The Ride

Chapter 7: The Truth

It's been about two months since that afternoon, and with each day that passes, he stumbles deeper into my web. Even now, as I type madly on my laptop, trying to meet a project deadline, he's curled up against me, his eyes closed, the slightest hint of a smile on his lips. I watch him from the corner of my eye, reveling in the complete power I now hold over him. It won't be long now before my plan comes to fruition, I tell myself, trying to appease my impatient nature even as I glare at the mutt clinging to me as though I were his favorite chew toy.

Still, though, the time I've spent with him hasn't been as awful as I thought it might be. He's sweet, caring... charming, even, in a faithful pet sort of way. I've even come to appreciate his particular brand of beauty, to the point where I almost enjoy kissing him. Almost. He's still gutter trash, and a loudmouth besides, although watching him fall for me, truly for me, not for my money, my power, or my good looks, has been a singular experience.

He hasn't fallen for me, though. Not in the strictest sense of the term, at least. He's fallen for my masks, a completely fabricated person, and he hasn't even questioned it once. It's just as I wished; he's in love beyond reason with a person that he thinks is Seto Kaiba. My plan has gone off without a hitch. Why, then, do I feel so empty? Shouldn't I at least feel that perverse satisfaction that comes from destruction, from revenge?

Don't get me wrong, I don't love him. Not in the least. I am incapable of love, and every other 'good' emotion, for that matter. My heart is buried with my adoptive father, and I've never once missed it. I am the Ice Prince, Seto Kaiba, the man without a conscience, without the capacity to feel anything other than satisfaction and hatred. I nod once, and the movement, small as it is, jars him awake.

Like some overgrown weed, he wraps his arms around one of mine, preventing me from typing as well as I would like. "Seto..." he says, "Can you just call it a night?"

"Why?" I ask, a little too curtly. I can afford some tactical errors at this point, though.

He doesn't seem to notice, just rummages through that green jacket of his and pulls out a little rectangular box, placing it behind him where he thinks I won't see it. "It's our anniversary," he replies. "And I've got something for you."

My curiosity, along with my desire to avoid complicated excuses for my behavior later, drives me to save my work and close the laptop computer. "Okay, what is it?" I say, turning to face him and forcing myself to smile the tiniest bit.

Nervously, he thrusts the box out to me. "Happy anniversary," he whispers, and I wonder why he's so apprehensive about me opening some stupid box. Probably some cheesy gift from the thrift shop...

I tear the ribbon with one firm tug and claw the wrapping paper into shreds before tossing the trash to the floor. Ribbons and pretty paper are such a waste of resources to me, but he seems to thrive on them. I wonder if your love for shiny things is inversely proportional to your IQ. That would explain an awful lot.

As I lift the lid of the box, I feel his nails dig into my upper arm. What could be so... hmm, this is interesting at that. Carefully, I lift the mutt's Red-Eyes from the box, turning it over in its protective plastic so that it catches the light and sparkles dance across the holographic rendition of the obsidian monster. I hold in my hand my prey's most prized possession, given to me willingly, and I have to fight the urge to laugh out loud at the absolute success my plan has met with.

Suppressing the fit of laughter, I lean down and kiss him chastely, like I can tell he wants to be kissed right now. The movement of my lips on his is devoid of any passion, any lust, anything physical. To me, of course, it's devoid of anything, but to him, I know it feels like I'm returning his physical gift with a reminder of my 'love' for him. Such is the power of the denial I have harnessed.

I pull away from him once a polite amount of time has elapsed, brushing my lips against his cheek for good measure. "Thank you," I say, and he swallows hard.

"Uh..." he stammers, fumbling for words. "Seto... that's only the first part of my gift."

Only the first part, huh? I wonder what he's going to do for an encore. Patiently, I sit back, moving the card to a safer place. "I'm listening," I say, forcing my voice to thicken as though I'm in the grip of some powerful emotion.

He replies by pulling me back down and forcing his tongue into my mouth, his hands sliding up my shirt and gliding over the firm planes of my chest eagerly, yet nervously. His eyes flick open, locking with mine as he breaks our kiss, panting slightly, and with a rush of devilish glee, I realize what he's offering.

I drag him over to the bed, this time taking control. He doesn't resist as I renew our kiss, tackling him to the mattress with a ferocity that surprises both of us. Our lips part for a split second as I all but tear off my shirt before settling my weight over his slightly more slender form.

Neither of us have time for more coherent thought before we're both lost in the twin haze of desire and passion.

* * *

I awake well before he does, easily disentangling myself from his embrace and heading for the upstairs washroom to shower, unwilling to chance him awakening too soon. Once I've washed away any physical traces of last night's 'activities', I return to my room, dress, and lean back in my desk chair, looking at his Red-Eyes disinterestedly. His prized possession, the catalyst for my plan's fulfillment. I love tragic irony, especially the tragic part.

It's another thirty minutes before he stirs, and ten more before his eyes crack open slightly. I wait, in no hurry to finish things. If one can't be patient on the last day of their life, then when? These are the last moments I will be able to savor before the void; I want them to be perfect.

"Mornin', love," he murmurs contentedly, sighing as he sinks back into the nest of pillows beneath him.

"Isn't it funny how stupid people can be?" I begin, and confusion clouds his features as I twirl the Red-Eyes between my fingers, just slow enough so that he can discern what exactly it is. A smile crosses his face as he sees me holding his gift, obviously thinking that this means that I treasure it as he would. He'll learn soon enough.

