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Dead!	By : LittleMissDisaster Category: My Chemical Romance > General Views: 670 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of My Chemical Romance. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Dead!
- 1
~*~
so i was in the shower the other day and this story popped into my head. it wouldn't leave so i wrote it down. i'd love it if you told me what you thought! good or bad, doesn't matter.
~*~

Gerard woke up in an unfamiliar place. This was not in and of itself unusual, but the darkness was. He stood quickly. No, that wasn’t quite right. He could see. He could very clearly see the hand he waved in front of his face. Could see himself wiggle each digit and the arm attached to it. The grimy ripped up cuff of the hoodie he’d worn for he last few days. He looked at his feet. Same worn black chucks under tight black jeans. But when he looked into the distance, it was as if her were blind, until he brought his hand back up.

‘How much did I take?’ he raked a hand through his shaggy black hair, “Umm.” He couldn’t think of anything to say except “hello,” and he detested the thought of being so cliché. Oh well. Originality be damned, “Hello?” his voice echoed through the… where ever he was, ‘Why does it echo? Am I dead?’ he shook his head, ‘No. I’m not dead. I can’t be! ODed rock star? Great. That’s how they’re going to remember me.’

He sighed and sat down cross legged on the floor, wondering if he was going to spend the rest of eternity in this weird light that made his brain want to jump out of head and rip out his eyeballs so it wouldn’t be forced to process such contradictory information.

“Hello? God? Are you there?” he called into the nothing, “It’s me, Margaret.” He giggled to himself for a few seconds before growing bored of his joke, without anyone around to laugh with him.

‘Is this Hell? I sure as shit wouldn’t be in Heaven if I am dead.’ He looked around some more, trying to locate, anything. There was nothing. Only black. Black that he could see in.

His brain wanted to explode again.

“And as the fragments of my skull begin to fall, fall on your tongue like pixie dust, just think happy thoughts.” He sang to himself after he sat for an hour, or was it a minute? No, it was a decade.

He laid back staring straight up, at least he assumed it was up since he was on some sort of surface, but in this place, up could be down, black white, he checked his sneakers. Nope. They still had white rubber and black canvas, so at least black and white were safe. He began to sing again, quieter, “Hand in mine, into your icy blues. And then I'd say to you we could take to the highway. With this trunk of ammunition too. I'd end my days with you in a hail of bullets”

“How long does it take a person to go insane? Because if I’m not nuts I’m dead. Or really high.” Gerard wondered to himself, “I’m fairly positive this is Hell. This is Hell and I’m dead. I’m pretty sure.” He didn’t realize he’d said those words out loud. Not that it mattered, there wasn’t anyone around to hear him, “I still could just be tripping balls. No. It could only be Hell. The most awful thing I ever imagined was nothing. Nothing, like this. There’s no color, no beauty, no ugly, no nothing. How long before I start seeing things?” he sighed, “I hate Hell.”

“This isn’t hell.”

Gerard stood up so fast he didn’t even remember doing it, and grabbed his chest. Then he looked at the speaker of the first words he’d heard since he got there, and scoffed, “Oh now this is just silly.”

Bela Lugosi, looking like he just stepped out of the celluloid from “The Bat,”- ‘not in his Dracula get up, thanks Hollywood for reducing a great actor to a one role joke.’ Gerard’s thoughts broke momentarily as Bela shrugged, riding jacket lifting off his shoulder briefly.

“This is all you.” He said in his thick Hungarian accent. Gerard thought about asking him to add “Blah!” but then thought better of it, not wanting to offend Bela Lugosi, even if it was a hallucination.

“What’s all me?” he couldn’t stop staring at Bela’s pants. Those absurd ones that were tight on the lower leg and tucked into boots, but puffy around the thigh to the knee. What was the purpose of that? What possible reason could there be for that style of pants?

“This.” Bela gestured to himself, “But as I was saying, this, is not Hell.”

Gerard raised an eyebrow, “Okay then, what is it?”

“Between.”

“That’s specific. Between what?” Gerard retorted, placing a hand on his hip.

