Author’s Notes: Say hey! This story is written by me. Plagiarise this and prepare to be perforated. And remember kids, drugs are BAD. Also, this is mainly attributed to the wonderful My Chemical Romance from whom I’ve gotten many of my ideas from. Titles and quotes taken directly from You Brought Me Your Love, I Brought You My Bullets and Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge. Lyrics are also incorporated into the actual story, so points given if you can spot them!

Author’s Notes 2: I’d just like you people to make a note as you read this story that I thought of this story, characters and complications before the movie I Am Legend even started advertising. So…Mwha.

Disclaimer: All songs and lyrics belong to My Chemical Romance and Reprise Records and them only. I am not making any money from this story or any other that includes these songs.

You Brought Me Love, I Have My Bullets

..:::§:::..

Chapter 1: This Mirror Isn’t Big Enough For The Two of Us

"The amount of pills I’m taking counteracts the booze I’m drinking

And this vanity I’m breaking lets me live my life this way"

..:::§:::..

The sun outside meant it was probably midday. Orange light filtered through the dirty window and came to rest in a small, dimly lit room. A figure lay sprawled on a bare mattress against a wall. A steady throb made its way across the back of his skull, like a numbing toothache. Across the room, a strange face stared at him through a cracked mirror. The figure ran his tongue over dry, cracked lips, and tasted blood.

I need…

Groaning, he rolled over and knocked down empty beer bottles from the side. Muddled images of the previous night flooded his mind. A shattered glass, a crowded place, and laughter… Not his, but everyone else’s. Another figure, another shadow, cruel laughter… He had got them, to get away from it all; the chittering, cold, laughter, always there. They had to be there.

I need more…

Desperation filled his actions as pale hands stretched and searched the crevices in the room. Small red and blue pills scatted in their wake. The voice in his head urged him on.

I

Need

MORE.

His fingertips touched a small plastic tube, and relief washed over him. He’d found it.

Grasping the syringe, he held it up close to his bloodshot eyes. It was still full. For a moment he let the corners of his mouth curl slightly. The stranger in the mirror mimicked with a twisted sneer.

“Well, I’m not proud of it…” said the figure.

He curled a rubber tube around his left arm. Tightening the tourniquet with his teeth, he barely felt the needle go in. Through hazy eyes, he could just see the clear liquid draining from the syringe into his arm. Bright colours floated past and slowly made their way across the walls. If he looked carefully, he could make them dance and twist past his eyes. The throbbing in his head began to ease and soon diedIn the mirror, the strangers’ face blurred in and out of focus. Once again he felt his muscles relax as his new life blood filled his veins, and the room faded from view…

..:::§:::..

“So let’s go back to the middle of the day that starts it all…”

..:::§:::..

The sun outside meant it was probably midday. It smiled around a boy, no older than sixteen, lying near a tree. His pale complexion begged to differ from the pitch black mattered hair. Despite all attempts to tame it, the wild locks still maintained a life of their own. On his face he wore a glazed expression of a daydreamer in his own fantasy. To anyone passing by, he was invisible, his dark clothes making him automatically Somebody Else’s Problem. Except…

“Hey goth chick!”

Oh no. The fantasy broke, and the boy looked around. Approaching the scene were Brent and his gang, large frames of pure muscle and power. The boy tried to shift to the shadows, and averted his eyes. Maybe, if he didn’t move, if he just held his breath for long enough, they might go away.

But they didn’t.

They never did.

Brent lumbered up to him and thrust his had onto the boy’s shirt. He wrenched him to his feet and lifted him effortlessly off the ground. Despite his struggling, the boy was weak against the leader’s iron grip. The rest of the pack circled in around them. There was no escape.

“Aw, look boys: looks like emo kid wants some playmates.”

The boy kicked his legs at them, to no avail. “I’m not afraid of you!” the boy cried. There was little conviction in his voice.

Brent laughed. The others sniggered cruelly as he drew the struggling boy closer. The boy could smell the putrid breath on his face.

“Don’t even try to lie. I can read you like a book,” Brent sneered. He lowered his voice. “So, emo kid,” he whispered, “let’s play.”

The boy hit the tree, like a rag doll, and collapsed. The pack tightened ranks and joined the game, seeing who could draw first blood. Every attempt the boy made to break away, another hand threw him back into the ring. He raised his arms to his face, trying to deflect them, but as the ceaseless blows reigned down, it was useless. There were too many of them. As each kick, each punch, made its wound, he slowly went numb. Numb to the pain, numb to the endless beating, numb to the tears pushing their way forward. Lying curled on the ground, the boy knew he would die there, like oh so many times before…

Eventually, they lost interest in him, and the boy was left bleeding on the ground. They were never interested in him for long. To them, he was just a play toy, left only when it was broken. Pain shot through his shoulders and chest as he rose weakly to his feet. It was almost night time. He dragged his broken frame from the park into the surrounding city lights. No place was in mind, just one thought:

Hide me.

