Adult-FanFiction.org : Yu-Gi-OH

Innocent Guilt	By : ShadowSanctuary Category: Yu-Gi-Oh > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 2113 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own YuGiOh!, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Chapter
One: Diary of the Damned
December
13, 2003
Threw up again. Dinner was great, the lasagna was delicious, and the
sides (corn, chef's salad, asparagus, and about a hundred other varieties of
vegetables and cheeses) were scrumptiaddiadditions to my plate, but I couldn't keep it down. Not the main course, cheddar, or even
the French wine could be prevented from coming up, no
matter how hard I willed my subconscious to stop pestering my ego about calorie
consumption. Realistically, I can enjoy just about any concoction placed in
front of me, but that nagging voice--no, that pretentious bastard in the back
of my mind--won't leave well enough alone .
Damn you, my
overbearing, overprotective bitch of a psyche.
Damn you to hell.
Yes, I'm probably as fucked as they come,
missing a few screws, playing a game of marbles with an incomplete set, but
that's the way life is--excuse me--always has been for me.
And I have no idea what to make out of this small
situation of mine.
Here I am, the CEO of a major corporation,
spokesperson and creator of the latest gaming technology, someone so high up
the food chain that I could purchase the Supreme Court for guaranteed freedom
if my ass was ever threatened with prison, and I'm still susceptible to one of
the most lethal disorders to scratch the heads of social scientists. Aren't I just the lucky
one?

Feeling an unpleasant wave jostle the insides
of my stomach, I dropped my pen and glanced at my midsection.
"Looks like there's a
rumbling in my tummy." I
murmured, grimacing as I drew my writing hand to the disturbed part of my body.
It didn't lessen the stabbing sensations, but at least
it eased my troubled thoughts. That was a good enough reason alone to keep the
limb there.
Gritting my teeth in
unison with the excruciating vibes, I pressed the back of my other palm to my
forehead, wiped away some beads of sweat, then let the
arm fall back in place. Every part of my frame throbbed as if I had been
running for miles, relentlessly sprinting over wet sand, a slanted spiral that
had me gasping for breath each time I opened my mouth. Actually, I found this
experience to be somewhat amusing. Not in humorous pleasantry, but in the way
that was comical under risky conditions. You know the kind, where literally everything
seems funny because the senses are shot without
any promise of redemption.
Truthfully, I haven't exercised in three years, not since my gymnastics
instructor reprimanded me for a poor performance on the high bar. I loathed how
he scolded me, hated how he treated me like a child barely able to hang
upright on the beam. In front of every couple, their toddler-age children, and
other students in my class (most were no older than eight,
I was the only male there who was in high school), I told my haughty
superior where he could stick the damned rod at. That was the
only afternoon am I m I left with a genuine smile on my face, a pleased
and content expression that would never be forgotten. Happiness like that
was an atypical commodity, and I cherished all fifteen seconds of my fame, no
matter whose blacklist I ended up on then. Any other time, I was doing well not
to flip the judges off when I went to competition.
Realizing that the
horrible clenching had subsided, I returned to my desk and replaced my quill in
its ink bottle. Casting a nervous gaze around the
study, my eyes scanned the bookshelves, couch, and surrounding furnishings,
searching for a sign of someone there. It's an uncanny
notion I get when I'm by myself, cooped up in a room with the insanity that
loneliness brings in the dead of winter, where the frosty wind invades my skin
and turns my blood into an icy ocean of paranoia. Finally, my eyes drifted to
the frame of the room, the double doors pressed against the walls like two soldiers camouflaged in brown paint. The accents
stood at full attention, tall, straight fixtures that mirrored the proud
stances that my bodyguards flaunted. Settling my gaze on the gaping mouth the
towers left, I came to a comfortable understanding--
No one was there.
Patting my chest, I
blew out a heavy sigh of relief. Nobody was eavesdropping or peeking over my
shoulder, and I couldn't have asked for better fortune
than that. These are my secrets, my special somethings
that are meant for these eyes and ears only, items
meant for me to add onto or dispose of in my spare time. I was happy no one was
observing me from a distance.
No one should be there.
Forcing myself to
concentrate, I spied a gold knob to my left and gave the handle a modest tug.
Almost immediately, the drawer opened, revealing my standard perfectionism.
Documents were neatly stacked and paper clipped there, with writing utensils
that were as important as the pages themselves to their right. Beside the legal
sheets sat a box of envelopes, resting in vertical alignment to stamps, postage
sporting the American flag. There, hiding amongst the professional refuse,
dozed a vital brass accessory. Sticking a weary hand in the compartment, my
fingers plucked the shiny object from its location.
"After all," I mused, slipping the
object through the surface of my book, "What's a diary without a
lock?"
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