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My name was Gerard Way. I was the eldest son of Donna and Donald Way and the older brother of Mikey Way. They're telling me I shouldn't be writing in the past tense, but they said I should write what I'm feeling. They don't believe that I'm dead.

I am. Dead. I died sixth months ago when I emptied my family's medicine cabinet and downed a fifth of vodka. I remember dying; I remember the pain and then the numbness. I remember the torture of hell. I was a good catholic boy, but that doesn't matter anymore. Suicides go to hell and I've been to hell.

I still go there when I close my eyes, when they make me sleep. I don't really sleep, obviously, the dead don't sleep or dream. I close my eyes and I visit hell. I'm reminded where I'm supposed to be, where my soul already is. The only reason any part of me is still here to write this down is because my brother is keeping me here.

Mikey is a good boy. When he dies he's going to go to heaven and sing with angels. He's going to be turned into gold and silver and be so beautiful, more beautiful than Lucifer was before his fall. That's blasphemy, I know, but it doesn't much matter for me anymore. Mikey's the reason I'm still here because he needs me. I don't think I can join my soul in hell until he dies too. That doesn't stop me from trying though. Somehow I think hell will be a little more bearable when I know Mikey's in heaven.

I make Mikey do wrong. I don't mean to. I really don't. I'm made of sin so of course he's going to do wrong when he's around me. They ask me why I keep trying to kill myself if I'm already dead. They don't understand that I'm not trying to kill myself anymore, I'm trying to go where I'm supposed to be so Mikey doesn't have to sin anymore. He's a good boy.