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This is the 4th and final installment in my short, 4 part series. This final part is based off Alesana's "Annabel". Would help greatly if you listened to it while reading.

1969

The reality is, none of that happened as report to you. Interesting, right? My father Gerard wasn't even half as innocent as he claimed. Yes, his mother, my paternal grandmother, died when he was 8. But not by being murdered by his father after an argument.

1930
What Gerard heart wasn't far from the truth. What he didn't realize was that there was a third person in the room with his parents. The man was a petty thief, and had a history of battery and assault. What they'd heard was Mr. and Mrs. Way trying to convince the good for nothing man to leave their house and family alone. When Mrs. Way told them that they had nothing to give him, which was true, he slapped her.

Then, because he couldn't get what he wanted, he brought out a gun. Mr Way panicked and tried to grab it away. In the ensuing struggle, it went off, firing into Mrs. Way's chest. Then, the crook hit Mr. Way a harsh blow over the head, knocking him out cold.

Gerard was right to run and pretend to be asleep. If not, he and his brother may have been killed just like their mother.

Gerard's mind blocked out the incident, and the ensuing investigation and funeral, probably because of all the trauma associated with it. My uncle Mikey was too young to remember much, just tiny fragments. Gerard lied to him, over and over, for the sheer sake of being able to manipulate someone, and to have an ally against his percieved enemy, their father. Mikey only went along with it, because he wanted his brother to approve of him, to like him. In the end, it would be his downfall.

1935

Mikey never had anything against his father, until he was about 6 or 7, and his brother had begun to slowly poison and corrupt him. I don't think my uncle realized what was really happening, until years later, if he ever caught on at all. Gerard was that insidious about it.

When Mr. Way remarried, he wasn't trying to replace the dearly deceased, he was just offering some sort of mother figure for the boys. He never pushed his new wife on them, never said they'd have a new mother, or that she would replace the dead woman, like Gerard had so eloquently told Mikey. The new wife hadn't intentionally tried to replace her, only tried doing some of the things that the boy's father had told her that they liked. Instead of making them happy, her intention, it infuriated Gerard, making him also turn Mikey against her. She was just an innocent victim in all this.

1943

The night the house burned down, Mikey wasn't a willing participant in it. Gerard had collared him, shoving a gun below his chin and said that if he didn't do as he was told, he and Alicia would be dead within the hour. Gerard also told him that their father and stepmother would make it out alive. He had shoved the can of gas into his brother's hands, screaming at him to do it, or have his brains blown out.

Even though by now, Gerard had successfully poisoned Mikey against his parents, he was still too full of morals to want them dead. After Gerard make his younger brother soak the house and part of the yard in a full circle of gasoline, he lit a match. The slight glow of flame illuminated his crazed grin. Mikey was genuinely scared for him life. He threw it, laughing insanely. The flames sprang up near immediately, eating at the house. The paint began to bubble and sizzle from the heat. Mikey made as if to lunge at the house,trying to rescue his parents.

Gerard held him back, and no matter how much Mikey squirmed, he couldn't get free. "You said they'd get out alive!" He shrieked. "Musta lied then." Gerard had said, noncommittally, as though it was just lying about taking the last slice of pie, not killing someone.

Hearing the screams from inside, and being unable to do anything about it, Mikey began to cry uncontrollably. The smell of burning flesh was sickening. Eventually, when the house was just a charred wreck, and the flames had died down, Gerard made as if to leave. Mikey fell to his knees in front the house, sobbing. There was no way that anyone could've survived the flames. "Come on." Gerard said, yanking one of his brother's spindly arms. "No!" Mikey said, trying to take his arm back. "What's the matter with you?" The elder man snarled.

"They're dead!" Mikey blubbered out. "That doesn't matter, they fucking deserved it!" With that, Gerard yanked his brother to his feet, dragging him away.

1944

During the war, most of the letters that Alicia received weren't of Mikey's own doing. While Gerard wrote some of them, the majority were in Mikey's handwriting, but not in his voice. How? His elder brother was telling him exactly what to write, chapter and verse, to make sure that Mikey couldn't let out the secret of what they'd done. The final letter, written just before Mikey's death was done hastily, in the lavatory, his messy, rapid scrawl nearly illegible.

That day in the war, Mikey didn't slip. He was pushed by his own brother. Gerard's hatred had finally taken over, it seemed. He had snapped, and shoved his own brother into the line of fire. When the shot that the young man received had failed to kill him, the elder male had stepped over and shot him twice in the back of the head.

When the commanding officer had caught wind of what happened, and how shaken up Gerard was because of it, and especially since Gerard claimed it to be a 'mercy killing', done 'in the heat of battle', and that 'he didn't know what he was doing', instead of being locked into a jail cell, he was simply given a dishonorable discharge. Even though I wouldn't have been born if he had, I wish every day that he had been caught then. But he wasn't. It wouldn't be til another incident nearly 15 years later that he would be.

1959

My father wasn't everything that you believed him to be. You thought him a man that had lost so much early in his life, killing only out of retribution seeing as there was no justice forthcoming, as a man who moved on after the war, even after losing so much. You saw him devastated by the senseless murder of his wife. But that couldn't have been further from the truth.

After the war, Gerard became an alcoholic. He drank like a fish, from the moment he awoke, to the minute he passed out. If he didn't have a bottle in his hand, he was doing his very best to get one there. And when he was drunk, he was the meanest son of a gun that you ever had the misfortune of meeting.

