The Final Mindfuck

Come with me, dear reader, and let's pull back the veil.

Gerard Way looks tired, and unkept. Dark purple bruises have bloomed below his eyes, which are so bloodshot that even extra strength visine couldn't help. His hair is greasy and messy, and looks like he's run his hands through it a thousand times over. His nails are bitten ot the quick, and he hasn't changed his clothes or showered in a few days.

His wife, sitting nect to him, doesn't look much better, her own hair and clothing rumpled in disarray, and whatever little makeup she has left on her face is the several streaks that run down her cheeks.

Together, she and her husband face the doctor sitting across the desk from them. They haven't left the hospital in 4 days. "Mr. and Mrs. Way, it doesn't look good." The doctor says frankly. That's all it took for Lindsey to double over, a fresh wave of tears overtaking her. Her husband patted her back, and the doctor slid a box of tissues across the desk to her.

Giving her a few moments to compose herself, he said, "If she doesn't wake up within the next 24 hours, it's doubtful she ever will. More to the fact, her brainwaves seem to indicate that she's dreaming. If she dies in that dream, either she will wake up, or she'll die."

My dearest readers, you're probably wondering what's going on, aren't you? Well I'll tell you. Be ready for the final illusion to fall away, for your blinded eyes to see. Come with me and let's pull back the veil. Nothing you believed to be true until this time is fact. Everything has just been an elaborate hoax.

4 days ago, young Bandit Lee Way overodes, a fairly toxic mix of muscle relaters, aspirin, sleeping pills, and vodka. Her small body lays in a cold bed in an impersonal room in the hospital's pediactric ward, hooked up to a heart monitor, IV's and a ventilator, but her mind isn't there.

To her, the year isn't 2022, it's 1969. To her, most her family is dead, killed by her father. To her, none of this exists. Her father's band mates aren't anyone important. She's never met most of them, and never spoken to them more than once or twice if she has. She barely knew her mother. She's a murderer. SHe just killed her father.

The year is 1969, and I've just killed my father, because to this very day, 10 years ago, he killed my mother, and before her, my uncle, and before that, my grandfather and step-grandmother. Right now, I'm in my grandmother's car, and we've left the hell hole that I killed my father in. We're driving off into the sunset, far away from here, with the cops hot on our tail, firing their guns at us. I think I've just been hit.

FIN