Before Killing Was Cool ➊ FRERARD

Epilogue: My Sentimental Ghost

5 YEARS LATER.

"Clear."

A zap through the chest, a shallow gasp, a soul lifted to the surface, and he's opening his eyes. He can't remember ever feeling a kind of pain like this - or, in fact, any kind of pain at all. Before this, nothing. Like a Big Bang bringing everything into existence, all he knows is now, and the now he's a stranger.

"Oxygen mask." One of the paramedics sticks his hand back out of view in search of something.

He pushes himself up too fast, away from the small crowd of people - strangers, all strangers, invading a space he's never called his own - murmuring and sticking their noses around him. What are they doing? What is he doing, lying on the floor in pain - a blocked road with car headlights shining in his direction, his legs flat on the tarmac, an ambulance just metres away?

"I don't want that," he disputes weakly, refusing whatever help and treatment was thrown his way, scrambling to his feet and ignoring the protests of the paramedics.

He hears the incredulous voice of a passer-byer, throwing her arms out, wide-eyed at what must be nothing short of a miracle. In her mind, this man appears completely physically unharmed, which is impossible given the circumstances.

"Mr Joseph?" There's a hand on his shoulder, concerned eyes boring into his. And that hand, he can feel it like he hasn't felt anything for a long time, like it's bled into existence from a void of nothingness. Wherever he was before, it was a very different place. "You sustained some rather serious damage to your cranium. I wouldn't be surprised if you have some confusion and memory loss. Do you know where you are?"

'That's not my name' is his immediate thought, because it's not. He shakes his head absentmindedly, looking around in a daze. But with the casinos and high buildings, all dry lights and chaos - he knows, via some sort of common sense in the back of his head, where they are: the city of Las Vegas.

What he also realises is a single dry reality: that if he lets on he doesn't remember a thing - not a single aspect of even his own identity, which is the utter truth - he'll be forced into the nearest hospital. They'll want to know what happened and what's wrong with him, and he doesn't want to be told any of that. He just wants to go, to run anywhere he can, to discover what, to him, is a new world by his own account.

It scares him, not being able to remember. Surely he should at least recall the first letter of his name or his immediate family or hometown, but no - there's nothing there. It's like a sick experiment; he's totally void. Who is 'Mr Joseph'? He's sure it isn't him. It doesn't strike any chord of resemblance in his head.

"Nevada," he answers eventually, trying to seem like he knows exactly what's going on. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth and his voice is quiet and unused and the accent is strange. Unfamiliar. The words don't belong in this body.

"Were you under the influence while you were driving today, Mr Joseph?"

It's still not his name. He desperately looks around for any abandoned car on the side of the road, worried he might have hurt someone with a spout of reckless driving. Maybe he's a ruthless drunk on a murderous rampage. There's an old Mercedes surrounded by skid marks of where it's swerved on the tarmac, the door open and its bumper smashed to pieces. Small wisps of smoke, endless flashing lights. Nearby is another wrecked car and a lying body bag outside it, zipped up already to obscure the identity. His reaction is to be sick, but he fights it.

Did he do this? Was he really wasted or on some sort of drug bender when he decided to get in a car and drive carelessly into another vehicle - did he cause the death of another human being? He's a killer - he's a goddamn killer, even if he doesn't remember it.

"No." He turns away, unsure if he's lying, feeling his breath catch in his throat. "This is my fault, isn't it?"

The man in the fluorescent coat asking him questions is stunned, and frowns. "The woman in the other car was intoxicated. From what we can observe, you're the victim here, Mr Joseph."

"Don't call me that," he snaps suddenly and stares at his own hands, and suddenly they look just the slightest bit recognisable - or, at least something does. "I... remember something important."

"What do you remember?"

"Mikey," he chokes out. He makes his way to the side of his ruined car, staring into the black of the window at his own reflection. Dark hair contrasts pale skin, hazel eyes, small lips. He is not Mr Joseph. And his brother is in danger. "I need to find Mikey Way."

>

"So you know I'm a psychic," boasts Brendon, leading his new client to sit down opposite him on the sofa, "it's my job. It doesn't pay much but it's fun."

"So what exactly do you do, communicate with spirits?"

"I've never been able to before. That's more of a Medium's line of work." He shrugs and drops his ridiculous fortune cards face-down, looking up to his guest slyly. He has an idea, hoping to make a little extra money from it. "I can tell people's futures, though. I assume you'd want to know yours?"

They're in Las Vegas, the land of filthy secrets. They let the feelings consume them, the country lead the way into sadistic emotion.

Mikey Way bites his lip thoughtfully before giving in, not really buying such nonsense anyway. "Sure." He honestly has no idea why he's made an appointment with this man but what the hell. He's spent the last miserable years of his life messing around for nothing, he may as well keep doing it. He may as well keep throwing away his money and happiness on hopeful dead-ends.

His future, he thinks, will be bleak in any case. Brendon will tell him it's all fun and games and sunshine and he'll settle down, have a happy family and grow old on a porch. Mikey doesn't see that happening, but it's nice to pretend sometimes.

"It'll be extra, of course. Pick up your cards, just in case. It helps. And give me your hand. I know, it's cliché." Brendon takes Mikey's palm in his own after the boy picks up his cards with his other hand, and he furrows his brows to concentrate. It only works some of the time, telling people's future, but his deposit has been paid, so what does it matter? He never promised he could help this boy know the secrets of the universe.

Thirty seconds later and Brendon's still frowning, closing his eyes and shaking his head. It must be a dead end. "I'm a little out of practice, give me a minute." Three and a half minutes pass before Brendon's eyes snap open and he draws back his own hand, curling into himself, more than horrified. "I— That's never happened before."

"What's wrong?" Despite his disbeliefs, Mikey knows Brendon isn't faking his expression of dismay; his reaction of sheer terror.

"He's angry," Brendon rambles, knowing what he's seen is real, "and he wants... I don't know, revenge? He's coming after you. He's wearing a trench-coat and... he's carrying a shotgun."

Mikey's cards scatter on the ground.