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Musicians/Music Groups Fan Fiction >> My Chemical Romance

The following is a work of fiction. Any statements regarding any person, place, or other entity (real or imaginary) is the sole responibility of the author of this work of fiction. Fan Works Inc. takes no responsibility for the content of user submitted stories. All stories based on real people are works of fiction and do not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. All stories based on other copyrighted works are written with authors knowing that these works violate copyright laws.

Please see the Terms of Service for more information.


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With Eyes that Have Seen Legions
By Taylor Bryton


Is it enough?

Is this enough?

The center of a black universe of those who hadn't seen what he had, but who, for god's sake, wanted to see it, and who thought that they contained it.

Is this enough?

Is it love? Is love enough?

The music suddenly stopped, and Gerard Way stood on a the concrete stage, metal microphone in hand. The T-shirted crowd quieted and stood in wait; they waited for him to channel it again.

He had been young and fooled by misty visions far more satisfying than the truths one comes against later, just as these were now. He had thought he knew it was enough.

It has to be enough.

“I love you guys!”

A cheer confirmed the black universe's reciprocation. Did they know what that meant?

“This next song . . .”

The black question-mark of the crowd prepared for the recommencement of the frenzy of confirmation.

Gerard wondered again—were they sadistic? Masochistic? Why did they want to hear this? Music inspired by—oh God! If the dread he felt of it was any indication, that place was not something desirable. Its music should not be revered, worshiped—and it should not exist in the hearts of millions of people still young enough to feel.

Yet it did. And thank God—he felt sometimes it was his salvation, such as it was.

Still, is it enough?

God, is it enough? The closer the hour drew, each minute half as long as the one before, the greater grew Gerard's dread. Yet also—the greater grew his—what? hope? something like hope. Because this torment of anticipation, this imagined universe of blinding horrors, had to be worse than the actual thing, once it came. Everything else Gerard had ever come up against had been less intense, less itself, when manifest in reality, than when condensed and strengthened by the powerful machine of his imagination.

He wanted to ask them, them that loved him, or loved what he'd seen and where he'd been, or loved this confirmation that he or that place was in them—or those that didn't know what to love—he wanted to ask them himself—is it enough for me?

For his friends, he knew this was all different. Powerful, pulsing, thundering—but nothing like it was for him. This wasn't just a particularly good experience among many experiences—no. This was being, finally being, in the long chain of non-being, of absence, of ghostly nothingness, that was the rest of his time spent above the earth. This was it. Is it enough? To make up for . . . what he'd given up that night?

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His body convulsed. He saw it, somehow, with a third eye, or a forth, he didn't know.

Nothing happened. The paramedic, whose figure was just outside the pool of yellow street-lamp-light that drenched Gerard's still form, blew air into those lifeless lips.


His body convulsed again, and suddenly the world did to, twisting and realigning into the perspective of the living—almost; it would never quite fully realign that way.

He opened his eyes and gasped. He lay in the lamp-light on a stretcher.

“Let's go, let's go, let's go!”

It all faded to black, yet the question that would plague him for the rest of his time here had already began to resolve its monstrous self into a solid growth in the back of his mind—is it enough?

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The world looks different to a happy person. It looks different to a person who knows what they are. And it looks different to a person who knows where they're going.

Mikey was in the hospital bed next to Gerard's. Did he know?

He wanted to start asking—is it enough?—but he was distracted by something—something beautifully horrible, horribly beautiful. The world looks different—a unique perspective comes of knowing, especially when it twists the perspective of one who already saw things in an impossible, 13-sided prism.

Mikey was intubated. His breath puffed in and out, audible and functioning only with the help of the cold machine by his bed.

Gerard looked away, breathlessly and confusedly enraged by the image. He realized that the light was too bright, the room too colorful—yet not bright enough, not nearly colorful enough. The light irritated him for being too dim, and too bright. He felt as if he had two sets of eyes, two separate pairs of orbs drinking in the world. He felt more sensitive to reality than he ever had before, and it baffled him.

This was half the reason why he'd done what he'd just done, why he'd just made that deal. For this. For the hope that he could retrain his eyes, his ears, his knowledge of the world—and thus his motions in it, his gestures as he moved within it, knowledge infecting action and transforming it. Would it be enough? It was time to return to what he'd disavowed; death had taken up residence as a black mote in the corner of his eye, and it lit a dark, lightless fire beneath his passions.

He didn't realize how shaken and confused he was until he heard his own dry sob, saw his hand involuntarily rub at his face, his eyes begin to open and shut of their own accord. He had to begin, now. Another involuntary, desperate sob escaped from his lips; he felt a huge pool of abject terror within himself clip into a container that took the shape of a frenzied need to act, rationally or irrationally. Will it be enough?

He began to think back, for just a moment. To the beginning.

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10 A.M. He always rose early, no matter what he'd done the night before. He couldn't help it, even if he wanted to.