To be entirely honest, I can't recall a time that he was ever kind and fatherly. More often, I remember all the times he had yelled and screamed profanities and insults, all the things he had thrown and broken, the numerous bruises that he had left on both my mother and I. But for some reason, we never bothered reaching out for help, I don't know why. Maybe it could've saved her. But you do have to give her credit, she did her very best to try and protect me from him.

But that fateful day, when everything went wrong, nothing was as it seemed.

Yes, Gerard was 'working' as a singer in a local blues band that had popped up in the town. I say working with the little air quotes because he was so drunk most of the time that he couldn't even remember his own name, let alone the lyrics to the songs. I guess that the only reason that they kept him on was because when he was sober, he had a great voice.

That day, he was drunk as usual. He had walked down to the park where they were supposed to be playing. Seeing him stumbling about unsteadily, and seeing the glazed and unfocused look in his eyes, Ray, their lead guitarist, suggested that Gerard go back home, as he was in no state to play. He even offered to help him back to him house. It wasn't said in a malicious tone, because I had met Ray several times prior to that day, and several times since, and he's a fairly easy-going and laid-back kind of guy. What the poor man got for his troubles was more profanity than I've ever said in my entire life, and several death threats, before Gerard stumbled away.

I don't know how he made it home, but I wish that he had just passed out on the street, or fallen and broken a limb, anything to have delayed it. I remember being upstairs in my room, and my mother was downstairs in the kitchen, no doubt making dinner. Then, I heard the front door slam open, and my father come crashing in. There was the sound of the vase on the side table just inside the house falling and shattering against the floor, then sounds of things being knocked over, in a path towards the kitchen.

"C'n ya b'lieve tha' fugger Ray? Fugger says I'm too drung ta play!" Gerard had slurred. I heard my mother's voice, calm and soothing as always say, "Why don't you have a seat? You look like you're about to fall over."

"Fugg you!" Gerard had spat. Then, there was the noise of him stumbling off to the study. He still had his old service revolver in a box in there, with ammo. There was no way this could end up good. Then, there was the noise of him going back to the kitchen. My mother must've seen the gun, because then she asked, "Gerard? What are you doing with that?"

"Gunna teach ya a lesh-shun ya aint gone ferget!" Gerard said, in his nearly incomprehensible drunken guttural manner. Then, there was the noise of several bangs, and two thumps, like that of bodies hitting the ground. After not hearing anything for several minutes, I snuck down to the kitchen.

My mother was laying on the floor, covered in blood, dead or unconscious, I couldn't tell. What scared me was my father sitting beside her, singing to her. I couldn't tell what he was singing, it was in a language that I couldn't understand, Italian or maybe even Latin. I don't know how long I stood in the doorway, until paramedics and police burst into the door. I was bundled into the back of a cop car, and told to wait there for my own safety.

I remember seeing my mother being carted into the back of the ambulance, covered in a white sheet. I was too young to understand what it meant at that time, but all I knew is that it wasn't good. I saw my father go running out of the house, trying to jump into the ambulance with her, but they shut the doors before he could. Then, he caught sight of me in the back of the police cruiser and ran towards me, only to be tackled to the ground by police officers.

1969

How did I manage to figure all that out? Through a bunch of letters from family members, researching old newspaper articles, family records, things like that. It wasn't easy to do, but I managed to do it anyways.

Well, it's been 10 years to that day. Ever since that day, I've been living with my mother's mother. And every June 27th, I go pay my father a visit. He's in New Jersey State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. But this time, something's different. Now that I know the full story, the truth of just how much of a monster he is, I can't just let him survive, knowing fully well all the horrors that he's done.

Pulling up outside the doors, I smile at my grandma, and tell her that I'll be out in a few minutes. She smiles back tensely. She never goes to visit him. She hates him for killing her only child. I walk inside, up to the nurse's desk. "I'm here to see Gerard Way." I say, smiling sweetly.

The nurse on duty gives me a pitying look. She's probably already heard of my by now, the little girl that comes to visit the father that murdered her mother every so often. She probably pities me. Well, she shouldn't.

I know the drill all too well. I follow her down one hallway after another, coming into a small cell of a room, sparsely decorated. In it, is Gerard Way, his hair starting to go gray, and his skin has an unhealthy pallor from a lack of sunlight. "Bandit Lee Way." He says, his voice mocking.

The nurse has left by this time. I simply smile, and walk over to him, sliding the pen knife down my sleeve. He looks at me curiously. I've never been one to approach him. One quick movement, and I slice his throat open completely. There's a look of shock in his eyes, the green orbs that match mine, as I'm spattered by his blood. It's warm, with a slightly coppery smell, like pennies. "That's for killing my grandparents, and my uncle and my mother." I say, as he topples off the bed, unable to even hold his hands to his neck in an attempt to staunch the blood flow. Damn, I love straightjackets!

Grinning, I drop the penknife and walk out the hospital. Nobody tries to stop me. Getting back into the car, my grandmother takes one look at me, and instead of flipping out like any normal grandmother, she just says, "Don't get it all over my car, you're covered in it, and you've ruined your coat." I can only laugh and say, "Sorry Grandma." We both chuckle at this, because we both know that I'm not. And she's not disturbed by it in the slightest. In fact, she's happy this happened. But it's all for a good reason.

Right?

I'm considering writing another mindfuckery chapter to this.