Innocent Guilt
Just the Two of Us
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“Happy birthday to me…”
I
unwrapped my last present after everyone left the dining room. Dad retired to
his office, private quarters close to where he slept. The man spent more of his
time fluffing up documents than pillows, processing applications and sending
E-mails to co-workers until his PC’s memory card was full. Gozaburo
Kaiba was like any other capitalist, sacrificing
personal health for a chance to obtain that all-American dream, a lifestyle
that only the very ruthless could strive for. His
profession took precedence over leisure activities, family vacations, even
special occasions that happened once a year. Preoccupied with Wall Street and
his latest investments, Daddy Dearest couldn’t care
less if I blew the candles out on my cake, let the sugar burn to ashes, or
threw it away without eating a bite. Yes, I can’t
think of a better way to remember the night I turned eight, watching my father
take a new business deal, leaving me with a substitute parent to issue text
books and homework until sunrise.
“Happy Birthday to me…” I
sang sadly, stifling a sob.
Neglected
and lonely, I scrutinized the stacks of essays, research materials, and novels,
stacked around me in an intimidating circle. How was I going to finish reading
literature by the time Dad came home? Arriving at a central
theme for everything seemed impossible enough, but authoring a detailed
analysis? That would gulp my recreational hours up like
a desert dweller starved of water, deprive me of actual relaxation, induce
anxiety disorders that I would have nntrontrol over--
Just
as I was about to torch a pile of history references, a set of little fingers
tapped me on the shoulder. Lines of worry creased my forehead, generating panic
in my already stressed brain, my heart grinding to the rhythm of trance music.
Slower than a man on death row, I turned on my seat, expecting to
completely blew my mind when I registered the sight of who was
My
brother, standing on the tips of his toes, couldn’t
have given me a gift superior to the one he had on him. Balancing on his palm
was a fully decorated cupcake, a rare delicacy that was
prohibited from entering this house. Our militant nutritionist never
allowed us to glance in a bakery window, much less be near a dessert
overflowing with fatty ingredients. We were to be the spitting image of Master
Kaiba, and that meant looking, dressing, acting, and even eating like him. Deviations from the norm—his norm—were totally unacceptable and
were subject to harsh consequences to follow. Nonetheless, I couldn’t
help but wonder what the food tasted like, what I was missing from my diet…
“Happy
birthday, brother.”
Wishing me the best of luck,
he poked a candle in the middle of his homemade luxury. After straightening the
wick, he scanned the expansive table, searching through mountains of
assignments for a red wand that was absent from a Muggle
born household.
“Where’s the matches?” he
asked.
Not wanting to hurt his
feelings, I stared at the floor.
“I dunno.” I lied, knowing
perfectly well that we weren’t trusted around
potential fire hazards.
Crushed, Mokuba began to
tremble.
“I-I spent so much
messed up!”
“That’s not true.” I
murmured, trying to put him at ease.
“Yes it is!”
“No it’s not.”
“’Cuz it’s
fine the way it is.” I assured him, encompassing him in a comforting embrace.
Nodding,
I gathered him up in my arms and sat him on my lap. Mokuba
was like a life size doll, all cuddly and cute in his evening
wear, hugging me with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. No card had
a higher value than this moment, for it was a priceless
commodity that I would never trade for any dollar amount. With this
precious person on me, he made the best birthday surprise I could ever desire.
“Happy birthday, dear
Joy
sparkled in his blue orbs, another uncommon thing to witness at our residence.
Left to our own devices, I felt that just the two of us made a real family,
relying on each other’s smiles to help us escape the raping of our youth. At
least we had ourselves, an unbreakable vow of friendship, the only shooting
star of hope I dreamed of wishing upon.
Closing my eyes, I took a
deep breath, then blew out a puff of air, snuffing the
imaginary flame on my snack.
“There,” I declared,
“everything’s just fine now.”
Mokuba
“I made a wish.”
The boy bounced on my legs.
“What for, what for?” he spouted excitedly. “Tell me!”
Gently, I pressed a finger to
his lips, silencing his wild outburst.
“I can’t.” I said.
