The Black Parade

Chapter Two

7 years later

The boy is 17, it had been a struggle to get this far in life, fighting though bullying, abuse, social workers and countless foster homes, he became even more withdrawn and half mute.  "Is there anything you want to talk about specifically today?" asked the psychiatrist gently, her eyes soft. The boy looked around the room, it was makeshift with thin walls, a shabby blind and a dirty plastic playhouse in the corner. The walls were shades of dull grey and black from his perspective, but he liked to imagine them to be bright and lively, perhaps yellow, although in reality he knew they must be something akin to the sallow blue that had once adorned his childhood home. He let out a long sigh and shook his head, keeping his eyes down.

"You've been more quiet then usual during our last few sessions" she remarked. "Can you tell me why?" she nudged, trying to get a response from the boy. This young man was one of her most difficult patients, it was so difficult to get anything out of him, and when she did it was often hard to understand or out of context from their discussion and so held little insight into his thinking. She had been worried about the possibility of a second suicide attempt, as the boy seemed to be at a low point in his illness and was showing no sign that he wanted to recover.

"Perhaps you should re-decorate" answered the boy, so quietly he was almost inaudible. "I don't like the colour"

The psychiatrist smiled slightly, well aware that the boy couldn't see any colour. Accepting that she was not going to get an answer to her question, she tried a new one. "How are you feeling today? What have you been up to lately?" It was a long shot, seeing as the boy shut himself away in his room everyday, but she tried it anyway.

"I played the guitar" stated the boy flatly, dodging her first question.

She was surprised at this, he rarely said this much in a session, so she jumped at the chance to get him to elaborate. "Really? I didn't know you played guitar, what type?"

"Electric"

"That's good! What type of music do you play? Do you enjoy playing your guitar?" She bombarded him with questions, getting excited. He had never mentioned a hobby before.

"Rock." the boy replied, letting his guard down to smile slightly at the thought. "I do. Not as much as a used to though."

"Why not?"

"Things are different now." and as quickly as that the small spark of conversation was extinguished, the boys face becoming blank and unresponsive once again. The psychiatrist was disappointed, but still pleased with the progress she had made with the boy, that was more than she had managed to squeeze out of him in months. She let the silence stretch for a while, studying the young man sat before her. The lack of pigment in his skin and hair was striking, his face looked as if it was sculpted from ice, framing his dark eyes that were shadowed by drifts of deep purple, betraying many sleepless nights. The more she looked at him the more he unnerved her and she fidgeted slightly as the hair begun to stand up on the back of her neck. She knew it was stupid, he was harmless -vulnerable even, but she just couldn't shake that strange feeling she got when in sessions with the boy. It was in the way he sat, the way he spoke...flat, unemotional, distant...he seemed to understand, to know things in a disturbing manner.

"How are you fitting in with your new foster parents? I understand you have a younger sibling now too, how do you feel about that?" this time she didn't expect an answer,the boy was extremely introverted but she had to fill the time and try and help him all the same. As expected the boy shrugged and stared at the floor. She watched his hand massage his chest and wondered what ailed him this time, the boy had always been sickly and she wondered if something was left undiagnosed beneath the surface. Being albino often came attached with other health conditions. "Have you been using the coping mechanisms I taught you in our last session?" she asked "Can you tell me what we do when you have a hallucination?" she waited.

He mumbled "breathe" paused and then continued "distraction, phone you, listen to music and um..." he tailed off large eyes glancing up at her briefly for help.

"Well done!" she realised that she had begun to break though his shell. This happened every now and again, they would have a great conversation and then on his next visit he wouldn't say a word. "You could also do some exercise" she smiled at the disgusted face this prompted. "oh and what about your art? You like drawing don't you?"  He nodded, betraying enthusiasm with a smile. "What do you draw?"

"Superheros" he murmured "Comic books"

"Lovely, what kind of superhero?"

"Lots of different ones" he evaded the question "I put them in stories" he coughed slightly grabbing his side and grimacing.

"That sounds entertaining" she said, making a note and thinking about what this might mean. "Are you okay? You seem to be in pain"

The boy nodded looking her right in the eye for the first time and then cried out, falling forward from his chair to a hunched position on all fours, clutching his chest. The boy writhed in agony, his marble features panicked and contorted.  The psychiatrist jumped at his sudden movement, unprepared for such an outburst . She went to the floor and tried to communicate with the boy, addressing him by first name, sternly trying to take control of the situation. She tried to stay calm but gradually failed, betraying her anxiety  as voice trembled slightly. "What's wrong?"

Her patient only shook his head, gulping air frantically, eyes wide and staring at the floor. He clutched his chest in one hand and the other went up to hide his face, clawing at his forehead. She quickly ruled out the possibility of an psychotic episode, attributing it to panic attack as she observed his symptoms, confident it wasn't anything she couldn't deal with, she moved towards him slowly, arms out,  trying to console him. 

But before she could touch him, the boy's eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed forward, limbs shaking violently in seizure. Frightened, the psychiatrist quickly tried to pin his arms down to prevent him putting anymore scratches on his face while yelling for assistance.  Quickly the small conference room was filled with staff, all frantically trying to help the young boy who shook violently on the floor.

An ambulance was called and soon the room was awash with splashes of blue and red, glowing in the gathering dusk. Unbeknownst to the paramedics who carried the limp boy on a stretcher into the vehicle, he was conscious and could see the colour of the flashing lights, bathing the clinic in a flashing display of urgency.

The boy closed his eyes as the engine was started and the ear splitting scream of the sirens began. Gradually his world bled into darkness.