The Tragic Tale of The Black Parade
Recognition
It was clearly a march, albeit one in a strange minor key. The band followed their leader flawlessly. He was in complete control of the music; it seemed to change with everything he did, from every motion of his arms to the slightest change in his facial expression. He had absolute power.
As the patient listened to the song and watched its conductor, he began to forget. He forgot that he was dead and only on a temporary visit. He forgot just how important his actions would be.
He forgot he wasn’t a child. He watched it all through a child’s eyes with the same wonder and amazement he had had when he had witnessed this very scene so many years ago.
The song continued on, and the band began to march in drill patterns with absolute precision. They moved simultaneously, all at the mercy of their conductor. He led them through every motion with fluid familiarity, something not even achieved with countless hours of practice. It was greater than that. He clearly had a natural ability for what he did.
The song reached an intense moment, and the drumline took over. The flute players threw their instruments into the air, and the crowd applauded as they all spun and were caught simultaneously. The leader tried to keep his smile from becoming a smirk of superiority. That had been one of his better ideas. Of course, those ending a parade would need to have a spectacular finale by nature.
It ended all too quickly. At the leader’s cue, they all bowed at once, eventually dispersing to the edges of the street to speak to the crowd. The leader met up with the tuba player, the one who wore the medal, and gave him a one-armed hug. They approached the patient and his father. As the father lowered his son to the ground, he saw the family resemblance between the two musicians. They were definitely brothers.
The leader shook hands with several people nearby, thanking them for attending. He knelt to the patient’s eye level and smiled, taking the young boy’s hand in his own. That was the moment that it all disappeared.
-
“Did you enjoy revisiting your memory?” the leader asked, clad in his uniform of familiar black. The patient could only stare at him in awe. “At any rate, we must continue. Do you remember anything else?” Another memory came to him. It had happened many years after the parade.
He nodded.
“I was older.” That was all the leader needed. He opened the next door for the patient, eager to visit the next memory. It would undoubtedly be an important one.
-
He slowly opened his eyes once again. Slowly sitting up, he glanced around the room. His eyes widened. This was not good.
“No talking during the test,” said the teacher. He remembered this very well, and he knew what was coming next. A thinly folded piece of paper landed on his desk. He picked it up with shaking hands. It was from the person sitting next to him.
You have to get out of here. I’m going to do it, and I don’t want you to get hurt.
His eyes widened further, and he quickly hid the note under his desk. He glanced over at the one who had passed him the note. It was a close friend of his. The patient shook his head pleadingly when he saw the glint of metal from beneath the other teen’s jacket. He received a single nod from the black-haired boy that could have been his twin. They were the punks of the school, constantly breaking rules and not caring at all. Both of them hated school with a passion, but his friend was the more extreme of the two. He would be willing to do something about it.
Fear took over the patient’s heart as he silently raised his hand and asked the teacher to use the restroom. She nodded curtly, motioning for him to leave the room. He took a single heartfelt glance back at his friend as he walked out the door. He shut it behind himself and looked back through the frosted window. His friend stood up. He could only stand and watch in horror at the events about to unfold.
Someone tackled him from behind and pinned him to the floor a second before a bullet shot through the glass of the window. Just as it had happened that day.
“Are you okay?” the person asked him. “I didn’t want to hurt you, but it was better than the alternative.” Tears began to fall from the patient’s eyes as students began to flood the hallway, all wondering what had happened. He could have stopped it... he could have told someone...he should have stayed...
The other person clasped his hand and helped him to his feet, and he immediately tried to enter the classroom. He quickly realized he was fighting a losing battle against the flood of people rushing out of the other rooms as he was pushed further and further away from his destination. This was going to be impossible.
Someone took his hand and carefully wove a path around the people. He struggled to see who it was, remembering that he had never found out. The person had left and gone on his way before he could thank him. He didn’t want to make that mistake again.
They reached the classroom within a few more seconds. The person released his hand and continued down the hallway at a slow, methodical pace.
“Hey, wait!” he called, starting to run after the other teenager. The boy was clothed in black, not unlike himself, with black hair covering half of his face. His pace did not change as he headed for the door. The patient began to jog after him; he heard the footsteps and quickened his pace. He couldn’t be caught.
The patient began to run. The boy looked back and took off in a sprint, but his pursuer was not about to let him get away. He soon found himself face to face with the floor, a dull pain quickly intensifying in his head.
“Now, are you going to tell me who you are?” the patient asked him. The boy shoved him off and stood, brushing off his black sweatshirt nonchalantly. He turned and looked at the patient with a smirk.
