The Black Parade

“Mhhhmm.” I woke up to another beautifully drenched, rainy day, with Gerard nowhere to be found and only a note to show his absence. I read it aloud, though my eyes were blurred and pained with the entirety of gunk secreting from the tear duct, the price of early wake-ups.

Hey Lovely, I knew that you had work, so I set the buzzer for you I hope that it woke you.

A blaring ring came from my room, that would be the alarm, I suppose. I stepped into the cold space, and pressed the over-used button to halt the ruckus that was currently paining my ears. I noticed that the bucket I had set to catch the leak was nearly at the point of flooding, so I ran into the kitchen, managing not to slip on the floor, for once, and grabbed another pail to keep my bed from getting wet. I placed it underneath the outflow of rain water and removed the retired bucket, not spilling a single drop; I dumped the contents into my old and rusty sink. I grabbed some glue and tried to fix some of the leak, it helped a little, I made a vow that I would call the land lord when I got home after work. I began to read the final words of the small note.

I’m going to be at my apartment; Brian is talking to us about our “game plan” so call me after you get home, please? By the way, my mother would like to talk to you sometime soon, but due to the murder of Ray’s parents, we have to be very discrete and use a pay phone, 675-819-5420, after you call her, burn this paper.

I love you, have a great day at work and be careful. There’s still someone after the one’s we love, and I’m sure that a few people have noticed our presence back in thereal normal world.

His hastily scribbled note meant a lot to me and I quickly memorized the phone number and ran into my closet, grabbing appropriate journalist wear: a maroon button down shirt with a frilly jabot gracing the neckline, black boots, and black skinny jeans. After grabbing my tan trench coat and buttoning it, purse underneath my arm, I hurried out into the London street, hoping that this day would be better than some of those that I have faced, just hoping that safety would befall all of those in imminent danger, though knowing the world’s ruthless confines far to well for such idealism.

I walked into the office, but the only sight that met my eyes was horror, blood and guts decorating the walls, contrasting the chipped vanilla color and sticking in the crevices of a brick wall. The flooding of my senses began with memories of my past serial adventures, memoirs of massacre. I dialed 911, thoughts only orbiting around the sight of Lisa’s face stuck to a computer screen and sliding off, leaving a trail of blood, Henry, the hopeful and bright intern, his eyes rolling around on the floor, beside his skinned corpse. I walked over to my workstation, the only thing present was a letter, pasted together with newspaper letters, cliché and thusly, even more painful: Do YoU Know WhAt yOu DID To me? MY FaMILy? MCr, yOu AnD yOUr LiTtlE fRiEndS aRe DEAD!

I choked in a withering sob and ran to the front door, passing the cadavers of people that I had known, even befriended, I slipped, twisting my ankle in the blood of my fellows, pain, both emotional and physical, coursed through my veins; every neuron and nerve connection was firing with one electrical signal: disgust. Disgust at how I could have ever done this sort of atrocious deed to anyone, how I could have doomed these people, how could I have ever been so stupid? I would have bawled into my hands, were they not covered in my co-workers’ bodily fluids, and not the good ones. Sirens became less and less distant in my hearing… A tear slipped down my face with every shout of a living person that filled my ears, at least a hundred tears must have become one with the blood staining my coat, with the blood on my hands that felt like it did so many years ago: comforting.

A paramedic came in, a female cop did, and they all passed around me in what seemed like slow motion, the only thing that was real was the cameras that surrounded the scene, but only just. At the edge of my vision a hooded figure stood. But the mystery of a person was cast out of my worried mind when they began to question me… when they took me to a lab and gave me other clothes because mine were evidence. I was evidence, I was a killer and I was giving the police a statement… hilariously painful, simply side-splitting that I didn’t actually confess all of my crimes, though I yearned to do so.

SWITCH P.O.V.

“Did you see any of the crime while it was being committed? Was anyone alive in the office building, other than you?”