Disappointment spread across
my brother’s visage. “Why not?” he questioned sadly.
“It won’t come true if I say
anything.” I revealed, grinning impishly.
That seemed to work well.
Almost immediately, he brightened, returning to his classically energetic self.
Leaning in close to me, he
whispered confidentially, “Ya know what’s better than talkin’ ‘bout the
cupcake?”
him.
“Eating it!” he cried.
My mouth widened into a broad
smile. Tossing aside notebook paper and pens, I scooped him off me and set him
on the glossy wood.
“First
dibs!” I shouted, taking my
relative’s juvenile behavior to heart.
Delighted,
he watched as I tore off the wrapping, the spark for life rekindled in me,
flaring into a phoenix rising from the ashes of hopelessness to
living, I held the cake up to Mokuba, willing him to
grab onto its base with me.
“Okay, on three!” I told him
as soon as his fingers brushed mine.
In unison, we counted the
numbers, hyperactivity motivating us to share the fortune of kiss.
“One…Two…Three!” we cried jovially.
Giggling,
we took our separate parts, smooshing the crumbs on each other’s lips, enjoying
the fellowship of brotherly love. These times of perfect peace were
memory. Those holidays were meant to sustain me
through good or trying trials, providing a downy cloud to catch me if anything
ever started going horribly wrong—
“SETO!” someone yelled through my foggy episodes.
hell in th’ name a Jesus Fucking Christ is wrong
Continuously,
my back connected with a wall, dragging my mind into a reality I never wanted
to see. White tiles bit at my skin, forcing my body temperature to plummet
fr
freezing level. A teenager, displaying the same height and build as me, had my
uniform clenched in his fists, shouting such salty obscenities that I thought I
was kidnapped by a sailor.
“God damn it, Set!
Over and
over the vulgarities resounded,
demands that reminded me of my father hovering over my desk, ready to rap a
ruler across my knuckles if I didn’t comply with his orders.
Pay attention, Don’t be an airhead, Concentrate, Focus, Study, study, study,
More work, less play, Don’t act stupid, Don’t
something to cry about…
Was
I shedding tears without being consciously aware of the action? Instantly, I
took an inventory of my features’ present condition: no wetness on the cheeks,
chin—was this all just a bad dream? Even still, I felt as if I was drowning in
a pool, my frame bolted to the bottom of the deep end swimming with sharks.
Vile language served as a noose more than a psychological tool, tying me inside
a shallow grave that my vanity would gnaw away at soon enough.
inhabitants. I already know what a
terrible example I am, that I’ll never be anyone worthwhile
Lowering
my head dejectedly, I gave in to my psyche, launching threats at me quicker
than a nuclear weapon locating its target. It was a never-ending battle, a
terrifying struggle tangled with morality and common sense, religion and
intuition, all vying to conquer this internal chaos. I recognized my conscience
to be a cruel external creature, an entity similar to humans that passed
judgment on me at will. I never stopped to think that the voice was a facet of
my own hatred, a rusted
characteristic that lessened my personality’s face value. Fully comprehending
that would devastate me, cause collateral damage to brandish an unyielding
sword, gutting every drop of fluid from my system—
“Oh, no…” I moaned,
despairing over the warring territory of my arm. “Not again, please not again…”
Bloody
beyond recognition, my left limb resembled that of a
wrist to my school clothes. Cold sweat stung the lacern, an, agitating exposed
tissue with sharp stabs of pain. Shocked, I gaped at my rebelling body, trapped
in a conflict that would never call for a truce.
Finally,
I broke the blinders and grasped the seriousness of the situation. Everything
made sense, was clearer than before, molded into a
perspective that I had to either re-sculpt or flatten forever. In the bathroom
at Orlando High, Seto Kaiba, director of an
international company, class official and honor society member, caretaker of
his sibling since both were orphaned, had severely
fucked himself over.
the bitch of my nightmares, my alter ego, my mate for eternity in a voice as
sickeningly sweet as the cupcake had been, /Happy
birthday to you./
Blacking out under the
pressure of failing defenses, laughter from my darker half echoed in my head,
reminding me that it would find a place in hell for just the two of us.