Sociopathic Gerard Way ends up on death row. Here, you're dead before they even pierce that first needle into your skin. This is it; this is hell.
That’s all you have to say, Mister Judge-man. Nobody wants to hear all that legal bullshit about prosecutors or defendants or capital punishment. All the media people, all the lawyers, all the sick bastards watching from the jury, they just want to know I’m going to die for what I’ve done. Who cares which prison I’m going to? Who cares what my family is going through? Even you don’t care, you fat piece of meat, you. You just want to laugh. Don’t hide it. I swear by every curly, dark hair growing between my legs that I see the corner of your mouth twitching as you sentence me to death. I’m glaring at you, but don’t mind me. Looks can’t kill. If they could, now is when your nostrils would flare and you’d lurch forward. At any moment, you’d fall off your big red seat—your throne, if you will—and choke. I can imagine your large belly jiggling as you roll around the hardwood floor, gasping for air. My dear Mister Judge-man, that would make my final day out in the real world one worth treasuring. Don’t I deserve that much? I mean, the only thing I ever did wrong was run over my fiancée with a lawnmower.
And the cameras flash. And the reporters scribble. Oh these undercover sadists, these cheerleading nihilists. By tomorrow, they’ll all forget about me. I’ll be yesterday’s murderer. Old news. It’s not that I’m saddened by that, but I can’t let happiness take control of me just yet. One thing is ruining this beautiful, blue day: you won’t allow me to go to my fiancée’s funeral. Just because I killed her. I don’t mean to question your authority, Mister Judge-man, but isn’t that a bit unfair? It makes anger boil up in my stomach. If I were you, I’d be worrying about what would happen if I broke out of jail. Since I’m such a nice guy though, I’ll pretend I’m not planning your death. I’m simply staring at my polished, black shoes, thinking about thoughts and waiting for you to finish talking.
Here’s where the fun ends: the big, beefy security guy is following your orders. He’s getting me in handcuffs and giving me a small shove so that I will start walking. Look! I’m marching out of your court room, out of your life. I’m not turning back, not even to bid my parents farewell. They’re crying. I have to congratulate you; you still aren’t laughing. It doesn’t make a difference though. I’m still hoping to hear a loud thud, the sound of you falling off that chair of yours. Good bye, Mister Judge-man. I’ll miss you and your bald head. Thank you for this wonderful fate you’ve brought upon me. In a perfect world, you’d burn in hell. See you there.
San Quentin State Prison. Home of Charlie Manson, the mastermind serial killer. A politically incorrect hero. As evil as a man can get. It would be, I guess, an honor to be stuck in the same jailhouse as him. Instead, I’m sent to some shitty, unknown prison in Utah. This is somewhat insulting. It’s a good thing I’m not some hardcore, homicidal criminal or I might’ve had to go on a killing spree.
Another big, beefy security guy is leading me through a series of barred doors. I’m already changed into a hideous, orange jumpsuit and it seems that I have three more sets waiting for me in my prison cell. My belongings have been taken away; the only thing I can have is one picture of my dead fiancée. Apparently, executing people on death row is hard, time-consuming work because I am to stay in this shitty, unknown Utah prison until they have the means necessary to kill me. These self-justifying Grim Reapers, they need to prepare their lethal injections. I have anywhere from a few days to a few years to live. Ho-hum.
Now, I’m walking into a closed room and a man gives me a number: 305192. My new badge. As he clips it onto my jumpsuit, I’m comparing this place to a Nazi death camp. The similarities are frightening. Will they make me shave my head off thick, black hair? The thought makes me shudder. I’m brought out of my speculations by the guard telling me they need to take a few pictures of me. What am I, a celebrity? A rock star? The man behind the camera doesn’t remind me to say cheese before the camera flash. I, myself, don’t remember. I feel barely alive. Is this what it’s like to be a zombie?
The photo session is over soon and I’m led down various hallways. I’m still thinking about my current state of numbness when the guard stops walking. I nearly bump into him, but I manage to catch myself.
