NIGHTMARES

The roads to recovery taken by Frank and Gerard are both long, difficult and miserable. Gerard is trapped behind security guards and locked doors, puking and shaking his way through substance withdrawal as tears and tremors keep him up at night, haunted by his guilt over starting that fire. None of his family come to visit him and he's left all alone to get better or get worse, sink further down or learn how to swim.
Meanwhile Frank is strapped down by faceless doctors in white coats who slice and strip away the cracked dead flesh on his upper arm, shoulder and neck and force him through a morphine-soaked twilight world of skin-grafts, wound infections, physical therapy and pain. His mother never leaves his side but half the time he doesn't even know she's there.

The only silver lining for either of them is that the gut-wrenching visions of future murders do not return. Occasionally a flashback to Lorna's basement will wake Frank crying or screaming in the night, drowning in sweltering hospital sheets, but the ultra-realistic hallucinations and terrors that nearly drove him insane are gone. The ghost of Lorna he saw in that weird black and white dreamworld must have told him the truth: his inner crystal ball of doom and gloom has vanished.

TWO MONTHS LATER:

The spring sunshine hurts Gerard's eyes as he stands nervously by the clinic's open gate chain-smoking Marlboros while he waits for his ride. He lost a lot of weight in rehabilitation and his clothes feel baggy and stretched out, stinking of his own musky sweat and the cigarettes he's been sucking on non-stop since he detoxed from the last of the booze. After thirty days in the clinic he was physically healed and completely sober but the post-traumatic stress urging him to drink and chug pills like they were candy was still an issue so his forgiving parents had paid for an extra month of therapy and treatment to teach him how to cope with his demons.

Last night, waiting to be released, he couldn't sleep at all: trembling at the thought of being back in the outside world and left to fend for himself, so he spent the lonely pre-dawn hours sawing off his long tangled hair with blunt scissor blades, unable to cope with the clingy weight of it hanging in his eyes. The short black scruff he's got left covering his scalp feels cold and kinda itchy but he's cool with it. He'd shave his whole head if he had the guts or maybe bleach his remaining hair white. Anything for a change. This is meant to be a new start after all.

Before long an old black jeep pulls up to the curb and Gerard grabs his backpack and sketchbook from the pavement and jumps in the passenger seat, slamming the door behind him. “Hey man,” Brian smiles, pulling the singer into a hug the moment he's inside the vehicle, “You doing okay?”
“Yeah I think I'm getting there,” Gerard replies, turning nervously to face the person sitting behind them in the back seat. “Hey Mikes... Are we good?”
“I guess so,” Mikey murmurs, trying to hide a smile as cautious affection shines in his brown eyes, “What the fuck did you do to your hair, bro?”

It's only been a few months since My Chemical Romance went on hiatus after the events in LA and to keep people interested in the band Warner Music have been releasing music videos during their absence: first a Gothic MTV masterpiece for 'Helena' which was the last thing the guys filmed together before Frank's nightmares tore their world apart, and then another rushed video made up of clips from old tour footage for 'The Ghost of You'.

Nobody wants the band to end, especially Frank whose main motivation for recovery was always the thought of playing songs with his friends again without any fear or blood behind his eyes, so after several days of long emotional phone calls between everyone involved, Brian is driving the Way brothers across town to a very specific place.

**
When the sound of tyres rumbles up the driveway outside, Frank bites his lip until it hurts and starts rubbing nervously at the fabric strapping on his arm. He hasn't seen or spoken to Gerard in months and is only just starting to feel normal again after his last gruesome plastic surgery when the hospital finally set him free. The burns on his neck and jaw have healed pretty well but his arm is itchy and ugly as sin and has to stay wrapped up tight to flatten out the bumpy ridges of scar tissue and transplanted skin that make him feel like Frankenstein's monster. Fortunately his hands were all but untouched by the fire and he can still move his fingers enough to play a guitar but it hurts to lift the heavy white Les Paul models that he loves. He'll probably have to start playing light-weight Telecasters instead which sucks ass.

His mom has been an absolute saint getting him through the worst of the pain and panic attacks, but the new peace and quiet inside his head and the empty ghost-free mirrors in the house still feel fragile and he's scared of falling back into the darkness he's only just left behind. Lorna's face never truly leaves his thoughts and it makes him want to cry knowing that it probably never will.