He soon found himself in an alleyway, dark, secluded, just where he needed to be. His legs buckled from underneath his body, and he lay against a vacant wall. The metallic flavour of blood still stung. He could feel it trickling from the corner of his mouth. The boy thought of all the dirty looks, the whisperings behind his back, being another line without a hook, the gangs waiting for him behind every corner. Salty tears began to mix in with the blood on his face. He wished it would all just stop…

…And a voice called to him from the shadows.

“Pathetic.”

Looking around, the boy became aware of a figure watching him He didn’t recognise the voice, but underneath its oiled tone lay something hidden. He quickly wiped away the bloody tears and tried to stand on his weak legs.

“Who’s there?” There was more courage in his voice than he felt. The voice continued on.

“Well, I can’t really expect anymore from such a pitiful doormat. But I can help you make it all stop.”

It emerged from the shadows.

The stiff collar leather vest revealed well toned bare arms. The tattoos often seemed to depict blades interlocked in duel, although the boy couldn’t make out all of them. The figure cast cold shadows into the darkness. Nothing of the face could be seen. Only the eyes, penetrating beads of cunning and a hint of… malice. Nevertheless, the voice’s oiled tones had something alluring to them. Something about it that made the boy want to listen, to follow... to do.

“We can make them regret what they did. We can make it all stop.” The voice seemed to go directly into the boys’ mind. He found himself carefully hanging onto each word as they dropped from the voice. It continued. “All it takes is a little guts. Oh, and a little something else…”

Then, the figure held out a gloved hand and offered a little plastic bag. Inside were four little pills: two red, two blue.

“The red ones help you fly, and with them, you’ll be having that little payback you owe them.” It tipped the bag and its contents into the boys’ unresisting palm.

“But what about the blue ones?” the boy asked. “What will they do?”

A certain gleam came to the figures’ eye as the corners of its mouth turned up. “Well,” it said, “Let’s just say that it’ll make ‘em … fall.”

The boy looked back at the figure, just as it turned to leave, and said quietly,

“Who are you?”

The figure stopped and half turned its head to the boy.

“Me?”

A certain gleam came back into its eye.

“I’m your patron saint of denial and hate

Of long hard nights and switchblade fights

With a little taste for…

…suicidal.”

And with that, the figure disappeared, leaving the boy all alone in the alley, with four little pills shining in his palm. The boy looked back at the tiny capsules in his hand, and felt a sense of power ebb into him. After all, what had he got to lose?

..:::§:::..

It was about one in the morning before the bartender kicked them out. The city lights blinded the stars above, creating a golden haze above the skyscrapers. Brent and his gang staggered into the gutter, swearing at the bartender and laughing mindlessly.

“Screw you, mister!”

“…I need some more beer.”

“Oi! Someone chuck me a light! I need a smoke.”

One of the gang threw a lighter over to Brent. It slipped from his grip and clattered to ground. As he swore, he and the rest of the gang slowly gravitated downhill towards the back alleys, their steps lubricated by the alcohol they’d stolen. While fumbling with the lighter, Brent caught sight of a figure in the shadows. His dark clothes hid him from sight, while his pale complexion made him seem but as an apparition. His face still bore the cuts from earlier on.

The boy stepped into the light.

“Well, look who’s back,” sneered Brent. His words were slightly slurred. “I think this means emo kid wants to play some more.” Around him, the gang drew closer.

The boy didn’t move. Silence enveloped them. The gang subsided into a nervous laughter. This wasn’t how was supposed to go. They could sense something was wrong. Brent bridled slightly, and then quickly regained his stance. Amusement flicked across his face.

“So you’ve finally decided to stand up. That’s just gonna make play time a little more fun…”

The boys’ lips curled up into a smirk as he surveyed his opponent. Without warning, a hand lashed out and caught Brent by the shirt collar.

“What the hell?!”

Surprise turned to horror as the hand slowly reeled in his prey and brought Brent face to face with the cold, glassy eyes. He struggled against the iron grip, to no avail. ”What the hell do you want?” Brent cried. In barely a whisper, the boy replied

“Can’t you tell? You said you’d read me like a book, but the pages are all torn and frayed.”

A switched flicked on in the back of his brain.

Revenge.

..:::§:::..