I'm sorry for dividing this into two short parts, but it makes sense that way.

A wasn't the only one who died that day—and it was a bloody mess; B regretted not being able to see it.

B was fed up of being in second place all the time. That life was now over, as well.

Now that A was dead, the teachers were starting to pay attention to him. But he wanted more, wanted attention from the man he was being trained to become.

L had visited before, but he, like everyone else, thought A was the one who would succeed. He'd never paid individual attention to B, other than a few curious glances. Not the focused attention A received.

L's visits were impossible to predict, but it was a few days after A's death, and the teachers were talking about holding a ceremony for him. L was sure to be there—like everyone else, he seemed attached to A.

B had to get ready for that, to get ready to see L again. He was, of course, excited to see the body, but it would be cleaned up; the blood would be gone, and the excitement would have been taken out of the occasion had L not been certain to come. He was desperate to prove his similarities to the man, inside and out.

And so, he grabbed the bag of materials he stole last night, when he snuck out—which was easier than it seemed—to complete his rebirth: scissors, hair dye, colored contacts, and new clothes.

Theoretically, he didn't need to sneak out and steal these items; he could ask, and have them there almost immediately, provided by the staff. But it wasn't quite as fun as doing it himself, and it took the shock away, from when he revealed his new appearance, and the thrill of escaping.

B stood naked over the bathroom sink. The hair dye would be first; he'd go headfirst into his new life. It showed bravery, after all. That was what he prided himself on—B had never been scared. Of anything.

Not even of his own actions.

Without even looking at the directions, B began to apply the dye—fuck guidelines, he could figure it out himself—and rinsed it out an estimated fifteen minutes later. He'd need to get used to doing this.

He didn't need to cut his hair; L's was longer than his, so it actually needed to grow out a little longer. The difference wasn't obvious; his hair hung in his eyes, but didn't quite reach his neck. B had a tendency to pay attention to details, so it bothered him that his transformation wouldn't be complete for another month or so, until his hair grew in. It shouldn't take too long, though; he'd grown it out for months, now, almost a year.

Next were the contacts—it took a while to get used to the loss of vision; he was used to his glasses. But he was fine, after a few minutes of blinking.

It was tough to put them in, though—he accidentally poked himself in the eye an approximate six times before getting it right.

He snapped the glasses, enjoying the satisfying crack! from the lenses as they snapped and the blood running down his hand from a sharp piece of the broken wire frame. As he licked it off, savoring the taste, he blinked at himself in the mirror with his newly-gray eyes, the same eyes he would now show to the world forever.

Last came the clothes. He pulled the white shirt and jeans on. At a loss as for what kind of underwear L wore, B decided to stick with none—at least until he arranged a certain "accident."

He ripped up all his old clothes, cutting them up into tiny strips of cloth with his new, sharp scissors, the whole time planning his new life. Upon finishing, he threw the scraps of fabric into a fire—in A's room, where the bloodstains indicated he had killed himself—and laughed maniacally as the fire reflected in his gray eyes.

It could be said both of their lives ended there. B couldn't think of a better spot to lay to rest his old life. B was now no longer the same person, the one who was never good enough to notice.

Now he was a perfect duplicate of L. Ready to succeed him when the moment arose.

He would have to get attention then. Even from L.

I like how I did this—one section focuses on how A's life ends, and the other focuses on how B's life ends. It's almost poetic. Or not—I suck at poetry. But I like how this turned out. (: Even if it is short. D:

Reviews would be lovely. (: