Welcome to Your Parade

The light is reflecting off this knife I'm holding. I'm alone in the tour bus - you've all gone out to a nightclub. You'll probably be dancing with that girl you met last time. Remember her? You were dancing with her, and you were feeling each other up, and I was at the bar getting drunk out of my mind.

So then I walked over to you and kissed you. It felt so good, but you didn't think so. You yelled at me, because then people would think we were together or something, and you wouldn't have been able to live with that. Then you went right back to dancing with her, dirtier than before. And I couldn't watch you any more, so I just kept drinking and drinking and drinking. I threw up so many times that night. And not just from the alcohol.

Remember Projekt Revolution? You did it again, you kissed me, and I forgot how to play guitar. Then you threw me away from you, and even though I knew the whole thing was for show, it hurt. A week later, I couldn't help it, two days in a row I licked you and rode you, and everyone seemed to love it. Everyone but you. When I was doing it, you took it like you usually did. After the show you were furious at me, you screamed at me.

I said I was sorry, I acted like it had just been for show too. But then I lay in my bunk and I cried. I cried for hours and hours, and you didn't even notice.

But you don't have to worry about me loving you any more. I can't live with this. I can't live with you kissing me on stage, and then acting like it wasn't a big deal. It was. Everytime you came near me on stage, my heart would flutter, and I'd hope that you'd touch me or kiss me or something, because I needed you. I needed you, even if afterwards I felt hopeless and worthless.

I'm dying, Gerard. I was dying for a long time, inside. Now it's time to finish everything. I know you said suicide was a bullshit way out. You said to talk to somebody, but the only one I wanted to talk to was you. And I couldn't, not when you'd blow off my love like a high school crush. Please, please don't think I'm angry at you. I'm not. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I have to do this. I'm sorry that I wasn't enough for you. I'm sorry for a lot of things.

I'm sorry about My Chemical Romance. But guitarists aren't too hard to come by - you'll replace me easily. Matt Cortez is a good guitarist. Everyone likes him. You can fuck around with him onstage instead, so you can make the fangirls scream.

The blood - my blood - is running faster now. It's turning into a pool of red, a pool of blood. It's like Demolition Lovers, but only one. You're the other half of me, but you don't know it.

I tried to tell you once, Gerard. You stared at me and told me that it didn't mean anything. It's just lust, Frankie, you told me, walking away. How could it be lust, if you just saying my name made me shiver and tremble?

I'm sorry, Gerard.

----------

As I near the tour bus, I slow slightly. There is a glimmer of light coming through the blinds, but not nearly enough to light it all up. The lamp must be on. I open the door, worried. "Frankie?" I had a bad feeling. You said you felt sick before. Maybe it was serious?

It's quiet. Then my eyes are drawn downward, to the still body lying on the floor. "Frankie!" I scream, falling to my knees. "Frankie," I repeat again, touching your still hand, clutching a piece of paper.

Gerard, it says, in your unique, messy handwriting. Nonononononono...

I look for a pulse, but I can't feel anything. Where the fuck is your pulse? I fumble for my phone, finally dialling in the three numbers that lead to the emergency line.

"Hello-"

"Get me an ambulance!" I yell in the phone, stuttering out the address. "Just get it, now!" I throw the phone away and try to listen for your pulse again.

"Oh no, Frank, no, you can't do this to me, no..." I ease the letter, addressed to me, out of your hand.

I'm watching the light reflect off this knife...

"Frankie, no, don't do it," I whisper, reading.

I cried for hours and hours, and you didn't even notice.

Frankie, I didn't. I didn't notice.You know why? Because I was crying too. I was crying because I screamed at you when all I really wanted to do was to hold you. I cried because no one has ever loved me, and I thought no one ever would, let alone you.

I'm sorry, Gerard.

I give an inarticulate cry, tears spilling down my cheeks and falling onto your pale face. "No, Frank, I love you. I love you too, please, please, please don't die..." I kiss you, but your lips are cold and they don't respond. "Frank, please keep on living."

Paramedics are coming through now, and a lady pulls me away from you. "No, let me be with him," I say, struggling.

"I'm sorry, you can't-"

"Please, you don't understand, I love him. I have to be with him." She looks at my tearstained face before softening slightly and nodding.

I grab onto your hand, holding it as the stretcher you're on moves up the ramp of the ambulance.