Authors Note: I'm not really sure where this came from. I was unstacking the dishwasher the other day and went to put a knife away when I started thinking of BB. I held that knife in my had for a while, before finally putting it away. Then the inspiration for this story hit like a ton of bricks. I tried to ignore it (I love B, but I have something else I'm supposed to be trying to write) but eventually BB won, and this story came out. I'm not sure if I should bump up the rating due to... themes... Let me know if I should, and don't forget to review!

Have you ever run a knife across your bare skin, not hard enough to draw blood, just to see what it feels like? Did you ever hold that knife close to your neck, and wonder what would happen if you pressed just a little harder? And with that knife, did you ever stab a nearby table, trying to take out your anger and hatred on to something that wouldn't complain? Whenever that knife hit the table, making a terrible cracking noise, did you ever wonder what it would sound like if that knife was stabbing human flesh instead?

I do that all the time.

A lot of people like to believe that after A died, it messed me up, and that's what made me a little... different. I can tell you right here and now that is complete bullshit, because I was always different, unique in a way nobody else was. Every person I ever cared about; I could see exactly when they were going to die. I knew their names, their faces, and their fucking life spans.

Do you know how hard it is, to know at age three that your mother was going to die in three days, or to know that your best friend is about to commit suicide, and that there is nothing you can do about it? No, you don't. Nobody does. Because I'm unique, different than every other god damn human in this world.

Still, none of that is what drove me over the edge, what made me run a knife across my flesh. No. That was all because of the one everyone wanted so fucking badly to be, the one they called perfect in every single way, though he was far from it. It was because of L.

L; the one man who made my life a living hell. The one man who gave me a letter, who tried to force me to be just like him. You know what I heard him say? "B stands for back-up."

That single sentence was enough to push me over the edge, to make me vow for my revenge, because who in this world wants to find out that they are a back-up plan? How horribly cruel is it, to find out that you exist purely as a back-up, and for that sole purpose? How cruel is it to find out that everything you've been working towards is a fucking lie?

B stands for back-up. B stands for back-up. B stands for back-up.

Is that all my life was about? Being second to someone who was about to die? That day I decided something better. B doesn't stand for back-up, Lawliet. B stands for Beyond. Beyond Birthday.

Oh yes, I know his name. Of course I know L's name. As his back-up, he decided it was best to have a good, long talk with his possible successor, share information that could aid me in the future and tell me stories that he hoped would be enough to encourage me forward.

I saw his name. I saw his face. I saw his lifespan.

At that point in time, I actually believed B stood for something else, something worth fighting for. I actually believed, stupidly enough, that B stood for Better, or Brilliant. When I saw the famous detective, L Lawliet, I studied everything about him, taking in his strange personality and features, examining every little detail about him.

I watched the way he held a teacup delicately in his fingers, as if it might break at any moment if he weren't careful. I studied the colour of his hair and the way it stuck out in all different directions, much like my own. I questioned him about everything I could think of- from how he solved his first case, to his favourite type of cake.

It sickens me to say that on that day, I discovered that Lawliet and I are very similar. We both like strawberries (one in the form of cake and the other in jam), we both have the same messy black hair, and we even both have the same way of thinking. He was so likable, so friendly in a peculiar way, and I hate him for it.

I hate him for deceiving me! I hate him for being the cause of my best friend's suicide! I hate him for calling me back-up! I hate him for making me love him!

Yes, that's right. I love that fucking detective, L Lawliet. You know why? Because despite everything he did to make me hate him, some part of me will always look up to him, mainly because of the amazing things he did that even I could never achieve.

He offered me some jam that day. Damn it, I haven't stopped eating jam since. What's worse is that it's always strawberry jam, because it reminds me the most of him, and I fucking hate it!

I despise myself for loving that man; despise myself for falling victim to his charm and his odd personality. How could I not though, when he's so much like me? Heck, we even fucking sit the same! How many people sit with their knee's up to their chests, all the fucking time?

Fuck it. L, I know you're reading this, you and your current successors who you're fucking up in that stupid orphanage I used to call home. Did you ever know that you drove me to this pit of insanity, where I sit with a sharp kitchen knife that I drag across my skin? I wish it were your skin I was piercing, your skin that was underneath my knife, because I hate you. I hate you so much that I love you, you bastard.

Do you know what it's like to drag a knife across your skin, without drawing blood, or without leaving even a small scratch? Of course you don't, but I can tell you what if feels like.

It's like hating somebody you love. You can drag a knife across the surface, but no matter how much you want to, you're too afraid to pierce the skin, because you're afraid that it might hurt.

No, that's not true. I'm not afraid of being hurt. I'm afraid of liking it, and truly falling into the pits of insanity because of you, and it tears me apart.

One of these days, I'm going to pierce my skin with that knife, and I'm going to draw blood. When that day comes, I'm not sure how you'll react, and to be honest, I don't really give a fuck, because I still hate you. No matter how much blood I draw because of that knife, I will still hate you.