Disclaimer: I do not own, know, and am not My Chemical Romance. Please do not use or print this piece, whether in part or in whole without my knowledge or permission.

Note: This fanfiction symbolizes what MCR has done for me and I know what they've done for others-- Saving lives. Suicide and self mutilation, although metaphors in this story, are very serious issues. If you or anyone you know is dealing with issues like this, please don't hesitate to get help. All it takes is one minute too late. Take care of each other. Keep yourselves and each other alive. I love you all!

***

Mireille shuddered as she crouched on the cold wet pavement in the vacant parking lot, tears making black rivers of mascara down her tan cheek. She'd never felt more alone in her life. The icy wind bit into her skin as she pulled her too thin pullover tightly around her. Her legs burned and she knew that they could carry her no further. The monsters roared inside her head.

IT can't get any fucking worse.

She buried her numb fingers into her pockets, trying to warm them. Her fingers on her right hand brushed something thin and cold. She bit her lip hard and her mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood. Slowly she pulled the razor blade from the pocket and stared at it. It glinted at her, shining as the icy rain collected on the silvery metal.

It CAN'T get any fucking worse.

In the dark, she slowly rolled her sleeve up. The sleet pelted her smooth perfect skin. Not so perfect anymore, she thought. She sat back on her heels, looked up at the black sky and saw nothing. No stars, no moon. Not even any clouds....just black. She looked down at the asphalt-- blacker than the sky. It was as if she'd been lost to the world.

It can't GET any fucking worse.

Sobbing, Mireille lifted the razor and pressed it to the sensitive skin just below the inside of her elbow. She squeezed her eyes shut as the blade sliced into her flesh. An angry ribbon of blood filmed to the surface. She lifted the razor a few inches and brought it back down again, harder this time. Again. Again. Again.

It can't get ANY fucking worse.

Every slice of the blade was harder, tearing flesh, spilling blood. Mireille's tears spilled as steadily as her blood did, flowing from her eyes as silently as the blood from the cuts. She gritted her teeth, growing more determined with each pass of the blade across her skin. Her arm was filled with long angry stripes, each leaking crimson tears of a secret pain.

It can't get any FUCKING worse.

Suddenly, Mireille felt a hot light on her back, and heard the sound of a rumbling engine. She froze, frightened. Who would be out in an empty parking lot at this hour? She tried to stand, but couldn't-- she couldn't even move.

It can't get any fucking WORSE.

"Don't do it." A voice said softly into her ear.

She felt the person crouch behind her, arms sliding around her to keep her from falling off of the world.

"Don't do it." the voice said again.

She saw a hand reach out, tracing the cuts on her arm. The hand reached out and gently pried the blade from Mireille's hand. She turned her head slightly and saw his face, framed in black locks. Tears had welled up in his mercurial eyes but had not fallen. Gerard. He rocked her back and forth on the pavement, sharing her pain. He reached out and with both hands and snapped the razor in half, dropping the pieces onto the asphalt. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

"Don't do it."

His words became the rhythm of her heartbeat, which was pounding in her ears. Hot tears streamed down both of their faces.

"Look up," he whispered as he gently lay her on the asphalt.

One by one the stars were coming back to life, filling the sky with life once more. She felt a strange warmness over take her as a sudden sleep washed over her.

Mireille awoke the next morning, her dream forgotten...buried somewhere in her subconscience.

Demolition Lovers played in her ears...she'd left her headphones on again last night, her MCR mixed disc on repeat. She'd discovered the band seven months before. She pushed back the covers and slid her feet to the floor, padding to the bathroom. As she did every morning, she examined the fading scars on her left forearm. It had been almost seven months since the last time...