It's not happening, it can't be happening! I won't let it happen!
It's horrible; watching the lead singer of one of the biggest bands on the planet, the most gentle and caring person ever, and a true artist, die in front of me.
Plus, he's my best mate.
Truthfully, the Black Parade was my worst nightmare. I never told anyone this, of course. I just acted as though it was all great and fine with me. Deep down inside, it scared me shitless.
The artwork revolves around 'The Patient', who has a cancer, and is dieing tragically young in hospital. Now, an idea is reality.
Just after 'The Black Parade' was released, Gerard got diagnosed with leukaemia.
He took it well, but things changed.
He would write like it was going out of fashion, and would think up songs like they were his last. He cut and dyed his hair back to the long, messy black scruff, and began to permanently wear his sunglasses.
Then the symptoms appeared.
He had purple bruising all up his left arm and legs. His bones ached so much that he was reduced to crutches.
But Gee was still his happy, bouncy talkative self. Occasionally, he would burst into floods of tears, or get angry for no reason. We all grew to adapt to it though.
It was very hard for Mikey, and he never properly smiled anymore. Soon after a depressed mode (when he'd taken his pills), he'd be alright again, and happy for a bit.
Then there was Frankie. Little Frankie, he was just in shock for a month or two. Then, the only noticeable difference was the increase of cigarettes that he smoked.
Lastly, Bob. Bob stuck by Gerard the whole time. He waited on him hand and foot, and never left his side. God bless him.
Gerard has just woken up.
"Hey, dude." He said, as I passed him his crutches.
"Hi." I mutter.
He clanked slowly into the kitchen; me following, holding open doors and helping him down the stairs.
As he ate, I got his syringe ready and rolled up the sleeve of his black p.j top. He just offered me his arm, munching away at his cereal.
I shook it up, and inserted it into the crook of his arm. Gee didn't even flinch, he's so used to it. Well, he has been doing it everyday for the last 6 months.
I pushed down the top of the syringe, and injected the stuff into his bloodstream.
"Alright?" I asked him, as I slid it out, and began to wash it.
"Yeah." He nodded, taking a swig of orange juice.
I sat back down at the wooden table, and lit a cigarette, running a hand through my famous 'Toro Afro'.
Gerard whimpered, and reached out to take a drag of it.
"No, Gee, you're not allowed." I frowned, moving it away from him. He pouted, and went back to his breakfast.
I smoked and he ate in silence, and then I helped Gerard back upstairs. We went into the bathroom, and I ran him a shower, and helped him in. I stood at the curtain, supporting him as he washed his hair.
He stepped out slightly wobbly, and I wrapped a towel around his waist. We went back to his bedroom, and I got him out some clothes.
"What are we doing today?" he asked me, as he pulled on his jeans.
"No doubt Bob will want to see you, so we'll go to his and Mikey's flat. We could go out for lunch too, sound nice?"
"He's in Long Beach for the weekend, for his great aunt's funeral. But to you wanna go for lunch?"
We exited the house, and headed for the apartment that Bob and Mikey share.
"Hey Gee, Hi Ray!" Bob said, hugging us both. Mikey appeared, smiling. He'd obviously taken his anti-depressants today.
We all went inside, and sat down to talk.
"Frank phoned last night." Mikey told us, "Says everything is okay, and the actual funeral is at 5pm today."
"Knowing Frank, he'll probably enjoy it!" Gerard laughed.
Soon, the flat was smoggy from cigarette smoke, released from Mikey and me. We were all chatting together, like it was before the Black Parade...
I watched Ray rush around the kitchen, making dinner for us.
Under his left ear, clamped to his shoulder was the house phone, and he was speaking into it in rapid Spanish.
"Hola, Papa. Que Tal?...Bien, gracias....eh?" He stared at the phone in confusion, and then carried on chopping the carrots. "Lo siento, no estoy libre." Pause, "PAPA!!!" he yelled in exasperation.
I can't understand any Spanish, except hello, goodbye and thank you. I never did it at school. Ray is Â¾ Spanish, though, and both his parents live in Spain. Neither of them speaks English, so he is reduced to his home language when they phone. His first words were 'Como se dice?'!
"No, Papa. Si, Papa....Que? No, lo siento."
"Ray?" I croaked, as he rushed to the fridge.
"Unos momentos, Papa." He told the phone, and switched to English with me.
"What's up, Gee?"
"Pass me a coke."
"No acidy stuff for you, here, have an iced tea." He chucked me a can of peach iced tea, and went back to fast Spanish with the phone.
"Si, Papa. Si, vale. A veces. Adios, Papa." He clicked off the phone.
"What was that about?" I asked, as he heated up our stir fry.
"My mom and dad want me to come visit them for a weekend, back in Spain. I can't go, because I'm looking after you, but my dad really wants to see me."
"I'll stay with someone else." I protested, "Don't let me be a burden."
"I don't wanna go! They'll just lecture me on how I should have a wife and kids at this age."
"You're only 28."