I made sure the last Drac had died, and then let my Killjoys wander the battlefield. God, I hated myself. I hated Dracs and ray guns and the Killjoys and all the motherfucking colors. I wanted to dye my hair ink black. I wanted to squeeze into my black jacket-I'm sure it still fit me. I wanted to stand up on a black, skull-adorned float and sing about how it was okay to be imperfect, okay to be different and morbid and weird and grotesque. But I couldn't.
I'd made a terrible mistake coming here.
We were working on a new album, but I couldn't see the thrill in my friends' eyes like it was when the Black Parade was released. I saw, though, their eyes darken when they saw the Killjoy costumes and masks. I saw Helena's eyes tear up when she saw me dye my perfectly-black hair a bright red. I heard Jet scream from nightmares the day I gave them ray guns. I smelled Ghoul's alcohol after I hid my face with a yellow mask. I touched the fresh scabs on Mikey's wrist when he was asleep, after I'd made them choose their new names. And it was fun for me, for a while, to be someone else, to be a superhero from my own comic. But after a while, I realized something was wrong. It wasn't the band. God, I loved each and every one of them.
It was me. Me and my stupid idea to make us colorful and perfect, when really we were happy black and ugly.
And the comics were being bought. The CD was being sold. We couldn't ever erase this idea that we'd become color-clad futuristic heroes.
I closed my eyes and sat down heavily on the sand. We couldn't erase the idea.
But we could...
We could erase ourselves.
Uphold The Black Parade.
The Killjoys are dead.
Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge.