Beep… beep… beep…
The machine hooked to Zahra's finger marked time in a steady, indifferent rhythm.
The Pharaoh moved to her bedside, looking down at her battered face. Something deep inside him buckled at the sight, an ache he thought he had never felt before.
He didn't know why. What is this connection we have?
His mind throbbed as he searched for an answer.
The urge to reach out and smooth her forehead was too great. Even with the scabs and bandages, her skin was so soft. His eyes were drawn to the flowers he brought. They were native to his homeland — to their homeland. He hoped they might bring her some comfort.
It was cruel of him to take so much control of the vessel he shared with Yugi. It had taken a long time to track her down.
But he couldn't help himself.
That was the second reason he felt it best he didn't see her.
When they spoke at Grandpa's shop, he nearly broke. This girl, so mysterious and enchanting, almost brought him to his knees. For a moment, he was filled with a sharp nostalgia from a scent he was sure he knew; he was adamant. It was fresh, like a spring morning — mint and menthol that opened his nose and his senses to everything around him.
His hand quivered, and he stepped back, desperately dragging himself away to keep this new, overwhelming feeling at bay.
A tin box grazed his fingers. A sharp jolt of static snapped through him, raising the hairs on his arms.
Curiosity got the better of him, and he lightly flicked the clasp and cracked open the tin with a soft metallic click.
A pale light breathed from within — in rhythm with Zahra's beeping machines.
A sharp gasp escaped him as his eyes fixed on a Duel Monsters card suspended within the glow.
A feminine hand, bathed in near-white light, emerged and held the card out to him. The thought of stealing never crossed his mind, that was not in his nature. The Millennium Puzzle at his chest answered the glow, its light harmonising with the card as if the two were whispering to one another in a language older than words.
What's going on, Pharaoh?
I don't know, Yugi. Somehow, I feel drawn to this card — like it belongs to me… and I to it.
He reached out to take it, time seemingly slowing as he moved closer.
And closer…
I'm sure it will be okay if we borrow it, we can return it as soon as your friend wakes up.
A second hand reached out of the light. Slowly, as if trying not to startle him.
His eyes widened in panic as it neared.
A ghostly chill ran down his body as the hand pressed on his head, its thumb gently brushing against his forehead.
Suddenly, the light faded like a dying star, and he was left holding a single Duel Monsters card.
The door abruptly opened, and a nurse appeared.
"Oh?" The nurse startled, clearly not expecting anyone to be there. "Sorry to not have knocked, I didn't expect anyone to be in here."
"You were expecting her to be on her own?"
The nurse moved to the end of the bed and took out a clipboard.
"Well, we've just managed to contact her only next of kin — they're on their way here now, but they're a long plane ride away." He made his way to the beeping machine, noting the numbers and lines on the monitor. "There was no one from Domino City on any record we could find."
"How is she?"
His silence spoke volumes; it felt like an eternity before it broke.
"If you don't mind, I'm afraid visiting hours are over and only immediate family are allowed in the intensive care unit," he smiled empathetically, knowing it was a horrible thing to ask.
"I can't just leave her on her own."
There was a firm tone to his voice that surprised him.
"I know. But the intensive care unit has strict rules; they're for her safety. If something happens and she needs help, any people in here could really be more of a hindrance."
"Yes," he sounded somewhat uncertain. "Yes. I understand."
He moved to the door at the nurse's request and allowed himself one last look over his shoulder at the girl, lying on the bed.
He couldn't help but wonder.
Who are you?
The sounds of her shoes hitting the ground echoed through the halls. Every breath held a hitch, as her arms pumped for more speed.
I'm coming baby, hold on. Mrs Goodtree's eyes stung with tears. Please, baby girl, hold on…
The yellow line that led to the intensive care unit felt unending as she weaved along it.
One corridor led to another. Each wall was a medical whitewash, each ceiling was lit with an artificial glare. The smell of disinfectant lingered as the distant drone of an overused PA system crackled. She didn't hear it; there was only one thing on her mind.
An eternity seemed to pass before she almost collided with a body, wearing a nurse's uniform, that seemingly appeared from thin air.
"Are you Mrs Goodtree?"
A solemn and silent nod in answer.
"Please, come with me." There was a rapid come-with-me gesture, as they disappeared through the doorway they had just emerged from.
Absentmindedly, she followed down a corridor, her head flooding with questions she tried not to think about for fear of the answer. It was wide enough for only two people to walk side by side.
The nurse walked down the middle as if knowing there would be no opposing traffic; she had a sinking feeling that once you went down this corridor, there was no coming back. Windows spanned the corridor, broken only by doors leading to small rooms.
Closed blinds blocked most, but there was one she happened to notice was open; inside, lying on a long hospital bed, a young man lay with the most horrific gash. The other side was pristine, with a well-shaped eyebrow and long lashes that she could spot, even from this distance. The only thing to mar his youthful skin was a clear mask over his nose and mouth, pulled in tightly by elastic. Tubes hung out of the side of his bed, each was attached to an intense machine that looked to be working overtime.
