures to the brunette boy and girl looking very uncomfortable a little ways behind him—knowyou. That they're your friends.

You laugh at that. You may not be able to remember much at the moment, but one fact stands out in your mind: "I don't have any friends."

He looks hurt. Really hurt.

"Mai," the short kid speaks up again—did he say his name was Yami or something? "I think you should go see a doctor. You need to get help."

"Help for what?" you ask, flicking a thick strand of your thick blonde hair over your shoulder. "There's nothing wrong with me."

It's a flat-out lie, of course. Then again you've been in a state of denial since you left the… what did you do this morning again?

"You keep losing your memory, Mai," the girl finally cuts in, walking over to stand next to the short boy, then adds resolutely, "And don't worry, we are your friends."

You scoff but internally your thoughts are whirling. You try to recall something easy—what you ate for breakfast this morning. Nothing comes. You try to remember something more specific—your middle name. Same result.

The significantly taller boy, standing some ways away, tilts his head. "Wait… I already thought she went to the doctor. Didn't she tell Joey she was going earlier today?"

They all look expectantly at you, to which you remain silent. It is at this point in time that you notice that in addition to the trio of weirdoes that decided they have nothing better to do than interrogate you, there's another guy with honey blonde hair standing some ways off, just… looking at you. For some reason this strikes you more than anything else thus far.

"He's beat up about you not remembering him. He thinks you're purposely blocking him out," the taller boy pipes up helpfully, earning a set of glares from his two friends.

"Of course I don't remember him, I've never seen him before," you scoff.

The guy you're referring to looks even more hurt then the kid, like a puppy that's been kicked down the stairs. You feel an inexplicable sliver of guilt prodding at your heart. After staring at you—this time with a much icier expression—for another moment he turns on his heel to walk away stiffly.

"Joey!" the girl calls out and goes after him, closely followed by the taller boy.

The kid looks indecisive for a moment, glancing between you and the little group disappearing around the corner.

Finally he turns to you and says in a pleading voice, "Mai, please go and get therapy somewhere. You said you would try the hospital for a recommendation… it's just down the street from here. I know you said you didn't like how dirty it was, but…" he trails off before adding, "Joey's just upset. And worried. We're all worried about you."

With that he darts after his friends, leaving you alone.


By the time you arrive in the doctor's office the memory of what you're doing there has been completely expunged from your mind and you're left standing like someone brain dead in front of the reception desk.

The receptionist doesn't look much better off then you; her glassy eyes are unblinking. "You back again?"

You open your mouth to say something—you haven't quite decided what yet—but she continues speaking before you can make a fool of yourself. "I'll see if we can fit you in."

"You don't seem too busy," you say flatly, a far cry from your usually snarky tone as you glance behind yourself at the empty reception room.

She's gone back to staring off into space so you decide it's best to leave her be.


Sometime later you're curled up in a ball sitting with your against one wall of the same disgusting room you were in this morning (not that you'd remember that), practically in the fetal position. There's something niggling in the back of your mind, something wholly important but neigh unobtainable. No matter how hard you try you can't figure out what it is, and it's eating away at you.

When the doctor comes in you're too distracted by his leering expression to take note of any of the other deviant details that make him up.

"I feel as though we've met before," he says with a giggle as if it's some private joke.

You're too haggard to care that your voice is cracking when you reply, "Yeah, been getting that a lot lately."

His eyes gleam and the already borderline sinister grin goes to a whole new level of disturbing. "Well, then. What seems to be the problem?"

"The problem?" you echo hollowly. "Well… it seems like…"

And it is at this point you have a complete breakdown. Your hands go to cover your face, smearing your makeup and the quickly developing tears in your eyes. You start blubbering senselessly about you can't remember anything, damn it, you don't know what the problem is. This tirade goes on for a few minutes until you're not even sure you're speaking English anymore.

Quite suddenly he's grabbed a hold on your arm. When you look up from your hands you almost shriek at the close proximity and do in fact let out a strangled sound as he pulls you out of your seat and closer to his. You're confused by the action and you feel like you should be fighting him a bit more when he drags you into his lap, but you're completely limp, almost corpselike. Within moments you find yourself neatly arranged so that you're straddling his thighs and the tears tainted with mascara are wiped away with his thumb before he licks them off, eyes half-lidded.

