A/N: Hey Guys, this is my first fic in forever (since I was like a freshman in high school….I'm a freshman in COLLEGE now) . I would love some some feedback so read & review. This story was originally written as a third person example for a roleplaying community in which I was picking up St. Jimmy as a character. Yeah, it's a little dark but what do you expect from this fandom? I'm playing off Jimmy being more than just a figment of Johnny's imagination.
Disclaimer: I do not own American Idiot. If I did, why the hell would I be posting here?
Jimmy sat on the ratty mattress he called a bed, it was dark, the only light in the room came from a cigarette his perched to his lips. Why even bother? He contemplated taking a long drag, the room becoming more and more of a personal hell. It's not like anyone would notice... He crossed the room, getting into his dresser and pulling a gun from the top drawer. He didn't exactly know how he came into possession of the pistol, he was too messed up at the time to remember.
"It's not like anyone would care..." He said into the silence of the slum he called a home. "In fact the world might be better for it." Jimmy went over to the blinded window and pulled back the dingy curtain, inspecting the weapon in the dirty moon light the shown through. He made his decision, flipping on the light next to his bed, the gun sitting beside him as he sat on the bare bed. He took the razor that had been used to divide up so many good times and slice open the palm of his hand, smiling crookedly at the pain. He took off his shirt, throwing it to the ground as he rose, watching himself in the mirror above the dresser as he made the sign of the saint on his chest in blood.
Jimmy stared at his handiwork. "I'm a figment of your father's rage and your mother's love." He spat at his reflection. He picked up a near by sharpie and wrote "St. Jimmy was here" on the glass, placing his palm against the cool dirty surface. He pulled back as the color ran down to the base. He picked the gun up from gray flat fabric it was resting on and heading for the door. It's not over 'til you're underground... He thought to himself as made his way to the bay. The Saint Jimmy is dead.
A/N: Like it? Hate it? Hit the little button and tell me. BTW virtual cookies for anyone who caught the reference to the "Jesus of Suburbia" music video.