Dead! (A Short, Sadistic MCR Fan Fiction)

The gun slowly slipped to the ground after the final shot. Even in the silence, he was still screaming. Crouched on the ground and covered in blood, dirt, and sweat the shooter lowered his head. Deep red blood covered his hands and shirt. The young man clenched his fists. To him, this was simply what must be done. Those who never learn the right way, must be taught a lesson the wrong way. In the distance a low ring of sirens approached. The young man didn't care. He tossed his long, raven black hair backwards, stood up and ran his blood soaked hands through his oily hair. 

"They're coming to take me away," he whispered in a sick, sadistic tone, "They're coming to take me away." The young man looked across the four victims around him. 

All his friends with their instruments still beside them. 

The young man skimmed his eyes across the victims, a sick smirk stuck on his face. 

Ray. His long hair stuck to his forhead from a mixture of dried blood and sweat. Ray had been the first to go. Blown away in an instant with the slight of the shooter's hand. The shooter kneeled beside Ray and turned his body over so he was facing the ceiling. The shooter closed Ray's eyes, then moved on to the next victim. 

Bob. The young drummer had been next. He was leaning against the wall, still sitting on his drum stool. The drummer's blonde hair was now a dark, red shade. His face still frozen from shock. The shooter walked over to Bob and layed him down on the floor, drumsticks by his side, before he moved on to the next victim. 

Mikey. The shooter barely glanced at the young bassist. He was so young and innocent but irritating at the same time. Mikey's eyes were still wide open and almost creepy. As he layed on the ground, the shooter noticed that Mikey still had his bass latched to his arm. He died with it at his side. The shooter closed Mikey's eyes before moving on to his final victim.

Frank. The guitarist still lay on the floor, not fully departed from his body. Frank had been shot in the leg twice. He wasn't quite dead. The shooter had done this on purpose. He wanted Frank alive. Frank tried to struggle again. He was sputtering and attempting to crawl. One hand reaching towards a cell phone that had been cast aside in the violent act. Frank reached his hand in one last attempt, as he bled out, to call for help. The guitarist pressed the nine button. A sadistic laughter rang from across the room. 

"Frankie..." the shooter whispered, beginning to come closer to the struggling young man, "Frankie..." 

The guitarist reached his hand out desperately and dialed the one button once. 

"Frankie..." The shooter cooed still closer. 

In one last attempt, Frank pressed the one button with the last of his energy. The phone dialed for a second as the shooter finally stopped behind Frank. 

"911, what's your emergency?" 

The shooter flipped Frank over in a quick, careless movement. He cocked his gun and smirked maliciously at the blood soaked man. 

"Gerard," the young man pleaded, tears running fown his face.� 

Gerard lurched his head back in loud laughter. He leaned down towards the struggling man and pressed the gun to his head. 

"Sweet dreams," he cooed and pulled the trigger, then it was dark.