The doorbell rings twice and Frank gets up from his perch on the edge of the living room couch and clenches his hands, swallowing hard. He doesn't hate Gerard for any of the shit that went down but at the same time he's terrified that their friendship is too badly warped or broken to be fixed now. The future of the band depends on them being able make things better but what if it's too awkward and they can't?
Ray wanders into the room with a cup of coffee and when he hears his small friend's anxious ragged breathing he puts a comforting arm around Frank's heaving shoulders and guides him gently towards the front door. “It's gonna be okay, Frankie, we're just gonna talk, right? Deep breaths, man. Did you take your anxiety meds?”
“Uh huh,” Frank croaks, forcing himself to reach out and open the door for Brian and Mikey who quickly reach behind them and drag a skinny, shy-looking Gerard into view. The singer stares wide-eyed at Frank for a moment, taking in his pale worried face and fresh pink scars, and then his eyes flood with tears and he hangs his head, clutching a battered sketchbook to his chest like a security blanket. “God, Frankie, I'm so s-sorry!” he blurts in a rush, sobs choking his words into a mumbling mess, “I'm s-so fucking sorry for everything, I never, NEVER meant for you to get h-hurt! Can you ever forgive m-me?”

“Shit. Dude, I know you didn't mean it,” Frank sighs, leaning on the door-frame with Ray standing strong and steady at his side, “But thanks for saying so. Of course I can forgive you, dumbass. I'm pretty proud of you for doing that rehab thing and sorting your shit out to be honest. Actually, I'm kinda sorry too.”

“For w-what?”

“Y'know, for shutting you guys out when things started to go crazy for me. I'm sorry for making everyone worry. I just felt so fucking alone when all that shit was going on, I was literally losing my mind, and none of you knew why. Now I'm feeling pretty even again but you've been away in the clinic and, ugh, I've really missed you. I miss all you guys.”
“I-I missed you too,” Gerard sniffles, wiping his face on his sleeve and hesitantly raising his hands to offer a hug. Frank throws his arms around the singer and buries his face in his friend's chest letting love and relief chase away his remaining anxiety. He almost feels normal again for the first time in months. “Just so you know... I think your hair looks weird,” he whispers with a smirk and Gerard snorts in amusement, dropping his sketchbook as the eager embrace knocks them both off balance.
The book hits the doorstep and falls open on a beautiful black and gray charcoal sketch of immaculately detailed eerie figures that immediately catches Frank's eye. Gasping in recognition, he pulls away from Gerard and stares open-mouthed at the drawing of all those ghostly beings marching across a familiar ruined cityscape. There's a title scrawled above the picture in Gerard's jagged handwriting and it strikes a chord somewhere deep in Frank's gut that makes him shiver: The Black Parade. Gerard follows his gaze and the two of them stare at each other in amazement and disbelief. “You dreamed it too?!” they both gasp at the same time, making the others frown in confusion. “Yeah! And I want to make it real,” Gerard says passionately, “I mean, I think we have to. Right?”
Frank nods slowly, thinking back to that strange shadowy after-life of falling ash and distant drumming. “Yeah,” he agrees, “I think we do.”

At that moment Bob arrives carrying pizza and a crate of beer and stops in his tracks at the sight of the group standing in the doorway. “Hey, is everyone okay?” he asks hopefully, “Is the band still, um... carrying on?”
Gerard winks at Frank and bends down to retrieve the fallen sketchbook and Frank looks around at his friends with cautious excitement, his re-energized brain already creating new guitar riffs and beautiful black and white tributes to Lorna and Anna and every other young life cut too damn short. “Yeah, I think we'll carry on,” he sighs, “But we've got a hell of a lot to talk about first.”

THE END

Notes

((Hello faithful readers who are still reading this waffle, I love you! I'm sorry I had to go away for a while but I always intended to give this weird story a proper little ending so, after many weeks of writer's block and life hurdles I won't bore you with, there it is - and if you don't like it I'm sorry but tough luck! ;)
I'm going to start a brand new story soon so watch this space. xxx))