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...and we're all dead now	By : poe Category: My Chemical Romance > General Views: 1774 -:- 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-the sickness in me
- 2-sweet revenge
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- 2
Don't know, don't own, don't sue.
They say that disorders are usually the result of an underlying problem, often a traumatic experience suffered in the childhood. Abuse. The death of a loved one, or pet. Seeing something creepy on an old abandoned road.
Mine was the day I was born.

I couldn't help that. I didn't have any say the day my mother forced me out of her womb and into the world. I don't remember the smarting slap the doctor gave my rear to start my breathing, but I do remember many things more stinging and hurtful.
So what's my disorder? Well, I don't really know. It's nothing I've told anyone about. Not anyone who cared anyway. My disorder is degenerate. It's eating away at me, slowly poisoning every bit of me until i am too numb with pain to experience anything real. I live in pain. Not the physical kind, but worse. The kind that no one sees, but everyone feels. And yet, I can't help but wonder if other people's pain equals mine's debillitating strength. I can feel the magnitude of my disease in my chest. It threatens to stop my breathing, close off my lungs and laugh while I struggle for air. It creates this empty, trembling void in the pit of my stomach, that, ever-widening as it is, threatens to consume me entirely in it's black endless depths. But that's not so bad. I've had worse.

Worse like being alive. The struggle to try and invent new reasons every morning why I should get out of bed. To try an convince yourself that this is the day that everything is going to work out right. Something good is going to happen today. Why? Because it just has to. Because if it doesn't, there might not be a tomorrow.
But there always is. Tomorrow comes again and again. No matter how many nights I spend clutching a full bottle of chalky white pills in one hand, while I stifle tears with the other, I always manage to wake up to something. That's a failure and a half.
How do you begin to die? When do you realize that everything you do from the moment you are born is a preparation for your eventual and inevitable death? I don't even begin to think that most would view life in such absolutes. But life is the bane of my existence. I wish only for the cold, snarling embrace of death. That solemn visage that covers all wounds and numbs all pains far better than any perscription I've ever had. It's a finality that I dream about, that keeps me up at night with longing, likened to that of a lost lover. Only this lover is not one that will shower me with rose petals and kisses when I am lonely, and caress my face when I am fearful and distraught. It is one that will kiss my lips as it plunges the knife, twisting it to make sure that it finishes the job.
Now that's love.
I wish someone would love me like that. Love me enough to put me out of my own misery. Out of everyone's misery. That is part of my disease, this idea that one has to be loved to be whole. I've never truly felt love, therefore I have never felt whole, complete. I always feel like there is something missing in me, some vitally important process that I have yet to execute. The idea of holding full and complete passion in your life for another being, and having them reciprocate those feelings in kind, is a foreign concept to me. I can imagine loving someone that much, to be sure. I have loved another like that, even if I've stricken it from my immediate recollection. But I cannot imagine being loved like that by another. I can't picture anyone on this earth who would willingly choose me out of millions of potential "soul mates". Ugh. I hate that phrase. Soul mates? As if anyone has any sort of connection with their soul anymore. As if anyone is actually concerned about whether or not this is real or right. It's all about cheap fucks and big cuts as far as I've seen. No one gives a shit what they do to others, as long as they get laid or paid.

Am I like that? No, I don't think so. At least not now. I don't get laid. Well, that's not entirely true. I don't sleep around anymore is what I mean. I don't find any thrill from being with another guy every night, not like before. Mostly because I thought I had found the only one I needed. And I don't find promiscuity alluring the way I used to. It just sort of makes me.....sad now. The idea that all these people are searching for release and I used to be one of them. I do get paid. Only because I like what I do. Or I used to. Being on stage every night, it was what I lived for. But he took even that away from me.

Maybe that's it. Maybe I can blame this whole thing on him. He took everything from me. Including my will to live. Is that the truth? I don't really know anymore.....but truth is subjective anyway. I could tell myself anything and believe it, if I really wanted to. So yeah, I guess it's true. I've got to remember to put that in the note. "This is all your fault, Frank" or something like that. I want him to know he made me like this. Him and my brother.

Oh Mikey....
How could you do this to me? Do you know how I hate myself now? Have you seen what I do when you're not around? No, I doubt it. He's too busy fucking Frank in the ass to notice that I'm deteriorating at a rapid pace. The drinking, the drugs. They make me numb. Not as numb as that last caress that I crave, but sometimes it's enough. Sometimes.
He hated it. He said it scared him. He said I scared him when I was high and drunk. He was worried that I was going to die. But he didn't know then how sick I was. How I loved him like I wasn't supposed to. How those tight little jeans he wore to shows made me so hot, I'd go onstage almost every night with an aching hard-on. I didn't like to scare him. I just wanted release from the mundane. An escape from the monotonous daily routine that I just couldn't seem to shake.

