I had always wondered what it's like to march through school after one of their students committed suicide the day before, and though I craved to know how it would go down, I never expected to discover my answer, especially not in this painful format.

In my speculation, I had imagined a scene at my table, apprehending the sporadic treat of the morning announcements, hoping that it would be chicken tender day so that there would be short lines in the other stations and I could spend less time waiting. The classroom would fall silent, confused at the disturbed expression injected into our teacher, and he would clear his throat to deliver a falsely sympathetic speech that we all knew was coming but didn't care to admit. Bursts of recognition would hug our visages, because we understood that what had transpired was our own fault, that relentless bullying, we came to conceive, spurs its own ghastly collateral.

Rather, the understanding hollowed out my peers' eyes as they followed my path to my seat in the back of the classroom. I didn't know how they had already heard the news, considering I didn't even comprehend what had happened yet, but the unsteady embers flickered on and off across their faces, and I suppose it was my duty to realize.

However, their gazes were dichotomous, worry swirled in with morbid interest, because they could pick up from the shadows over the school that something was amiss, and I just wanted to hate them for grasping an idea that wasn't their own, for beating me to it.

"Mikey." My teacher's voice stopped me in my tracks, and I lifted my head to become level with him. His eyes were puffy and red, a product of a deluge of tears, but I know not what for.

He was Gerard's teacher, as well as mine, but he shouldn't pretend like he's clutched by the event, because Gerard was failing calculus, and teachers should only worry about grades and intelligence and the superficiality of a skimmed surface. They shouldn't cry for my brother.

"Yes?" My legs wobbled as I struggled to hold onto whatever bit of confidence I may or may not have had left.

"Would you like to share something important with the class?" His eyebrows threatened to beckon it out of me, like he was sucking out the fragmented remainder of my soul, but uncertainty made way for rage.

I was not in debt to any of these people in this classroom, to anyone at all — not even Gerard, who was currently dead, cold, in the morgue, with murder victims and other folks of his type who couldn't be bothered to stick around for the aftermath of the hurricane they triggered; I don't blame them, though; I would've done the same.

"No, not really," I replied, almost too quickly, taking my seat in the back.

My teacher looked shocked, but he regained his composure after a few moments of attempting to decipher my caustic response. "Is it all right if I do it for you?"

Why does it matter so much? Do they need to know? How is it all of the sudden their business?

"Fine, whatever floats your nosy boat," I snapped with a pinch too much of sarcasm and spite.

His face crumpled, like my comment was somehow more hurtful than my brother's death, and he turned to my class to address them. "Last night" — my teacher shot me a glance as if to ask for my permission, and I nodded curtly — "Gerard Way, Mikey's brother, was found in his room after pressing a gun to his temple and firing. He was mentally ill—"

"Stop!" I screeched, rising from my chair and pointing an accusing finger at the man in the front of the room. "My brother was not dangerous, and neither are the majority of people with mental illnesses. What you know of sickness is from bigotry and stigma. You don't want Gerard, just his tragic story of love and loss, but you know what? He had neither of those things, just loneliness, and the only sort of emotion he may have retained was a slight allegiance to the thoughts that instructed him to take that gun and finally make use of it. He did not love anyone apart from his madness, and he did not lose anything — that was me whose livelihood was stripped away, and you, especially, did not suffer."

Astonished demeanors floated into my perception as the kids shifted around to dig their laser beams into my heart, acting as though standing up for Gerard was an inferior show to perform.

"You put this weight on his shoulders and laughed at him for falling," I whispered, and for once, no one said anything, labored to correct me with their provincial views.

And if someone spoke up against me again to try to prove that they weren't at fault, they'll have a storm coming their way.

A/N: So there was the second chapter. I hope you enjoyed this, and if you did, please vote, share, comment, etc. Feel free to give any feedback you'd like (constructive criticism is fine, too).
~Dakota