The Black Parade

Teenagers

Koutali remembered being a teenager probably a bit too well. He spent most of his time working the restaurant and doing dirty work for Mr. Pascarelli, but he also remembered going out on the town at night in his tight skinny jeans and a leather jacket, and he remembered thinking he was so cool. Those goofy round glasses and a cigarette in his mouth completed the look, and he would spend Friday nights after school by the river where all the other people his age hung out.

Things weren't always all bad. Despite grappling with school, the restaurant, Mr. Pascarelli and his goons, and his identity, he found a way to let himself unwind, even if it meant smoking cigarettes around other teenagers. Nights like these temporarily let him think things were fine. People talked to him and he'd joke around and let himself act his age, be a kid, not worry about keeping his family's entire restaurant afloat. At this point people had grown past the age of caring about who he was or what he looked like or whether he was a boy or girl or neither. It was warm. It was nice. It was fun.

But then, of course, Saturdays meant more work. An all-day shift at the restaurant on their busiest day, where he had to hang up the jacket and put on his apron, once again being ordered by tourists and locals alike. It was all part of everything, though. This was just how life was meant to be.

One day, he had heard whispers from the mafia of a bad deal with a foreigner that had come from England. Naturally, he had orders. Tasteless and odorless. That's what it was.

The target was rather pleasant and, despite having poor Italian, was still polite and tried to be as nice as he could. Koutali found it amusing, despite his nervousness. When the man made conversation with him, he silently thanked the saints above that the man was talkative enough to prolong his own demise. When Koutali went to fetch his order and plant the toxin, the man's demeanor had changed and they made eye contact with each other. He knew. They both knew.

The man asked Koutali to send the food back with the excuse that he didn't ask for garlic. Koutali failed to take care of him. Mr. Pascarelli would see to it he got the punishment he deserved.

Victor spent his teenage years at work just like Koutali. With Admiral at his side, he finally felt safe, that no harm would come to him even from the nastiest of foes. He was still ever-hungry, but so was everybody else. Now Victor no longer had imminent abuse looming over him at every turn, like a snake waiting for the perfect moment to make its next strike.

He'd learnt to embrace working for the Antiochs. That was what destiny held for him, and that was what he was going to do. However, at night, there was one thing he liked to do. A cathedral sat on the edge of the small mining town, and after a long day of work, he would sneak out and break into the church, sitting down at the pipe organ and trying to play.

The church had plenty of recordings of different organ pieces, mostly religious, but with a few from Broadway musicals, like the Phantom of the Opera. There was nobody around to teach him to read the sheet music, but with enough playing around and listening to the recordings, he started to teach himself to play. How he loved the lonesome, hollow sound the pipes made, and almost felt as if the instrument sounded how he did. Mournful, somber. It was perfect.

As time went on he dove into more difficult music. Pieces that required the footpedals, pieces that were faster than he could imagine written on a music sheet. Victor loved how it sounded. He loved pouring his heart, his soul, himself into an instrument, letting the music take him elsewhere, even if just for a while. When he sat on the bench, he was a god able to create anything he wanted. Any tune, any chord, all at his fingertips. He was in control. And it felt heavenly.