I almost had it once. I took too many pills, snorted a few rails of coke, and decided that I was invincible. I stared pounding shot after shot of vodka, feeling better and worse with each glass I held to my lips. And then everything went horribly wrong. I started to shake, vomit, convulse, lying on the floor in some shady bar. Unfortunately, the owner was a nice guy, and called an ambulance for me. I was so close. But Mikey, he saved me. Or so I thought. He sat by my bed every day, telling me that I had to live. That he loved me. I looked into his eyes, distorted by the thickness of the lenses he wore, and realized that he meant it in the way that I had always meant it. He loved me. I promised him I wouldn't do it again. And I didn't. But some promises are made to be broken, aren't they? Don't you ever make a promise that you don't intend to keep? He would know that better than anyone, I think. After all, he told me that he loved me. He promised me that he would never leave me.

Yeah, so maybe it was sick and twisted. He was my brother, right? But we loved each other, or rather, I loved him. Every night I loved him. I watched him put his glasses on the nightstand and crawl accross the bed to meet me. I saw his body move, so smooth, so elegant, like a panther stalking its prey. I wanted to be his prey. I wanted him to take me fast and hard like I had never been taken before. And he did. Everything about him held a foreign familiarity to it. He looked so beautiful. He looked like me. Was that supposed to turn me off, making love to myself? It didn't. The thought that he was my flesh and blood made it all the more arousing. The idea that we weren't supposed to be doing this most heinous of actions made my cock throb with anticipation. When he whispered those sweet little phrases into my ear, when I felt his tongue around my hole, I thought I'd died. And then he entered me, and I died again. He felt so good inside me, stretching me, thrusting in and out of me. His hand wrapped around me with a firm grip, and he started pumping me in time with his thrusts. Rapidly my mind started spinning, and I found myself losing control in the wake of the dizzying passion that was pouring from his hand around me and his cock inside me. I never came so hard in my life.

And that was it. Release from everything that I felt and hated and wanted all at the same time. I had nothing to fear at that moment except him. He now held everything that I had cast off of myself. And I just prayed that he would never turn it back on me. He promised he wouldn't.

I believed him. He was my brother, and he had no reason to lie to me. We'd known each other our entire lives, I knew when he wasn't telling the truth. Or I thought I did. I still don't know how he managed to get it by me for so long. I still don't know how long it was going on for. I never want to find out.
So I hate him now. He's not my brother, he's the enemy. He made me believe that I was loveable, made me believe in myself. He made me invincible for real. I didn't need the drugs or the booze. Just him. He kept me safe and on track. He helped me to live.
But all of that bullshit that he fed me -- every line about loving me just the way I was, every night I spent curled in his arms, every time he gave me that special smile, the one I thought he saved only for me -- all of that was negated in the aftermath of his perfect betrayal.
That night I found him and Frank, that was the last night I lived. The last night I ever saw him. He didn't know I was watching. I'd come onto the bus, and he hadn't been expecting me. I heard him before I saw him. I'd recognize his moans anywhere. At first I thought he'd just been jerking off. He did that a lot. It never bothered me. In fact, I think I was smiling as I walked to the back of the bus, thinking that I could help him finish off. I pushed the curtain aside a little, hoping to get a peek at him before he noticed me, my pants already starting to feel a bit tighter at the thought. But what I saw did not register. It was supposed to be Mikey. Just Mikey. But it wasn't. It was Mikey and Frank. And Frank was inside him. Mikey was moaning, jerking himself as Frank slammed into him again and again. He never even saw me. Neither of them did. So I just left.
I walked for, what I thought was, hours. Not even my special cocktails could numb what I was feeling at that moment. I found the skeeziest bar in the skeeziest part of town, and proceeded to drink myself into a stupor. For him. It was always for him. I loved him so much, so completely, I left no room for myself in the equation. But there was always room for him. For everything that he promised me. But no longer.
I stumbled to the nearest hotel, slamming a wad of bills down on the counter, tripping over my own feet to get to my room. I don't know how long I slept for, but when I woke up, I had a dim recollection of the last night's events, and more resolve than ever. I can't live like this anymore.
And so, today is the day. My last day. I can breathe easier knowing that I won't ever have to experience anything like this again. I won't ever have to feel again.
I can't help but feel right now, at least until it's over. Betrayed by my own brother.....
It's okay because the note explains it all. I've had all day to work on it, and it's so eloquent, I even impressed myself. There will be no doubt in their minds when they read it. They will know how they killed me. Or I guess they'll know why I did what he didn't have the balls to do. I mean, he could have had the decency to just stab me through the heart and get it over with. Now I have to do that myself. The least I can do is leave a mess for him to clean up.
~Fin~
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...and we're all dead now