Gerard polished off the spiked coffee and put his cigarette out in the bottom of the cup. The line he held to his ear picked up.


Silence on the other end for a moment. “Yeah.”

“Hey! I, uh, I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry,” his voice caught, and he took a drink from the bottle that had spiked the coffee. “I'm sorry, Mikey. I'm—”

“It's alright, Gerard,” Mikey's calm voice came from the other end. “It's alright. As long as—”

“What? What? As long as what? I'll do it, Mikey, whatever it is.”

“Yeah. I was gonna say, as long as you get yourself some help.”

Gerard's eyes widened as Mikey's words hit him in mid-swig. He swallowed the whiskey off-center and choked a little. When he recovered, he said, “Help? What do you mean? I'm fine. I take enough pills to counteract the booze. Life's all about balance.”

Another silence. “I'm serious Gerard. God—how can you not acknowledge that you have a problem? If you don't try to do something about this, Gerard, I'm not coming to cry about it and pay for it the next time you end up with fragments of your skull in a metal bowl next to your hospital bed.”

“I didn't ask you to come.” He had no idea why he was being so vindictive and small. Of all the people in the world, Mikey was the person he wanted to be best around.

“Oh, god, Gerard, that's because you were comatose—”

“No, no, stop, I know, I'm sorry, you're right, I'm a fuck up, are you happy? Now hey—why don't you come over here? I've got this idea. Actually, that's why I called. Yesterday got me thinking. What the fuck are we doing, in a world like this? Both of us, Mikey, not just me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The terrorist attacks, or whatever they were. I don't know who to think did it, but someone did. I saw it, Mikey.”

“You saw it?”

“Yeah. I was walking from the coffee shop back to my claustrophobic little cubicle when suddenly there's this incredible crashing sound, and I look up at a skyline covered in black smoke. I spent all yesterday wondering what this means. And I decided it doesn't mean anything for me, or the world—because really in the global context it's commonplace. And yet all day long I do nothing but work in that claustrophobic cubicle, write comics that nobody will buy, and come home and fucking drink about it.”

“Yeah, that's the problem.”

“No, shut up dude,” Gerard flicked at the whiskey bottle's label. “Just come over here.”

They hung up, and Gerard took another swig.

He looked at the old guitar and base, instruments of he and Mikey's youth, that he had gotten out of Helen's attic the night before. He felt a little twinge of something brighter than the grey-water emotion that had settled over his steeping brain for the past five years.

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The attic smelled good, like natural wood polish and cool moonlight. Gerard hadn't been to work in three days, and he was already beginning to suspect that those cubicles, that water cooler, had all been poisonous, sapping the energy to care about anything out of him.

“It's called Skylines and Turnstyles.

“Dude, why?”

“Dude, shut up.” Gerard threw one of Matt's own drum sticks at him. The stick bounced off Matt's head and made a shimmying sound as it hit the symbols on the drum-set. Matt threw it back, but Gerard ducked. “Come on, come on, let's do it again,” he said.

“I'm going to get a beer first. You want one?”

“No. After we're done,” Gerard replied nonchalantly.

“Alright.” Matt went down the ladder that led from his attic to his bedroom, where a small refrigerator contained the fledgling band's supply of beers.

“So I was thinking,” Ray was speaking for the first time since the session began, “that Bring More Knives could be called Our Lady of Sorrows.”

Gerard just looked at the guitar-holding man for a moment, considering. Then he laughed. “That's awesome, Ray,” he said appreciatively.

Matt came back up the ladder.

“Let's play that,” Gerard said to Ray.

“What?” Matt took a swig on the cheap beer.

Our Lady of Sorrows.”

“Let's do it.”

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And here he was, practically three years later, with his mind's baggage heavier than ever with that blinding night's contract weighing in—and yet in higher spirits then he'd ever been.

“You know,” Mikey croaked, his throat sore from intubation, “I only agreed to join the band because it seemed to be sobering you up, Gerard.”

Gerard sat in a carpeted hospital chair between Mikey's ICU bed and the bed he'd been released from five days before.

“Oh come on, Mikey,” he laughed. “You joined the band because you like the tracks I recorded with just Matt and Ray.”

Mikey smiled. “No, really I joined because I was working at a paper company.” Gerard laughed slightly, and Mikey went on. “But mostly I joined because it seemed like it was good for you, so I thought it'd be good to risk it together. But now I'm not so sure. You're just not getting any better any more. I mean, I know we're big now, but that was never the point. You know how they see you, those millions of kids who love to watch you falling-down drunk on internet videos, just to pity you.”

Gerard paused for a moment before moving the carpeted chair closer to Mikey's, leaning in. He knew that the taunt rubber-band of Mikey's faith in him had finally snapped to slap him in the face, leaving an ugly welt—he knew this, but he also knew that the world was now a completely different place.