"This card is a token of our love," I say, allowing just the slightest bit of sarcasm to seep into my voice. He doesn't notice the subtle variation in tone, and his smile breaks into a full-fledged, lovesick puppy dog grin. Pathetic simpleton. Smoothly, soundlessly, I slide the dragon from its protective plastic sheath and tear it neatly into four pieces before his exhaustion-fogged brain can realize what's going on.

A split second later, he lurches forward, wincing in a pain strong enough to stop him cold. I don't seem to remember being gentle last night, either. "Seto... what did you do that for?!"

"It's as I said," I reply, flipping my silver lighter open and setting the pieces aflame before dropping the already curling cardboard into a conveniently placed decorative glass bowl. "This card is the physical token of our love. Now, it might as well never have existed." Leaning forward, I fix him to the spot with one of my most piercing glares. "Our love never did, period."

I watch his face fall, as the full magnitude of what I've just said sinks in. "You... you never..." I can almost see the flashes of memory crossing his mind; his friends, warning him off me; his hatred for me, that was eclipsed by the love I forced upon him. "Why, Seto?" he asks, and his voice is defeated, exactly like Mokuba's that morning.

In a flash, I'm upon him, his wrist clenched painfully in my fist. "That's Kaiba, mutt," I spit, and as his terrified gaze locks with mine, I let my masks drop. He gasps and looks away from the wave of darkness that is all I really am at my core. Just a dark, faceless, destructive thing. "You're stupider than I gave you credit for. You're so stubborn, you fell for a person who never existed, just because you wanted them to." I grin wolfishly, and he cringes at the drastic transformation. "How does it feel, knowing you gave everything you had to someone who wasn't real? Your Red-Eyes, your innocence... everything."

"Monster," he whimpers, clutching my silk sheets tighter around him. Angrily, I rip them off him, leaving his naked flesh exposed to the icy air. Blood cakes the back of his thighs, along with another, thicker substance, and traces of both can be found on the sheets. I suppose 'not gentle' was the understatement of the century. As I make this observation, he curls up around himself, obviously expecting me to hit him. I have much more effective ways of hurting people, thank you very much.

"You have thirty minutes to get off my property unaided," I say, striding toward the bedroom door. "After that, I will call security." He doesn't move an inch, and no sound passes his lips, although his eyes mist over with unshed tears. As my hand closes on the doorknob, I turn back, almost as an afterthought. "I must admit, though, you were a decent fuck. Perhaps you should become a prostitute and turn a profit for it. That's probably the best an idiot gutter rat can aspire to." The final blow dealt, I leave the bedroom, slam the door, and head downstairs. Might as well grab something to eat while I wait for him to get it together enough to make it out of my house or the time limit to elapse. It's all the same to me.

* * *

Exactly twenty-six minutes and forty-nine seconds later, by my watch, I hear him making his way down the stairs, grunting in pain with every step. I wonder vaguely how he managed to get dressed, then decided I couldn't care less. As long as he's gone, that's all that matters.

I wait until he's well away from the estate, watching every labored step he takes across the lawn before I go back up to my room, retrieving my briefcase and dumping everything but my dueling deck onto the hopelessly stained sheets. From my deck, I take out my three Blue-Eyes, throwing the rest of the meaningless cards down among the papers and textbooks. These three, though, I lay out on my desk. Even though I no longer have any use for them, they have served me well over the years, and I can't bring myself to destroy them, nor lump them in with the rest of the trash on the bed.

Into my now-empty briefcase I toss only a length of rope and an unmarked envelope containing my will before closing it. The tape that Yugi gave me, I crush in my fist easily, tossing the remains on the floor. Now who's got the last laugh, Yami?

Taking the lighter-than-ever briefcase with me, I go down to the garage and start up the Mercedes for the last time. The chauffeur could be here at a moment's notice, but if it's all the same to whatever warped entity is running the show, I'd much rather not be driven to my own death.

* * *

Once I'm in my office, I lock the door, although there's no danger of being interrupted on a Sunday. Placing the envelope where it will be easily found, I push my desk under the light fixture and tie one end of the rope to it tightly before pulling at it with all my strength. The anchor doesn't budge an inch. Perfect.

Quickly and efficiently, I form a noose of the other end, place it around my neck and adjust it so that it's excruciatingly tight. That done, I take as deep a breath as I can and kick away from the desk into open air.

Unfortunately for me, my neck doesn't break, so I'm left to swing on the rope as I suffocate slowly. I actually did it. I always expected to feel something at this moment, when it was too late to turn back. Fear, perhaps, like Hamlet, for what lies beyond. Regret, for hurting so many people during the course of my short life. Joy, or relief, that it was finally over, and that nothing could possibly save me this time.

Instead, all I feel is the emptiness; the same damn pervading sense of darkness that I've fought against since I became what I am today. There is no white light at the end of a tunnel for me, no family come to take my soul to the afterlife, and certainly no scenes of my life flashing before my eyes. A flicker of amusement ignites in my mind at the latter, although there is no longer enough breath in my lungs to laugh. How can I see scenes of a life I never lived?

The darkness creeps into my peripheral vision, and I finally lay down and give into it gratefully, wondering why I hadn't done this sooner. No matter what plane I wind up on, death has got to be better than this hamster wheel called life.