Disclaimer: I don't own any of the lyrical referances. All events are a product of my own twisted mind. I have never met, nor claim to have met, nor claim to know any members of My Chemical Romance. Technically this story is just loosely based on their songs, and not the people in question. But anyways. Don't own; don't sue.

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You wore that dress; the black one, the one that he hated. He hated it on you, he hated that you wore it, and he hated how much I loved it. I don't think it's so much the dress that he hated; not the color, or the style, or the way that it clung to your hips and then dropped to the ground and dragged through the dead leaves at your heels. He hated it because I loved it, and that you came home in that dress, with dry grass stuck to the trail and smelling of lust, and gin, and of me. He said it wasn't a proper dress for a married woman -and I would have to agree. It's no dress for a living woman, more something they would bury her in when the world got the best of her. It made your skin look so white it was almost illuminating, and it reminds me now of how you looked when you did it; you were never as beautiful as you were dead white with blood on your hands.

You wore that dress on the last night; we walked through the streets that were empty and dark, save for a streetlight casting a sickly orange glow over the pavement and the dead autumn leaves that blew across it. You were calm and collected as if moments before a shot hadn't rung out through the still, pre-dawn air: a shot fired from the still hot, shining pistol that hung loosely in your hand. He'd hit you, I knew. There were purple bruises and lacerations that blemished your almost perfect ivory skin, although it was hard to tell which were old and which were from his almost pathetically valiant fight back. He fought well, I'd give him that much, although the bastard deserved nothing better than for the world to spit on his grave. I remembered the way he knelt before you, his hands entangling themselves in the dress he had loathed so. His brow was bleeding, and there were tears in his eyes as he sniveled piteously for you to spare him, that he wasn't worth it, and that he had loved you so. I laughed aloud; that asshole didn't know love from a fucking hole in the head. You kicked him hard in the stomach, and I never wanted you more than the moment you made that bastard cry. You smiled and it was beautiful.

"It isn't that much fun," you said mockingly, cocking your gun and pointing it dead center of his forehead, "staring down a loaded gun." With that you pulled the trigger and in the silence following the shot and as we shut the door and walked casually down the hall, the lights in people's rooms were clicking on and frantic voices could be heard. I almost wished to stay, if only to watch the scene unfold as the mystery of your death was hastened to be solved, even though it wasn't a mystery at all.

We said nothing as we approached a place we'd seen all too many times before, the wrought iron gates of the cemetery. It could be morbid, making love among the tombs of the long-forgotten dead, or it could be beautiful tribute to lives once lived and love once lost, whichever you prefer. To us it was sanctuary, and many nights we spent on the steps of the mausoleum, drinking silently from the same bottle and then making love among the dead leaves and the silence of the trees. This night we walked and both dressed in black and pallid as the moon we could be mistaken for the dead. I pushed the gate-it was never locked, on this we could depend, and took your frail hand in mine as we wove our way through tombstones and directly to the stone chamber where one day, together, we would lie. Your fingers were as cold as the granite steps on which we sat, and nearly as still. We had no drink with us so we stared at the moon, partially obscured by foggy clouds just drifting along a seemingly endless indigo sky. There were no stars that we could see. Perhaps there were, almost certain but they were hiding from us as things often do.

A car drove down the deserted street and we didn't look up as the flashing lights and sirens stopped at the sight of the iron cemetery gate ajar. We didn't need to speak; we were past words because we knew that there was no time left. They would ruin the perfect surrealism that we had created. In the moonlight I could see clearly the shape of your face, the spatters of blood that I'd failed to notice before, and I watched your soul die in your eyes. It's better off that way, that you not shed a tear when you shed your own blood. Flashlight beams headed our direction and I stood, taking your hand and looking into your eyes once more. Stealthily we headed for the relative safety of the trees, and with our backs against the frigid wrought iron fence, I spoke softly.

"You know what you have to do," I said not looking at you, but I could feel you looking at me. Your eyes were piercing into the side of my head like white hot irons and I knew they had tears in them. I still didn't dare meet your eyes; you knew what you had to do, what we had to do and I wasn't going to let feelings interfere with what we've worked so fucking hard for.

