His last breath was taken by the ones who had taken away his rights — the ones who stripped him of his own confidence and speech. When the world had faded to that familiar black, and when the screaming voices had ceased, something was wrong. It hadn't been this quiet; not ever.

Seto was in a fetal position; his head swung low, his knees perched close to his chest, and his arms swung around them. Crying silently, he stirred as his eyes shifted upwards. No light, just the appeasing darkness he had grown up in. Managing to stand up and dust himself off, the room had lit up.

A single house.

It wasn't large, it was more as a cottage. There were stone steps leading to it. The house had a nice porch, as well as a color scheme that seemed so happy — so full of possibility and light. The environment around him was stunning; a forested background and tall grass that swayed with ease. He decided to investigate the house.

Seto slowly stepped towards the porch. Unlike his own home, the porch didn't creep eerily, or break under his feet for that manner. It was well polished, almost like it was newly built. The door was half-open, and he decided to push it.

The inside of the house was stunning as well. The scent of lavender and vanilla flourished. There was no furniture. Multiple photographs were placed eloquently against the white walls. Seto had shut the door behind him and begun to examine the photos.

The first frame had held a mirror.

His face and body were always bruised — so utterly bruised that it took away from his actual features. A soft, brown-eyed gaze, a pixie nose, silly, chocolate brown hair, and a fair skin complexion and frame. Seto never really took the chance to admire himself; everyday was like clockwork to him. There was no time for narcissism in his schedule.

The next frame held a photo of a baby. It was newly born — quite calm yet alien looking it seemed. The date below it was "09/27" — his date of birth. He strolled past it and towards he other photos.

They were all of him.

He didn't grow up in a stable household. The photos were more of depressing reminders of what he had known all his life. The clockwork that was never ceasing — the type of clockwork that never fails to arrive and complete on time. Seto wiped a tear away from his eye.

He was nearing the end of house. He turned back to see everything burning — almost as if it was some sort of mistake that should never have existed in the first place. Defaced; his whole life seemed to be defaced.

The end of the house was another black tunnel filled with glowing white eyes. He had no sense of fear; it seemed to be that he had lost it when that first slap when on his face as a child. Biting his lip, he turned back again. The flames were growing closer; he could hear the crackling. It reminded him of a fireplace.

He gazed back towards the black tunnel. Taking a deep breath, he stepped in it. Feeling the tears stream down his face, and feeling himself being torn apart one last time, he muttered a prayer of thanks before being fully ripped apart by the monsters — his fears that waited so patiently for him to finally die.

He was not meant to reside in peace.

He was not meant to reside in heaven.

He was not meant to reside on earth.

He was not meant to exist in the first place.