The Black Parade

Tick, Tock, Tick, Tock...

I stare out of an abyss from which I can not escape. My heart on the line, fighting to save my soul, the only person who is able to help me has some sort of grudge against me.

No matter how hard I've tried, I can not wash the blood out of my hands.

A fierce wind blows my raven hair across my face, obscuring steely gray eyes, but not quite shaking me out of my reverie.

I try to forget what I have done, but I can't, all the screams as grown men beg for mercy, pleading on their hands and knees, but soon after are slashed down by my blade. They can't seem to stay out of my head. The tears and sounds of every kill come back, worse than any physical blow.

Like the current of a rushing river, I can not escape, I hoped for the salty caress of tears to drown me, so my suffering will end, as all things must. All of my recent hopes are as futile as my childhood ones; I am still alive, not dead by the hand of mine nor any other. The blood flows down recently reopened scars, the blood is not mine, and I have regrets for the atrocities I have committed.

Are serial killers allowed such regrets?

"No."

I hadn't realized that my over-sized mouth had been divulging all of my darkest secrets to the open air. Saying it out loud seemed to finalize it, making it entirely real and true. I crashed down to my knees, bawling, Gerard made no move to comfort me, nor did he show a single sign of emotion.

"That's what having a soul feels like."

"I know." I whispered, almost silently.

"How do you know that? You're a mass-murdering psychopath, you don't know, and if you did, there wouldn't be the blood of innocents on your hands. So, how did you fill waste piles with the corpses of a thousand honorable men, with a soul?"

He said it with so much force, that I almost believed him, almost. The only innocent I ever killed was the patient, who got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, yet still caused most of my guilt.

"Did your ‘Elders’ tell you just who I killed? Would I be here if I didn't want to repent my sins?"

"This isn't a church, it's a prison!"

I was silent, he out his hand on my shoulder, and without compassion said, "You need to get cleaned up, come on." He motioned for me to follow him into one of the connecting rooms.

I followed him into a gray stone room, just as blank and devoid of life as this entire world has been, so far. There were two marble, Roman style baths, with black shower curtains blocking vision. Yet another connecting room had two beds and two closets.

I looked in a closet, grabbing a back nightgown from among the mass of black and grey, with some red clothing. I also grabbed some other necessities piled in the right-hand corner of said closet.

We both went in; I stripped inside of my separate shower, as did he. A half an hour later I emerged, clean and refreshed, but no cleaner on the inside.

I dried off using the rough black towel, throwing on clothing quickly. I turned to the other room, Gerard sat there, not looking at me as I thought/hoped that he would be, but sketching something intently.

He surveyed his work with disdain, and then crumpled it into a ball, throwing it easily into the nearby waste basket.

He looked up; I looked down, realizing that he was only in his boxers, which made my blood boil fervently. He grimaced; I hurriedly walked to the other bed and slipped under uncomfortable bed sheets to await yet another restless sleep.