“You,” said the patient, the frustration gone from his tone.
“Big mistake.”
As the patient listened to the song and watched its conductor, he began to forget. He forgot that he was dead and only on a temporary visit. He forgot just how important his actions would be.
He forgot he wasn’t a child. He watched it all through a child’s eyes with the same wonder and amazement he had had when he had witnessed this very scene so many years ago.
The song continued on, and the band began to march in drill patterns with absolute precision. They moved simultaneously, all at the mercy of their conductor. He led them through every motion with fluid familiarity, something not even achieved with countless hours of practice. It was greater than that. He clearly had a natural ability for what he did.
The song reached an intense moment, and the drumline took over. The flute players threw their instruments into the air, and the crowd applauded as they all spun and were caught simultaneously. The leader tried to keep his smile from becoming a smirk of superiority. That had been one of his better ideas. Of course, those ending a parade would need to have a spectacular finale by nature.
It ended all too quickly. At the leader’s cue, they all bowed at once, eventually dispersing to the edges of the street to speak to the crowd. The leader met up with the tuba player, the one who wore the medal, and gave him a one-armed hug. They approached the patient and his father. As the father lowered his son to the ground, he saw the family resemblance between the two musicians. They were definitely brothers.
The leader shook hands with several people nearby, thanking them for attending. He knelt to the patient’s eye level and smiled, taking the young boy’s hand in his own. That was the moment that it all disappeared.
-
“Did you enjoy revisiting your memory?” the leader asked, clad in his uniform of familiar black. The patient could only stare at him in awe. “At any rate, we must continue. Do you remember anything else?” Another memory came to him. It had happened many years after the parade.
He nodded.
“I was older.” That was all the leader needed. He opened the next door for the patient, eager to visit the next memory. It would undoubtedly be an important one.
-
He slowly opened his eyes once again. Slowly sitting up, he glanced around the room. His eyes widened. This was not good.
“No talking during the test,” said the teacher. He remembered this very well, and he knew what was coming next. A thinly folded piece of paper landed on his desk. He picked it up with shaking hands. It was from the person sitting next to him.
You have to get out of here. I’m going to do it, and I don’t want you to get hurt.
His eyes widened further, and he quickly hid the note under his desk. He glanced over at the one who had passed him the note. It was a close friend of his. The patient shook his head pleadingly when he saw the glint of metal from beneath the other teen’s jacket. He received a single nod from the black-haired boy that could have been his twin. They were the punks of the school, constantly breaking rules and not caring at all. Both of them hated school with a passion, but his friend was the more extreme of the two. He would be willing to do something about it.
Fear took over the patient’s heart as he silently raised his hand and asked the teacher to use the restroom. She nodded curtly, motioning for him to leave the room. He took a single heartfelt glance back at his friend as he walked out the door. He shut it behind himself and looked back through the frosted window. His friend stood up. He could only stand and watch in horror at the events about to unfold.
Someone tackled him from behind and pinned him to the floor a second before a bullet shot through the glass of the window. Just as it had happened that day.
“Are you okay?” the person asked him. “I didn’t want to hurt you, but it was better than the alternative.” Tears began to fall from the patient’s eyes as students began to flood the hallway, all wondering what had happened. He could have stopped it... he could have told someone...he should have stayed...
The other person clasped his hand and helped him to his feet, and he immediately tried to enter the classroom. He quickly realized he was fighting a losing battle against the flood of people rushing out of the other rooms as he was pushed further and further away from his destination. This was going to be impossible.
Someone took his hand and carefully wove a path around the people. He struggled to see who it was, remembering that he had never found out. The person had left and gone on his way before he could thank him. He didn’t want to make that mistake again.
They reached the classroom within a few more seconds. The person released his hand and continued down the hallway at a slow, methodical pace.
“Hey, wait!” he called, starting to run after the other teenager. The boy was clothed in black, not unlike himself, with black hair covering half of his face. His pace did not change as he headed for the door. The patient began to jog after him; he heard the footsteps and quickened his pace. He couldn’t be caught.
The patient began to run. The boy looked back and took off in a sprint, but his pursuer was not about to let him get away. He soon found himself face to face with the floor, a dull pain quickly intensifying in his head.
“Now, are you going to tell me who you are?” the patient asked him. The boy shoved him off and stood, brushing off his black sweatshirt nonchalantly. He turned and looked at the patient with a smirk.
“You,” said the patient, the frustration gone from his tone.
“Big mistake.”