This is a fictional story I wrote to accompany "Mama" by My Chemical Romance. Any resemblance to any humans or toys are "purely coincidental".

THE STORY BEHIND MAMA:
Franceska Angelyna Iero woke up one day and she could not find her mother in her room, so she was getting worried and started calling for her,and her mothe told her to return to her room, so she did as her mother said. Little did she know that the ghost of her elder brother, Frank Anthony Iero, had returned to haunt their mother because she had sent him to war and had told him NEVER to return and to make her proud. Her brother was killed in the war and he wanted revenge, so he came back to kill their mother.


MAMA
“Mama!” The little girl took her thumb out of her mouth and called her name. “Mama, where are you?” A battered teddy bear dragged behind her almost sadly, and unconsciously she stuck her thumb back in her mouth. “Mama!” Her voice grew slightly more frantic as she spoke.
The hallway seemed incredibly long to her. Her short, rather fuzzy black hair was dampened with sweat, a toddler’s fear of not being able to find her mother weighing down on her shoulders. She shuddered and picked up the bear that trailed behind her, hugging it tightly to her chest. Where could she be? she asked herself, whimpering ever so slightly. She had already checked her bedroom; she was not in there.
Now starting to become seriously frightened she tried to fight back the tears that threatened to swarm her hazel eyes. “Mama, where are you?”
And then, faintly, she heard her voice; “Fran, back off. Go away, honey!”
“Mama! Where are you, Mama?”
Silence for a few moments, before her frantic callings of "Fran, go away, now!”
Frightened Fran nodded, more to herself, and understanding that there was honestly terror in her mother’s voice, she dashed towards her room and hid under the protective covers of her blanket.
However, in the room where her mother lay sprawled on a rather large bed, she was not alone. Her feet were curled beneath her, her body tensed in fear. “Frankie, honey,” she whispered softly.
Standing above her was a pale, disfigured teenager, no older than seventeen. Along his forehead lay a large, oozing cut, haphazard stitches lined across it but not strong enough to keep the blood out. His legs were oddly disfigured, lumpy and misshapen, as if something were crammed into them. His eyes were black and soulless, her first hint that there was no life residing within him.
“You should’ve raised a baby girl,” he croaked. When his mouth opened it was black, teeth yellow, tongue a lolling mass of blackened skin. “You made us oh, so famous, mother. Sending us gift packages full of sweets and books and movies…I became the most fucking famous person in the camps…Look at me now, mother, look what the war did to my legs and to my tongue!”
She huddled against the headboard, frozen in terror. “Frankie,” she said faintly. “Frankie! You know I didn’t want you to go—”
“And when we go don’t blame us,” he whispered, putrid breath rolling off of his breath. He glared.
“—you’re father is the one that convinced you to go!”
“When I was young and the war first started,” he went on as if he did not hear his mother, “you said to me, ‘we’ll never let you go, darling.’ But you not only let me go, you shipped me off. Instead of hugging and kissing me, you and dad just smirked and said ‘and when you go don’t return to me my love.’”
She stared at him in horror. “I never said that, Frankie! Ask Fran…the sadness…and when we found out you were dea—” she choked over the words.
His face was as impassive as ever. “The nights in the camps, mother, wondering if I was making you proud yet. Hearing the voices of our sergeants, of the leaders…’if you can coddle the infection, we can amputate at once…,’ a dry stab at humor. Don’t look away from me! Look what the war did, mother. By rules we let the fires just bathe us, grenades going off left and right, whoopsie, there goes your leg! Whoopsie-fuckin’-daisy, there goes your head!” His voice was thick with sarcasm.
Her eyes were large. “Frankie…,” was all she could strangle out.
His hands were behind his back, and she began to grow fearful as to what exactly he held. A gun, a knife, an axe? She didn’t know. She trembled, hiding from him, wondering vaguely if it was all an illusion.
He stared down at her, literally leaning over her, his weight almost pressed against her. “The nights…listening for bombs going off, the sound as familiar as your own breathing…acting so quickly when a bomb went off, almost like getting up every morning. You could put your head down and not realize there was a bomb beneath the place where your head lay. You could walk into a pit or other trap without realizing it. But the worst part, Mama, the worst part wasn’t any of this…” And his face was suddenly pressed into hers, his nose against her nose. “It was what happened after you were shot in the chest, after your head was blown off, after you died of blood loss.”
His black lips pulled into a sneer. “You see, Mama, we all go to hell. There is no such thing as heaven or hell…Mama, we all go to hell, it’s really quite true.” He paused for a moment and leered at his mother.
“That’s not true,” she whispered, but there was heavy doubt in her voice. He threw his head back and laughed.
“Oh well now, Mama, we’re all gonna die. Of course you already knew that but there’s no escaping it, we all die, and when we die we go downstairs, where it’s like a fucking undead party all day long! The fires cackle, the flames lick, and it really is quite pleasant—except for the smell, that is. You can dance in the blaze and every night you hear the cacophony that we went through in the war.”
His fingers latched onto his mother’s shirt and he pulled her up, his nose still pressed against her nose, and literally lifted her out of bed. Looking feeble and nothing but bones, he had quite a lot of strength—more than his mother thought humanly possible.
“How do you know this?” she asked, trembling. Under normal circumstances—as in, if Fran were telling her this—she would have laughed it off. But his smell…his appearance…the dead, blue-ish hinge his skin held…
“Stop asking me questions, I’d hate to see you cry, Mama,” he said sarcastically. “Just shut the hell up and come with me.”
“But…Fran!” Her voice was desperate, but he merely laughed at her.
“Right now they’re building a coffin your size,” he told her, holding her with one arm and literally carrying her away from her bedroom as if she were weightless. His army-uniform sleeve pulled down and she saw that no skin was on his wrist, only bone. She gasped and cringed. He felt her body tighten and laughed.
“Fran!” she screamed, but Fran had fallen asleep, the fear exhausting her of all will. Frankie smirked and threw her down the steps. She landed with a heavy groan on the bottom step, having literally flown down the entire way, hitting her chin on the tiled floor. She bit her tongue and the steely tang of blood filled her mouth sickeningly.
Frankie jumped down the steps effortlessly and landed right next to her own head. She scrambled up and backed up against the wall. Frankie merely stood there, looking dead and decayed, grinning down horribly at her.
“Come, now, Mama,” he whispered, bending down slightly and holding her face between his hands. Whisking two cups out of thin air, he handed one to her and put the cup which resembled a goblet to his lips. “Raise your glass high, Mama, for tomorrow we die.”
With a forceful hand he pushed the contents of the cup into her lips and sipped at his own cup. In the course of five seconds she struggled, looking up at him with fearful eyes. He watched as the fear slowly dimmed to unfathomable pain, and then what ever meager light that resided in them blink out of existence.
He sipped his own poison delightedly, looking at her corpse. “Did you get what you deserved?” he asked her corpse.
She didn’t answer.
He laughed.