We’re standing in front of a door. The only way to look inside is through a small square space with three iron bars welded across it. This modern day dungeon, it’s nothing like the clean-looking prison cells they show in movies. The guard unlocks the door and pulls me inside. The only light is in the corner of the room, a little lamp. I can see a bunk bed, a toilet, and a water fountain lodged against the cinder block walls. The guard uncuffs me and pushes me into the bed for no reason. I’m tempted to turn around and smash this oaf to bits. Thank God for those anger management classes I was forced to take.
He snickers before saying, “Enjoy your stay, kid,” and leaving the cell, swinging his keys. The door slams shut. I find myself sighing and walking towards the shelf near the bed so I can set down my framed photo of my former future wife. I sure am gonna have a gay old time here.
I turn around, starting to the toilet, but instead, I let out a scream. My heart is pounding hard against my chest because I am staring straight at a man. He appears to have come out of the shadows in the corner of the cell. His light blue eyes are wide and scared, bearing holes into me.
I’m uncomfortably hot and sweaty when I stutter, “Um…h-hello?”
I say it like a question because I’m not quite sure if this man is real or if he is just some twisted figment of my imagination. Am I hallucinating when I see he blinks, fluttering his eyelashes? Is that nervous tick just an image in my head? The long, scraggly hair? The bushy eyebrows? Is there someone really asking me if I’m his new cell mate?
I’m hoping I’m not insane when I reply. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Uh…” he twitches: his tick is at it again, “I’m Bert.”
It’s silent when it’s my turn to talk. Bert’s blue, blue eyes are even more frightened than before, now that I’m not responding. To me, he looks like someone who’d been molested one time too many. Not an evil murderer dude. Is this what prison would turn me into? My teeth fall down on my bottom lip and I gaze at him wordlessly for a few more seconds. He has his little tremor.
“Gerard Way,” I tell him my name and hold out a hand.
His grip is weak and his palm is clammy, rubbing moistness onto mine. Out of mere politeness, I refrain from snatching my hand away. Instead, I shake his arm up and down. His hand almost immediately drops and his eyes trace some imaginary line on the ground. I think that his face is turning red, but in this dim light, it’s hard to tell. I wonder what to say now. Am I allowed to come right out and declare, “I murdered my fiancée. What’d you do?”? Would that be against some sort of unofficial prisoner code? I try to think of an alternative, but I can’t, so I just blurt out the terribly awkward sentence. My cellmate’s attention is back on me. I don’t know if it’s intentional, but he’s making me very anxious. Those rape victim eyes. Those thin, chapped lips. Why doesn’t he say something already? I’m shifting my balance from foot to foot, favoring the right and then the left. This nervous mannerism goes on until Bert finally answers my question.
“I shot a cop,” he’s looking this way and that, but not at my face anymore. He chews on his lip with a pair of yellowing teeth, “And he died.”
“Why’d you shoot him?” I inquire, simply because I’m nosey.
“Because.” He shrugs and leaves it at that, blinking too frequently.
It’s quiet again. I’m merely rocking on my feet and he’s merely doing his eye-spasm thing. Us thoughtful hoodlums. To keep myself entertained, I begin to think about my fiancée. Her horrified expression. The sound that I heard when my large garden machine crushed her body. Her bones cracking like twigs. The blood splattering everywhere. Her tender body, cut up into a million slivers. I’m pretty sure no one could find every last piece. I think about a solitary fraction of her right nipple, lying beside a blade of green, green grass. Unseen. I feel a weird sense of pride and I smile a little.
I suddenly realize what a perverse little bitch I am.
And I can’t help it; I start to laugh. I don’t care that Bert is staring at me strangely. I’m just too amused by my disgusting, vulgar thought to bother about him. I’m throwing back my head and my chest is heaving in and out. This is the best day of the year.
Once I calm myself down, I give my cellmate a big smile. He’s gawking. He’s horrified. He’s revolted.
“Y-you’re on death row, how can you be so fucking happy?”
I think about this for several moments. “Because I deserve my fate,” I put a hand on his bony shoulder, making him tense up. My grin grows wider, “But so did she.”
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EDIT 2/13: I've decided to leave this as a one-shot...just FYI