Next to him lay an older woman, judging by the greys she saw shining dully through a head of blonde hair, she looked to be sleeping herself, with her head lying face down upon his shoulder, her fist in a tight grip of the sheets that covered up to his chest.
Her breath became unsteady, her bag shifted on her shoulder as her grip tightened.
"Mrs Goodtree?"
Her gaze followed the noise.
It was then, through tear-filled eyes, that she noticed the nurse.
His face wore the soft features of a man who was accustomed to tragedy. They gave nothing away, only that she could trust him.
"We're in here." A gentle, but firm tone.
Part of her was rooted to the spot, could she take what was in that room?
As if sensing her anxiety, he opened the door and motioned for her to enter.
Every step was a mountain. Every breath was a mission. Every cell in her brain seemed to have shut down in fear. All she could feel was her heart pounding; it was all she could hear, and when she walked in, it was all she could see.
The room was bare, except for sparse additions: a small table, a desk, and a comfortable-looking chair that seemed oversized. Then right in the middle, flanked by beeping and ticking machines, was her daughter.
Her little flower.
Instead of glowing pastel skin that always had a delicate hint of pink, was as pale as a sheet and dotted with small cuts and grazes, some bad enough to need stitches. Her golden gaze, with a hint of mischief and ablaze with knowledge and power, was gone. Her full lips were white, almost translucent; no stubborn attempt to disobey her came from them.
She'd give anything to hear her argue with her about something.
Anything.
A cast covered one arm; it was elevated slightly by a series of weights and pulleys attached to the ceiling. Despite it all, her face looked calm and serene.
A sleeping bud she would beg — beg — to bloom once again.
From the side of her bed, she ran her hand up and down the sheets covering her. They were soft to the touch, almost comforting. Tears streamed down her face now; there was no stopping it.
She was too afraid to touch her hand.
A darkness pressed down on her shoulders. It threatened to knock her to her knees. Her chest heaved uncontrollably, gasping for air she couldn't hold on to.
The edge came nearer…
"She's stable," the kind nurse came to the foot of the bed and pulled out a chart, flipping pages in an effort not to stare at her while she broke. "She's currently in an induced coma. The injuries were…" he paused for the right words, "quite severe."
Words that hit her like a ton of bricks.
Severe… Coma…
She had allowed her daughter, her only true purpose in life, to chase after some stupid prophecy that had hunted her through the ages. Every death. Every life she had lived was waiting.
And for what?
For this?
Absolutely not!
Her body boiled with anger, about to spill over.
A curious breeze that carried the scent of something long forgotten caught her off guard. She noticed, in an attempt to 'brighten' up the room, that someone had left a bunch of white and blue flowers. They were stunning, and against the bland background of white and pine, they were a pop of colour.
"My… are these-" she leaned towards them, "these are water lilies."
Nostalgia hit her in the gut, evaporating all the anger that threatened to shatter her further.
It had been an age since she had beheld these beautiful lotus blooms.
The blue, with its pointed flower petals and leaves with smooth edges, and the white, with its more rounded flowers and jagged leaves, were in perfect harmony.
As these waterlilies do, they open in the morning and close at night, she remembered at least. For her, it symbolised birth and regeneration. Right then, they were fully opened, a testament to the time of day and the long flight it took to get here after the phone call.
The chair gave out a jaw-tickling screech as she pulled it as close as possible to Zahra's bedside.
She lowered herself onto it and watched over her, as she always promised she would.
Suddenly, Zahra's body begun to jerk.
Mrs Goodtree jumped in fright. "What's this? What's happening?"
The nurse had already moved over to a machine on the far end of the room that spat out paper filled with jagged lines; the lines were more exaggerated now.
His face was a professional blankness.
Something wasn't right.
"Not to worry. It's quite common in trauma victims, especially so soon after..." He let his words trail off.
Her face tightened in confusion at him.
His widening eyes said he was wondering if he should tell her why.
She must have looked desperate, his features pulled back into a professional blank as he looked down the page, somehow able to read it like a book.
"Her NE levels are high," he glanced over. "She's having a nightmare."
Mrs Goodtree broke a little inside.
Yes, a nightmare. That's how modern science would describe it. But she knew differently, having experienced its talon grip with every rebirth, ripping your mind apart if you let it.
And she had let it... once, or twice.
Zahra's memories were returning to her, drawn to the surface by pain, proximity, and the weakening veil between lives. The clash of old and new was too much for one mind to take, too much information to process. Young people struggled to find themselves as it was.
A nightmare.
Perhaps that was the best way to describe it. Not because of the physical pain, but for the memories that flood your mind first and for the longest. Because, as anyone would know, the bad things are always easier to keep hold of.