He looked Mikey in the eyes. “I'm going to do better. I'm going to stop drinking so much. I'm going to stop all of that. I mean, I almost killed you Mikey.” He looked down and away from Mikey's eyes, suddenly feeling a shame he hadn't known was this deep. “Yeah, I did. And I'm done with all that stuff, Mikey. I'm done.”

After a moment he regained the courage to look at Mikey's face. His brother's eyes seemed to be boring into him, torn between tattered, beaten love and freshly born contempt laced with old, old pity. He looked vulnerable, as if he were looking for reassurance to love. Gerard knew that look in his younger brother well—but he'd never been able to do anything when it came into his eyes.

“I'm serious, Mikey.” He looked him square in the eyes and spoke quietly and firmly, speaking as if stating two plus two is four—his tone implying entitlement to belief.

Suddenly Mikey smiled. “Okay,” he said. “We keep going, then.”

Gerard had a moment's impulse to stand up, run someplace, start acting on that dark fire. But instead he just looked at his brother, whose faith had suddenly been miraculously restored. He felt worthy of it. He felt worthy of his brother's love. This was almost enough.

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Several days later. He knew it was a gift, but what had happened?

He wrestled with the thought, keenly aware of the weakness of the mind as a muscle. What had happened?

It had been a grappling contest. Nothing had been like it is on earth. It was as if he was pure perception, pure thinking observation, until that question slipped into his foggy mind: Do you want to live, a bit longer?

Simultaneously something in him gave way, like an avalanche held in place for so long and sliding down at the sonic force of a rock falling, and something else pried itself up from the depths of his past, pried itself from the mud, and stood. “No!” “Yes!”

Something slipped, something fell, and Yes remained.

Burning, putrid darkness. More questions. Mikey's face. Mikey. Mikey calling to him. Mikey on a stretcher, moving through a vacuum. The twisted metal frame of his car. More questions.

He couldn't remember. The rest was blank. He knew what he'd chosen, and who had given him his choice. And he knew what he had not chosen.

Chosen? He wondered about that. He hadn't really been in control; it was as if all the elements that made up “Gerard Way” had gone to war, like slaughtering unlike, until the remainder of the good and evil elements of himself came out—good? evil? He wasn't even sure where his choice stood.

Saving Mikey—that was good. Wanting to live life, really live it now, for a while without alterations, without bottles—that was probably good, too. But—the crowd. The love. That love. Was that good?

Of course, he knew that if he had been given a real choice, a choice of reason, he would've chosen the same. Because Mikey's life had been bound up in the contract.

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The thunder ceased, and the T-shirted crowd again subsided.

Gerard remembered that look in Mikey's eyes, that look of faith. He saw it replicated now a thousand-fold. A black universe of people young enough to feel, not knowing with their minds what he'd seen, where he'd been—but seeing with their souls—and with their ears.

“Let's give my brother Mikey hand,” Gerard said, suddenly ceased with an odd exuberance.

The crowd roared, their love charging into Mikey for a moment.

“This one's called Famous—”

The crowd cut him off for a moment with its ecstatic vocal reaching toward the sound of his voice and his presence on the stage, announcing the next rite.

“This one's called Famous Last Words.

The black universe, with its million dark stars dancing around him, surged forward, pressing closer to the concrete stage, seeking union with the forces that now began to channel themselves into the amps. Demons made discordantly melodic.

And he began to sing those words again, those words that held quivering within themselves all the paradox of that bittersweet doom, that perverse love, that black universe of people who knew, or wanted to know, what he'd seen, and what he'd decided, that night. He could answer his question no other way. Is it enough?

So many
Bright lights to cast a shadow
But can I speak?
Well is it hard understanding
I'm incomplete
A life that's so demanding
I get so weak
A love that's so demanding
I can't speak

I am not afraid to keep on living
I am not afraid to walk this world alone
Honey if you stay, I'll be forgiven
Nothing you could say can stop me going home.

Did they know what these words meant to him? He couldn't imagine any other sense in them but his sense. Perhaps they knew.

Or perhaps they knew better.

The black universe suddenly seemed so unified, himself, Mikey, the band, the T-shirted multitude—if that place affords this inspiration, if this sweet double-vision was born of that horror—then he was not afraid.

Hey you guys—please give me a review. Criticise me, please, tell me only bad stuff. If you just read this and are like, “What the fucking hell was that?” please post just that, just “What the fucking hell was that?” I want criticism. I feed on criticism. Tell the good, the bad, and the ugly here people.


The preceeding was a work of fiction. Any statements regarding any person, place, or other entity (real or imaginary) is the sole responibility of the author of this work of fiction. Fan Works Inc. takes no responsibility for the content of user submitted stories. All stories based on real people are works of fiction and do not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. All stories based on other copyrighted works are written with authors knowing that these works violate copyright laws.

Please see the Terms of Service for more information.

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