We're All Outcasts (Gerard Way/ MCR Fanfiction)

Am I Losing Myself?

A/N: Hi! Before I start... 1150 READS! HOW DID THIS HAPPEN TO ME? Wow! Holy fuck! *Does stupid dance...*

New chapter is up; please don't murder me in my sleep for not updating within a week... Anyway, please find attached a pic of Gerard (you can thank me if you like).

Stay beautiful, keep it ugly,

Maya-The-Psychic

***

The thing I hate most about hospitals is the atmosphere. They're so cold and they radiate helplessness; the dying, the dead and the families sharing the same hopeless sentiment. It's as if the longer you stay in the hospital bay, the more you lose yourself to the spiralling pit of depression until you're eventually wheeled out into the morgue. Hospitals are life's dead end. They're not to cure the sick, they're to house the dying.

And there I was, still slightly dizzy from travelling between realities (I've taken to calling the white emptiness the Inbetween), looking down on myself and watching the artificial breaths being forced into my lungs.

Maybe I was imagining the whole thing. Maybe the Parade and Battery City were just figments of my imagination and there was nothing but the here and now. It felt real, but who was to say I never made it all up? The medication being pumped through my body to keep me alive must have been doing weird things to my brain.

Am I losing myself? Am I just a fucked- up wreck of a human being? Is any of it real?

I ran everything through in my head. Yes, it was possible that everything had happened, but it was just as likely that it was all a massive joke my mind was playing on me. What about Adrenaline? Had I imagined her or had she been part of my life, the life I thought of as being my real life, where I was Scarlett Black with a screwed up heart? It seemed that my life had been going quite slowly until I almost died; from then on my life had gone by so quickly that it was but a blur in the corner of my eye. It had passed me by so quickly that I hadn't had time to even think about what was going on. If my life were a book and my move to Kilburn was the first chapter, the last nine months could have fit into three pages. It was oddly disconcerting to think about it, so I stuck my head in the hypothetical sand and focused instead on the scene playing out in front of me.

Two doctors were in my cubicle, talking in hushed whispers, shining a light into my empty eyes and searching for a response that wasn't there.

Another doctor, carrying a clipboard and a solemn face, was speaking to my mum outside. I only heard snippets of the conversation but what I did hear made my blood run cold:

"Nine months now... No sign of improvement... switching the machines off... Six month's time..."

"...my daughter... You can't..."

"I know it's hard... I'm sorry..."

Oh god. They were going to switch my life support machines off.

They were going to stop the machine that kept me alive.

I had six months. That was it.

Six months.

I had six months left and unless I figured out how to get back home, whatever home was, I was lost - physically, emotionally, in every sense of the word. I did something I hadn't done before: I walked around the bed and I grasped my hand. It was so strange to say that: I was holding my hand.

Nothing happened.

Absolutely nothing.

If I couldn't get myself back into my body before the machines were switched off, what would happen?