Selflessness and Sarcasm

Chapter One: I Have Come So Far

It's rather hard to focus long enough to see your "entire life flash before your eyes" when you have a dagger pointed at your heart. This fact is magnified if you're actually the one wielding the dagger. I couldn't avoid it though. I mused that I must have been like the Christian Jesus everyone was so hung up over, sacrificing myself for another and all. The only difference being that I couldn't imagine miraculously coming back to life after three days.

These are the things you think about before you die. You don't think about your childhood or what you're missing. You think about anything but that, in a sort of twisted denial, as if you weren't going to die. But you are. And I am.

"Hurry it along, pharaoh."

I don't understand why people still call me pharaoh, even after all these years. I'm not talking 5 years, more like 5 hundred. You'd think it would have fizzled out by now. Egypt doesn't even have pharaohs anymore. All of the great kings that were once placed in the over-the-top splendor of the pyramids are now either on display as a cheap novelty in any of hundreds of museums or else sitting in someone's basement – another casualty of the black market. E-bay is evil incarnate, and we are all sinners.

Oh, right. The dagger. My heart.

I wouldn't just do this, you know. I'm not suicidal. To be completely honest, in most cases I would probably have just handed the dagger to someone else and told them to drive it through their own goddamn heart. I wouldn't even feel guilty about it the next morning. I'm not really into the whole "sacrificing yourself for total strangers" thing. That's more Yugi's venue.

Yugi…

My kryptonite.

I should have known. I should have known there would be bastards that would take advantage of our bond. It's something that transcends any friendship; we complete one another. We are each just a part of a whole. Take one part away, and the other is left with a stark and painful void. It must be worse for me. I am his guardian, after all. He got along great without me before the whole puzzle ordeal, but I can't remember existing in this plane without him.

"PHARAOH! Need I remind you of the stakes that are resting on this procedure!?"

When he says "stakes" he means "Yugi's life." If I don't forcibly drive this incredibly sharp steel blade into my heart, Yugi will be brutally killed.

Deep breath.

Life is overrated anyway, I tell myself.

I've cheated death for too long anyway, I tell myself.

…He'll be better off without me anyway, I tell myself.

I raise the dagger above my chest in preparation, and pause long enough to marvel at the intricate craftsmanship. The blacksmith who birthed this deadly work of art must have loved it intensely. The blade is finely polished, glinting even in the low light. The hilt is wrapped in fine purple silks with gold accents at the base of the blade. Precious stones are encrusted in beautiful bands about the handle, though I must admit they are uncomfortable, pushing their imposing sharp edges into the soft pits of my hands. Despite the nameless blacksmith's meticulous design, the dagger isn't very conventional.

Well, here goes.

I won't close my eyes and turn my head. I'll try to be a hero. I have it all planned out: I'll stab myself without a cry, not even a whimper, eyes wide and bold and indomitable. I'll go down with honor, gently dropping to my knees, then fall over to the side. I'll spew some memorable quote as my final words, then slowly close my eyes and draw a ragged last breath.

Yugi has showed me too many movies.

I pull the blade down, quickly, heart racing, eyes flashing. Time slows. I notice my reflection in the steel. I notice the slow decay of the stone bricks that will outlast me. They are chipped and marred and cracked and this universal, bland gray color. I notice my oppressors, and the maniacal grins spreading across their fat faces.

This is where someone should rescue me. Some Robin Hood wannabe should come bursting upon the scene, crying for me to stop. He would then kill the smirking fat faces with a combination of acrobatics, martial arts, and expertly aimed arrows. But this shit doesn't happen in real life. There is no Robin Hood, no prince, no savior. There is no consolation, no comfort of god, no receptive, warm arms to die in.

I notice a searing, piercing pain in my chest. I notice my blood. I never thought I'd see it again. Spirits don't bleed. Ghosts can't die. And yet…

My suffering reaches its zenith. I am not quiet after all. I cry out. My heartbeat is slowing. My body is frantic for circulation. The blood just keeps coming, a constant stream of crimson cascading down my favorite shirt. It's such a shame; this shirt is ruined. Those stains will never wash out of the pretty blue leather.

My eyes slam shut in response to the waves of pain. My brain can hardly process it all. I must look like a weakling. Whatever happened to "going down with honor?" I feel like Harrison Ford would have made for a better performance. I do fall to my knees, but I'm clutching my chest – a largely involuntary action. It's not like holding my wound will stop the bleeding or ease the pain or mend my sutured heart.

I have come so far from the splendor and security of being pharaoh in ancient Egypt. Where are the guards to beat in the heads of my attackers and drag their corpses behind a royal chariot for the entire empire to see? Where are my sorcerers, adept in mending wounds by otherworldly means? Where are my loyal subjects to fawn over me and cry for my suffering? I should be bathed in perfumes and lavish soaps and sympathetic tears, not my own blood.

So how the hell did I get to this point?