“Life and death.” Bela sat in a big, comfy looking red leather wingback chair.

Gerard gaped at him, “So I am dead!” he sat in his own matching chair without comment.

“Not yet. You have a choice.” He folded his hands under his chin, “Right now your body is lying on the floor of a hotel room next to a lot of pills and an unsafe amount of empty bottles. You have the option, right now, to come with me all the way into death, or to go back to your body and do something with your life.”

Gerard looked at Bela Lugosi, deep into his eyes, ‘Why is he in black and white?’ Gerard looked back at himself and found he was still in vivid Technicolor, “Why-”

“Because this is how you picture Bela Lugosi, and this is the first thing your mind came up with when you looked at me.” Bela sighed.

Gerard shook his head, ‘Bela Lugosi. That’s the first thing I come up with? What’s the matter with me?’

“So, Gerard Arthur Way, think very hard about the choice I am giving you. If you go back, you are going to face a lot of pain, a lot of hardship, a lot of bullshit.” He waited for Gerard to stop giggling, “But in return, you will help more people with your music than you ever thought possible. The broken, the beaten and the damned will flock to you from far and wide and take comfort and strength from the words you write and songs you sing.”

“Or?” Gerard asked carefully, mind snapping back from the vacation it took.

“Or you can go with me into death. No more pain, no more sorrow, no more responsibility.”

“And?” Gerard prompted, sensing there was more that Bela was not telling him.

“And you’ll have a lot of company soon.”

Gerard looked at Bela, trying to detect the catch, “What if I chose to go back?”

“You’ll be harassed, ridiculed, beaten up probably. You’ll most certainly lose your best friend and you have to get your shit together. It’s hard to write Earth shattering meaningful lyrics when you’re fucked up all the time.” He sighed and patted Gerard’s knee, “You’ll have to grow up.”

“What’s gonna happen to the rest of the guys?” he asked slowly.

Bela sat back and steepled his fingers under his chin, “Oh, most of them will be fine.”

“Will Mikey?” his voice got quite, and he wasn’t really sure he wanted to know.

Bela shrugged, “More than likely.”

“What about all the kids I’m supposedly going to help?”

Bela looked at him sadly and shook his head.

Gerard thought about it. He thought hard, and for a long time, although that meant nothing in that place where time was an abstract concept that may or may not have existed.

On the one hand, he could go with Bela-seriously, Bela fucking Lugosi is how he imagined Death?-and everything would stop. He would stop hurting everyone he knew and loved by fucking up all the time, he would stop hurting himself in that deep secret place that the booze and drugs numbed there wouldn’t be anymore worry, fear, pain, bills.

Then he thought about all those faces staring up at him night after night when the band played. He saw the kids crying as they sang along to “Vampires Will Never Hurt You,” and “Headfirst for Halos,” watched them get angry and growl out the lines, letting everyone else know, “I’m Not Okay (I Promise)” along with him, screaming “Thank You for the Venom.” He couldn’t possibly leave them.

He stood and brushed off his clothes, wondering idly if he was going to remember any of this when he got back to his body. Who would believe him anyway? His new motto was going to be “Bela Lugosi saved my life.” Let people make of it what they would.

“I’m ready to go back now.”

Bela grinned, “We hoped you would say that.”

Suddenly Gerard sat up. The hotel room smelled awful, like booze, cigarettes, vomit, sex, pot, and meth. Bert was passed out on the bed, face fist, arms and legs hanging off, fingers coming frighteningly close to brushing through a puddle of someone’s sick.

There were other, more random people passed out in various places and various states of dress all around the room.

“Fuck this.” Gerard said and shook his head to clear it. He stood, going to the TV and shutting it off, silencing the old black and white horror flick that was on. He left a brief note for Bert, telling him he’d gone. That he was done. He was getting clean and for the other man to call him when he woke up.

Lighting a cigarette and fixing his hoodie, Gerard left the room without a backward glance, singing some lyrics under his breath he thought might make a good song, “Son when you grow up, will you be the saviour of the broken, the beaten and the damned?"
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Dead!