Alone
It was always something that had bothered him, being alone, but he kept it well hidden. When his father was away with work he would never fail to keep up his façade of a content teenage boy but I knew better. I had been watching him for far too long to miss it. From the instant he parted ways with his friends after school he was alone, and remained that way until he met with them again in the morning. His free time was much the same.
I had always wondered why he never seemed to have a romantic interest. He was beautiful. Females and males alike would fawn over his elegant features, large mournful eyes, and his hair which was so perfect that it had even made Devlin jealous. He was absolutely stunning, yet he didn't seem to see his admirers. That was what first caught my eye, his detachment from what a boy of his age should have been interested in. He reminded me of me, and that made me want to help him. I've never been happy with who I am, I didn't want to see someone so flawless fall into the same state as I have.
The first sign that something was wrong took me by surprise. He came in one day with his hair more into his eyes than usual, obscuring part of his face. I didn't like it at all; I had seen it all before. Felt it all before. He was limping, but brushed it off as a fall down the stairs. It was obvious that his friends believed him. No-one tried to speak to him about it, and eventually it was forgotten. I never saw what he was hiding on his face.
We shouldn't have forgotten.
It was barely a month later that my heart was ripped to shreds. After a week of unexplained absence the remains of Bakura Ryou had been found in his home, tied to a table by a delicate, destroyed wrist and found by none other than yours truly. His corpse was in a pool of blood. Those large mournful eyes were gone, hacked out and never to be found. His elegant features were in a state of ruin, only to be replaced with an expression of pure horror. In fact I could barely tell that it was the Bakura Ryou that I had had such an interest in. His hair - his brilliant, long, soft white hair - was the only part of his beauty left untouched. It fell across his slashed face and chest, soaking in the blood weeping from his wounds, like a pure white death shroud. There were no signs left to point to the villain who had done such horror, it was as if he had done it all to himself.
Even in death, he was alone.