"Why?" you asked. Your voice was trembling and your hand was shaking as you touched my arm. I shrugged your hand away and took you by the shoulders, finally staring into your eyes. You were ashamed, and you broke our gaze, staring at the ground as a tear slid down your cheek and left a clear line through the blood and dust. I took your chin in my hands and tilted your face upwards, gently but firmly, the way you always liked it.

"You know why. They're going to find him, and when they do you're better off dead. I know what he did to you, I know the hell he put you through every fucking day. I know and you know and nobody else knows. You wanted to keep it that way, and now we're both going somewhere we can be together, alone forever. It will be dark, and quiet and eternally peaceful, and don't worry because I'll be right behind you. I mean this, forever." I kissed you, and it was the last one we shared while both our hearts were beating. You tasted like sweetness and the metallic tinge of blood, and I knew immediately that it was a mistake, because I realized later that it was the collision of your kiss that made it so fucking hard in the first place. In silent agreement we stood up and I took the pistol from your hand. You looked at me questioningly.

"Not that way. You're better than that."

We went to my place and I followed you in, into the bathroom where you sat on the tiled floor and pulled the shining blade from inside the front of your dress. I watched from the doorway, and realized with some disgust that you were more beautiful than ever with tears in your eyes, and I knew suddenly that I was no better that the man who lay dead in his home not far from here. Dead by the gun from his drawer, and by the hand of his wife. You looked at me again.

"I'm doing this for you," you said. I laughed hollowly and slid down the wall, coming to rest beside you. It was humorless and dry and sounded sharp echoing off the walls.

"You're doing this for us; you're doing it for yourself. You've never done anything for me, and you know that. It's all been for you, and you knew that as long as you kept coming to me I wouldn't stop dying for you; I wouldn't stop lying for you, and if you wanted you could keep me so I wouldn't stop crying for you. That's what you'd always want me for. Now for once in your goddamn life, do something for both of us." You nodded slowly and for a second were transfixed by the gleam of the harsh fluorescents off the gun I still held in my hand. I looked at it, contemplatively.

"All we are is bullets," I said, running my finger down the gleaming shaft, "I mean this. We're born with a bang and die in a splatter of blood as we drive through someone else's heart on the way, taking them with us.

"Be a bullet, baby," I said, grinning in a way that I could see from my half reflection looked manic. "Take me with you, all the way because God knows that all you are know is a blackened hole in my fucking heart." You fingered the razor in your hands, and then gripped it firmly and ran it along the blue veins in both your wrists.

Blood ran down your hands and dripped shining onto your lovely dress; it seemed a shame to ruin something so pretty, which is why I wanted to watch you die-watch you take your last breath before they could corrupt you, so I could remember you as I always knew you: a terrible beauty. I touched your hand and the blood was warm and thick. Your eyes were closing, but whether you were burning out or couldn't bear to watch your own blood stain the floor, I knew not. Your eyelashes looked black as night as they fluttered against the ivory of your cheeks, and opened again. You sat on your knees, moving slowly as your energy slowly drained, and looked at your spouting wrists. Your lips parted just a little bit and you placed your hand over mine. If after there were memories, after everything, I knew I'd remember us both falling down into the same pool of blood, and touching hands for the last time. I looked at your arm and admired the scars that remained from before. Nights when you would cry on my shoulder with a razorblade in hand, and tell me how it hurt so good.

My hand on yours, and yours on mine I felt your pulse weaken slowly and then stop, as you drew and exhaled your last shuddering breath. You fell to the floor with surprising grace, and carefully I placed a chaste kiss on your still warm lips. Soon, my love; soon. My turn, I thought. I pulled the gun to eye level, with my finger on the trigger and staring down the barrel. You were right, it wasn't much fun. But as you lay in a puddle of your own sweet, crimson wine I decided to let you have the bathroom. They would find you on the bathroom floor afterwards, and as much as I missed you I left the room slowly and stood in the hall, remembering the taste of your blood tainted lips and the collision of your kiss that made it so hard. Once again, I pulled the gun to eye level. I smiled in the second before I pulled the trigger and ended it all with a bang, a grand finale, if you will. I was remembering the beauty of two demolition lovers, just wandering with gun full of purpose down Cemetery Drive.

"Way down," I said, and the sound of a bullet to the brain ended it all.