Think of the Angels

Frank stared at the man who had just entered, then ran out again.

Who was he? Why did he claim to know me? He wondered, staring in wide-eyed wonder at the path the man had taken out of this accursed place.

Through a curtain of flames, letting the flickering red tongues bathe him.

Frank sighed, shaking his head. There was no way out of this confined space. He knew he was probably insane. That was why they had locked him into this spotlessly white prison, hadn’t they? The infernal lab coats. They’d only given him a pencil and some papers as company in this four-walled hellhole. What did they expect him to do? Turn into DaVinci overnight, become the next Shakespeare or write a diary? Jeez.

He twiddled the pencil around with his fingers. Frank felt like writing something today.

But what? He wondered, smirking a little at himself. Random thoughts? Jesus, Frank. You’ve completely lost it.

The irony.

Staring at the blank wall for what seemed like hours on end, words finally began forming in Frank’s mind of their own accord.

You took your time, Frank grumbled mentally at the phrases seemingly floating around in his mind’s eye.

“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” Frank mumbled whilst scribbling, amused in the slightest to find that the words he were writing were oddly familiar.

A small smile creased the features on his face and caused the edges of his still rosy lips to curl upwards as Frank read what he had written.

We’re damned after all
Through Fortune and Flame we fall
And if you can stay then I'll show you the way,
To return from the ashes you call.

We all carry on
When our brothers in arms are gone
So raise your glass high for tomorrow we die
And return from the ashes you call.

“An anthem?” he asked, to no one in particular, raising a quizzical eyebrow at the paper he held before himself. “You seem familiar…”

Frank’s questing eyes finally came to rest on a lone word he had scribbled, not part of the aforemented chunk of wording.

“Helena?” The surprised male ran a hesitant finger over the word, feeling – magnified a hundredfold – the roughness of the paper beneath his still smooth fingertip.

A rattle behind him and Frank turned around, heart beating like a mad thing against his ribcage.

“Who’s there?” He rasped, then followed a sharp intake of breath as his hazel eyes found what they had been searching for.

A woman stood alone behind the bed Frank has once occupied, elegant black hair cascading in waves over her bare, pale shoulders. Dressed only in a flowing black gown with a blood-red ribbon around her waist, it complimented her pallid skin tone and jet-black eyes.

She smiled, lighting up those pools of darkness and still appeared eerily beautiful, though there were prominent purple bags under her eyes.

Was this some kind of carefully orchestrated prank to scare the living daylights out of him?

“Who are you?” Frank whispered in awe, walking around the length of the bed to face the woman. He’d seen worse – humongous octopuses, banshees, headless mummies and people combusting spontaneously. A random chick was nothing to be scared of.

Unless, of course, she happened to be a witch who would like to use my organs as ingredients in today’s caterpillar soup, Frank thought wryly.

The woman flourished her hands in an elaborate manner, and in the delicate limbs suddenly appeared a crown of thorns. Beautiful but deadly, like a black widow spider.

“Sharp,” Frank couldn’t resist a smirk.

She looked at him quizzically, cocking her head like that of a questioning puppy’s to one side.

Frank frowned. Was he supposed to do or say something?

“What am I supposed to do? Oh wait! I got it…” Frank deemed himself a genius as he sank slowly to his knees before the woman, smirking only slightly as the phrase “coronation ceremony” flashed through his mind.

The woman smiled again, satisfied. Then in a flurry of motion, she had placed the crown of thorns upon Frank’s head, inducing a sudden and unexpected wave of dizziness from the subject himself.

What? Frank thought as he felt a drop of hot liquid trickle down the side of his face.

Sweat?

He raised a hesitant arm, touching his own face. Bringing it away after moments and instead placing it within his line of vision, Frank’s eyes widened in horror as he took in the sight of his newly stained red hand.

Blood?

Usually at the sight of their own blood, most humans would have been freaking out, demanding a nine-one-one call, or just plain freaking out.

Frank did neither.

“Is this how it ends for me?” he asked, raising his crowned, bleeding head to gaze wondrously at the woman towering before him. Death’s Angel?

She looked taken aback, but regained her composure in a matter of seconds. Nodding gravely, she extended a thin, grey tinged arm, brushing slightly against Frank’s bloodied locks.

And all his past memories came flooding back.
Through the vast door, now reopened.

“Oh,” Frank breathed in amazement, as he watched his past life unfold before his very eyes.

My Chemical Romance.
The split.
The departure of Ray to Boston.
Bob, moving back to Chicago.
Mikey, living with Gerard.

Gerard.

The man who had visited him just now.

NO, Frank. I bought these Skittles myself, no way are you going to have them.

Gerard.
Gerard Arthur Way.

That was Gee! Oh God.

Frank blinked as it finally clicked and he realized who the woman was. Harsh, painful and albeit weird reality.

“Helena?” he raised his head to stare at the woman, still kneeling.

Helena smiled, then reached out both her arms for him. Skin, grey from Death. Dead, yet still beautiful.

That was but one of the wonders of the universe.

Frank looked up, hazel eyes brimming with regret for what he had never said, tears for the apologies he had never got a chance to make.

Was he going to get a second chance? Was he ever coming back home?

Frank’s hazel eyes met Helena’s black ones, truly making contact for the first time.

Her arms still beckoned, inviting and warm. Welcoming.

Come.

Frank smiled.