"Poor little dear," he says—though it comes out as more of a rasping growl than anything else—wraps his arms around your torso, gathering you close.

As he embraces you, you come to the unfortunate realization that for someone who supposedly stays in a hospital all day, he's ridiculously brawny underneath that coat. Your breasts are currently being pressed up against his chest, making them bulge obscenely halfway out of your low cut top. You blink your swollen, tear-filled eyes when he begins to nuzzle your hair and even goes so far as to start smelling it.

"D-doctor…" your voice gets a dangerous edge, though it's marred by your stutter as well as the fact that you're now squirming in an attempt to get away.

"Don't worry. I'm just going to give you some of my special therapy."


And suddenly you're completely crushed underneath all of that muscular bulk, and there's a lot more of you revealed than what was already shown off by your skimpy clothing.

And…

Wait…

What..? What is this feeling..?

It's not good… but it's not bad, either. Not at first.

Something in the spongy mess that's left of your brain tells you that he (he? Who is he? Where are you..? Who are you? WHAT'S GOING ON?) shouldn't being doing this.

This? What's 'this'..?

What's he doing?

What—

You find yourself beginning to scream and you can't even recollect why. He's murmuring sweet nothings into your ear, tongue darting out to lick the curve of it. His hands are roving your naked chest (when did your shirt come off? When did everything come off?), pinching and squeezing and pulling in all of the right—no, the wrong places, because this is wrong wrong wrong wrong.

Abruptly there's a splitting pain amongst all of the sickeningly sweet pleasure and you shriek as he impales you, and oh, god, oh, Jesus, he's going to rip you in half, you're no virgin (at least you think you're not a virgin but you can't fucking remember anymore), but you're too rigid and he's too big to fit easily—it doesn't stop him from forcing himself all the way in, though.

And then when he starts moving you're bleeding, you're gushing (you must be a virgin to bleed this much)and it's splattering on the off-gray floor and his white coat and your lovely, creamy thighs (that's what he calls them, the fucking bastard). Everything hurts and you just wish he would go away, you wish it all would go away—

Stop!

STOP!

IT HURTS! HE NEEDS TO STOP IT, STOP IT, STOP IT NOW.

That's what you try to say, but it all comes out in garbled sobs as he continues to move.

"Oh, p-please—mnh—I'm not all that bad…" he gasps out as he continues to ram himself inside you, eyes shut in ecstasy, lips stretched into a horrible, horrible smile; the blood vessels are standing out in his cheeks where none should be visible, squirming like worms, and it's disgusting. You shut your reddened eyes and turn your head away so you don't have to look at his hideous face.

He seizes a hold of your chin in one hand and forces your face back in his direction. At first you think he's going to try to compel you to open your eyes (never, never, never going to happen) but this theory is quickly proven wrong when a slimy, wet tongue works its way between your lips.


Soon after you're lying on the ground, covered in sweat and dripping with other fluids. More than a few bruises and bite marks litter your skin from where he got impatient with you, the most prominent being the dark purple fingerprints on your throat.

Your mind is little more than a blank slate, as evidenced by your glassy eyes and detached expression. There's a veiny arm, heavy with muscle, curled around your bare waist, and teeth nibbling delicately at a choice piece of skin on your neck, occasionally assisted by a flicking of the person's tongue.

For some reason these facts cause you to start crying—for about the seventh time in the past hour, but you don't know that. Fat, hot tears roll down your cheeks and weak sobs begin to slither out between your swollen lips. You taste salt as well something a little bitterer that you can't name. He breathes out something like a laugh against your neck, causing you to cry a little harder, shaking with more and more silent sobs.

"Come off it," he doesn't sound angry at all with your weeping. Just amused. "There's no point, dear. After all…"

He presses a sloppy, wet kiss to one of the bruises, then licks the side of your face before murmuring, "…it's not like you're going to remember any of this tomorrow anyway."