AN: Okay, I'm back and this time, I will make sure my story will be finished. I'd like to thank The Duelist's Heiress (I was glad you were still interested) and browneyes730 for reviewing my past story, Thorns. Hopefully, I'll do much better with my new one. On that note, I apologize that this chapter is so short; I wanted to give the right amount of information without giving away too much. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Don't own it. Now really, if I owned YGO, why would I be here writing about it?


Chapter One: The Bitter End


She sobbed uncontrollably as guilt, shock, and horror coursed through her body. Tears rolled down her cheeks despite how tightly her cerulean eyes were shut. It was useless; she felt useless. Her crying pathetically would do nothing to change the situation any more than it already was. She couldn't blame the person who did this. Deep down, the brunette knew the only one who filled that role was herself.

It was all her fault to begin with.

And now, someone else was paying for the consequences of her actions…with their life.

Clutching the unconscious male in her arms protectively to her chest, she ran a blood stained hand in his hair. Her earlier efforts to block the flowing crimson liquid from his gaping wound were in vain as her hands were too small for the job. The blood had pooled underneath his prone body while it seeped into the carpet. She didn't know how long ago it stopped and she wasn't sure if it was a good or bad thing now that it did.

With his full weight against her, she remained immobilized on the floor. His head teetered over her arm. He looked so peaceful and serene you would've thought that he was asleep; the mask of death can be deceptive that way. She knew better. His uneven breathing came in ragged and pained pants.

The color from his skin drained into a ghostly white that could nearly count as translucent. He was as cold as ice, raising the hairs on her exposed skin up. She wished vehemently for this to be a dream; that at any moment he would wake up and play it off as a cruel joke. Then she would smack him and berate his choice of tricks.

He hadn't uttered a single word.

It was a living nightmare.

She whispered soothing but watery words that he probably didn't hear. Mostly, she did it to calm herself rather than jump to the belief he'll be dead before the paramedics would get there. Her heart pounded against her ribcage. How did things get so messed up?

It was all her fault.

God, it was all her fault!

Somebody called her name. She ignored it. Her only focus was the limp male dying in her arms. A choked wail escaped her lips when his body began to convulse. He was going into shock. Before she could attempt to do anything, an unknown force wretched his body away as a pair of hands touched her shoulders. The wall of unshed tears blurred her sight while she desperately (but sluggishly) fought to get him back.

Again, it was no use. Finally, her defenses broke and a fresh wave of tears went loose. She feared it was already too late. Remorse and utter grief hit her like a ton of bricks.

The blue eyed girl knew his relative would suffer ten times worse than she did because the truth would be known.

She had failed him.

And the proof would be his blood that painted her hands red.


AN: Depressing, no? Read and review! Good or bad (and make it constructive if you're gonna flame, otherwise I'll have my Tonberry eat it).