Welcome to the Black Parade

In about thirty minutes, Gerard finally gripped onto Cheyenne’s doorknob and started to turn it slowly. Anxiety permeated the arid air, which sucked Gerard’s throat nearly dry, as the doorknob revolved slowly. Gerard clamped onto his lower lip, which was desert-dry, with his left canine tooth. Gradually the door began to open, and he began to carefully step in. “Is Cheyenne alright?” he thought to himself. When he noticed the nurse in the room, the first thought in his mind was that Cheyenne was critically injured. He then darted over to her bed without closing the door, pulled the covers off of her, and examined her.

Cheyenne had been sleeping soundly in her bed the few seconds before Gerard woke her up. Now, she suddenly was woken up by someone pulling off her covers and examining her body. As soon as she woke up, she yawned in his face and began to stretch. She was relieved to see him and soon began to hug him.

“How did the stitches go?” she asked him.

“It was like torture,” he replied, “How are you?”

The nurse then butted in the conversation and said, “I highly recommend scheduling her an ultrasound, because the baby is probably critically injured or even killed. She’ll probably need an abortion if that’s safe for her, and it’s also highly recommended that she rests quite a bit and avoids stress as much as possible. It’ll be best for her to stay home for the next four weeks, unless she has an abortion before then.” Then the nurse’s pager sounded, “Oh, crap. I ‘m needed in another room. She could now go home. Just sign her out.” The nurse then scurried away.

“Four weeks? Isn’t the next concert before then?”

“Yes, it is Cheyenne. We’ll either have to find a new bass player, or you’ll have to get an abortion. It’s completely your choice. I’m not going to force an abortion on you.”

“I’ll see how the ultrasound goes,” Cheyenne said, “Schedule it ASAP.”

“Will do.” The two of them walked out of the room and to the sign-out center where they could sign out and make an ultrasound appointment. They scheduled an appointment for 10 AM the next day and were out in a matter of seconds. Frank soon joined the two of them. They were required to take a bus to the hotel, which was packed with MCR fans, most of them more concerned about the gauze wrapped around Gerard’s arm to conceal the stitches than they would be with their own relatives. That’s how it seemed to Gerard, anyway. This annoyed him greatly, and he shouted at them, “I just want to be treated like a normal, everyday human being for once in my damned life!” The fans then left all of them alone except for one small girl who appeared to be about nine years old. Her name was Melissa, but she preferred to be called Mel. Her face looked scuffed up a bit, and she wore a light bruise on her upper left cheek. She wore a plain white t-shirt that was torn a bit on the right shoulder and was splashed with mud. On her head grew chocolate-brown hair with a hit of vanilla. Her jeans were patched at the knee, and she wore white shoes profusely speckled with dark-black.

“Hi,” said the child, “Mine name is Melissa, but you could call me Mel. My daddy wanted Cheyenne to sign this for him.” She stared into Gerard’s eyes with innocence and pure kindness. Gerard stared back and was overwhelmed with warmth. He then shook the child’s hand gleefully.

“Hello, kid. Nice to meet you!” he said to her.

A creepy chill shot down Cheyenne’s spine. She had an ominous feeling about this child that she felt unexplainable. She just let it go and told no one, because she had not a single reason for this. She kept it to herself and listened as Gerard had a pleasant conversation with this strange child.

“My dad is pretty obsessed with Cheyenne,” the kid stated fearlessly, “He has an entire shrine dedicated to her and everything.”

“Wow,” Gerard said to Mel. He now began to get a creepy feeling about her once she mentioned that. He then began to examine Mel’s body more closely. On her face stood a few freckles here and there and some protruding cheekbones. Through her clothing, he could see ribs protruding from her small sides. Her hands were also quite bony.

“How do your parents treat you?” asked concerned Gerard.

“My father treats me quite good,” replied he nine-year-old proudly, “I’m sure if I were Cheyenne, however, I’d be treated even better.”

“Really?” Gerard became even more concerned about this child who was obviously being starved, “What are your favorite foods?”

“I eat whatever my father could afford,” Mel replied, “He usually spends all of his money on his shrine for Cheyenne.”

“I see,” Gerard said, disturbed that someone could possibly be that obsessed with Cheyenne, “What’s your full name?”

“Melissa Rose Cabot.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

“I know.”

Cheyenne’s spine grew ice-cold like the North Pole. This guy that was her father seemed quite creepy as far as she could tell, and he sounded just like the man who raped her. Her stomach now felt like a rock from thinking about such a uncanny guy, and she felt like puking. She was now unable to pay attention to the entire conversation. She lied in her seat and covered her head like as if there were a tornado blowing into town. Her stomach churned horribly, and she felt horribly ill. Soon, however, her stomach calmed down, and she began to listen to the conversation once again.

“Yeah. My father was recently attacked on our private beach strip just a few days ago by a strange guy with long, black hair. He was nearly killed, but I came home from my friend’s party just in time to call 911. It was pretty frightening to see him like that.” Cheyenne gulped down a glob of saliva that stifled her from breathing properly.

“Oh crap, we have to leave. See you some other time, Mel.” Gerard said in a kind voice. Then he yelled over to Cheyenne, “C’mon! We have to go!” Cheyenne dashed for him as Mel walked to the back of the bus, and they were soon out of the bus. Gerard then herded Frank and Cheyenne to the other side of the street and began to walk back to the hotel. Frank’s car had been totaled and was no longer useable.

“We seriously need to talk when we get to the hotel room,” said Gerard, “It’s about that girl-- and her father. I’m scared for our lives.” Gerard soon then realized he shouldn’t had said that last line in public. He could only imagine what kind of rumors it would spurt, but they didn’t really have enough time to care. They had to worry about something much more serious.

When they were in the hotel, where they were almost completely safe from the public, Gerard rounded up the rest of the band, and hey congregated around the small, circular table in the kitchen of Gerard’s and Cheyenne’s room. They were packed so tightly around the table, so it was quite remarkable that they were able to squish together around such a small table.