“No, I wasn’t even alive, not a soul breathed in that building.” The overly-skinny woman said to me, her fists shaking, I heard a small sound reverberate on the ground, I looked to see my FBI badge on the ground. I sighed and picked it up, reading my service number briefly: 77123, Lauren Lobotomy, my grandfather was a doctor, as were all of his ancestors, my father had expected me to be a doctor, not a chance. The forensics specialist walked over to my position and told me that “Abigail Clarice Walters” was free to go, as soon as I finished my questioning. “I’m nearly done, you obviously didn’t see anyone, but did you see anything particularly disturbing?” She shivered, though not from cold, since I was practically overheating in my suit and tie, sometimes conforming to the FBI dress code was almost as painful as not doing so…

“Someone left a note on my desk, I was interviewing a band that just came back from being missing, and I befriended them. So possibly it was jealousy, but the note said that they did something to their family, which is unlikely, because they are the least corrupt people that I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a lot of good people, especially at this job…” I nodded and continued to write down her statement, glad to have a little bit more information on whatever person did it. My partner pulled up, he had just finished inspecting the scene, and a frown creased his eyebrows together. What had been so disturbing to make his usually flamboyant and devil-may-care attitude go downhill?

“Laurie, do you think that it was Vengeance So Sweet? She or he hasn’t been active in years, but we have a few new clues… and the choppy method is definitely her style.” We were the main investigators on that crime, but after the case went cold, the Bureau relocated us to London, which was a welcome rest from the endless Jersey crime sprees. Instead of answering I contemplated the idea, but Abigail answered, and sounded as if she knew a lot about the case:

“It wasn’t her or him, the only moral person that they killed was that man in New York, the cancer patient, and that looked pretty incidental, like he got in the way of their mission and that was the last kill. It seems that they would never harm an innocent, and it’s been too long, they’ve probably seen the error of vigilantism.” I was shocked by her cool and contemplative analysis of the situation, but agreed with her, a mass murder wasn’t her style. I was also pretty sure that this was something far larger than all of us… I looked back to the once-distraught woman and her overcast eyes sparkled with what seemed to be: guilt?

“What new leads do we have?” John, my partner, had been looking back at the too-thick case file, and had apparently found something.

“One of the first kills was actually two people, with nearly the same time of death, same room: Jacob and Lacey Venin, parents of Mary Jane Venin, who has been missing since her eighteenth birthday, but no missing persons report was filed. It was said by multiple witnesses that she was abused. That could be our girl.”

“Maybe she changed her name?” He shrugged and was about to hand me the folder full of new and exiting breakthroughs, and Abigail excused herself, saying that our shared information was probably classified and that she should be going. Only then did I realize that I hadn’t gotten her address, incase I needed to ask her further questions, but I figured that I could just look in the phone book, right?

“Here’s her picture, maybe we can find her by facial recognition software.” He handed me a picture of a young girl, barely sixteen, with a badly covered bruise encompassing her right cheek, a bit of broken glass stuck in too, the background was obviously that of a hospital, due to the brightly lit white walls, her gray eyes shined with tears… and a ghost, the ghost of pain unapproachable. She reminded me of Abigail in a way, in appearance and her eyes… definitely something you’ll never forget, especially when blood reflects so easily off of the emotionless dolphin-grey iris. The choppily cut hair was so similar, black and full of depth. I cast the information aside, concentrating on the evidence that I had been given for both the new and old cases. This was what my life was about, avenging those who can be avenged by no other way than our law system.

GERARD’S P.O.V.

A knock sounded at my door, the guys were still here, but Brian had finally left after bugging us about getting back in the open and back on tour, I didn’t want to leave Abbey though… I was most definitely in love again. I ran to the door, hoping to see Abbey, which I did, but she was crying, something that I thought I was never going to have to suffer again, for I suffered as she did, whilst tears flowed from the corners of her pained eyes. I was about to ask what troubled her but as she whimpered the words met my ears that were so horrible:

“They know that Mary Jane did it, they know, and I was right there, goddess… He, he the guy who killed Ray’s parents, he killed everyone at the magazine, he left a note, on my desk, he says that you did something to his family, took something away… Goddess, it’s all my fault, I did this to them, Henry’s dead, Lisa, all of them!” She convulsed with trembling and fell to the ground; I promptly wrapped my thick sweater around her delicate body and let her continue to cry on my shoulder, the rest of the band walked over, keeping their distance, but still comforting her with their warm and friendly presence. She kept saying Goddess; I knew that she was from a Catholic town, so she must have picked up some form of paganism in her life, which was news to me. I didn’t know what to say about the note, about everything… how did they find Mary Jane’s identity? Did they know that Abbey was Mary Jane? What was life if she wasn’t there, what would I do if they… No, they won’t, I won’t let them, but I don’t know if I can protect her from a killer and the law.