Keep the Faith

It was simple really...
He lost his voice.

Gerard Way was voiceless; no cries, no sobs; no sound.
Just tears, tears, tears, tears of blood pouring endlessly out of his singsong throat.
His band mates tried to fix him; to drug him back to the mess he was.
Nothing worked; the pain was gone but the hurt was rotting within his blank eyes; she had ripped out his throat with her daggers of metal and sound.
With nails of iron she had dug into his throat and bit into flesh and fragile bones and grazed out the bloody organs and unseen traits of his soul to smear them on the grounds in front of the eyes of his dearly beloved; underneath the glow of the demanding hungry lights.

Almost half his age and they surpass his knowledge; his mind; no-one could tell what were the intricacies writhing within those adolescent minds; those frightening deadpan minds hidden behind silent-scream eyes.
She tore the beautiful singsong chords right in front of terrified hazels, blood gushing from teeth and splattered gasps.

Talk! Yell! Scream! Whimper!
No use...

He sat back watching his relapse sink deeper into his chest as drugs kiss away his throat and mute tears.
Sad, sad boy... Nurses would whisper oblivious to his yearning ears; but the only voice he wanted to be heard was his own.

He remembered the rapid glare in her eyes while she tore his reason to live to red fleshy shreds as other looks were nothing but frightened, enraged or plain blank.

Music doesn't mean a thing if you can't sing it...

The thought of the hollow space within his stiffening neck struggling to be healed, patched with plastic and tubes keeping him physically alive but mentally killing him with each surge of medicated relief.

So this is how it ends? Just like how it started?
The only difference is that blood tastes sweeter, sweeter that victory; fate's cruel jokes; to remind him of the bitterness before; the rust leaking from his pride?

It was all eyes on you, hero.
Silent hero.

Haze softly took his mind and sung the fall out of his head; scribbled on the labels of medical materials and colored in the lines; a dose of faith, one of passion, an endless amount of belief and one simple hero.
Silent hero.

He couldn't talk, chirp, cure out his creations anymore; he's stuck in a nightmare that doesn't fade away with the sun's radiant smiles uncovering the night sky. The lights went out onstage and offstage along with his shouts and the horrific shrieks from below.

Acid memories hung to the lids of his eyes savoring the inflicted harm upon his weary havocked thoughts; and the sounds...
They were too much to bear; songs, shouts, yells, dirty vile swears; all were too much, destructive, passive, sharp or childish... too much.

It all fell back to his gaping mind as his hands felt the bloody over-sized bandage riding up his neck and engulfing the hollowness that mirrored his own now so perfectly.
Even sobbing hurt; soundless small pathetic sobs.
They'll leave again; they'll break and fall apart upon the sound of crashing silence.
Even when he was offered machines to help him gain the ability of speech once more, he'd refuse with vigorous nods and hurt glances.
No gadget will replace the gift that crouched within his now useless throat. Full of secrets, full of lies, full of love words, words of every sort.

He's already half way down, drugs and meds infesting the crawling veins groping his heart and the haze circulating his ridiculed mind.
Of course, he still had that smile, he still had those eyes; those still cried out with emotion as well but they couldn't be heard; they couldn't be taken and worshiped like the bleeding pitches seeping of now undusted speakers and dirty overused earphones.

How can they grapple their faith if it's all silent dead pieces of torn flesh and muscles, decomposing in a dumpster somewhere? How can they move on when their champion was hit under the belt within a match he never knew existed?
The battle within the lethal look scrambling in her eyes.

It was a new kind of look; not a hateful one, not even particularly angry; it was more like an insane taunting grin that almost contoured all his attention, even grasping particles of mind-shredding pain, trying to wallow in the sea of heavy emotion flowing to his hazels. The crimson mess staining his ivory neck and disfiguring whatever word scribbled on his neck that night, didn't even cross his mind as it struck him; the rage, the disdain... fandom at its worst; at its highest; at its most dangerous sharpened point.

The higher they raise him up, the lower they pull him down to lengths human ego can't believe nor handle.
They broke the globe that contained the glitter and liquid crystalline clear swirls creating that enthralling aura gloating in his smiles and wavering pitch as he fluctuates dangling the emotions back and forth between the microphone and his split open heart.
Shivers would shoot down his spine like runaway children whenever he tired to swallow, cry or even just fucking say.

He had been demoted; he lost the key leading to the heart of millions; the way paved by smiles and cheers.
He was deprived from his own fucking voice.
Stolen; it had been stolen.

The saddest thing is that he didn't even get the chance to scream as he fell; he just died again and again.
Did the heavens send her? Just as a big angry hush?

Sad, sad boy... Nurses would whisper behind glass shields and glass hearts. They watched him cry as he breaks and he watched them break as he cries. If only their fragile hearts could stab him with their unyielding words instead of his own flailing verses and poetry...

He's lying to himself, believing the bed time stories the anesthetics are weaving, like a little child, smitten with awe, composing vibrant images of the happily ever after; the monsters crawling in deformed lines within the depths of his mind...

Believe, child. Will these colors ever trick you?

And those tales dragged him down, down and down.

Jet black lies corroded his mind along with silence; even his thoughts were robbed of their voice. It's all inane spheres within his head; abandoned leftover thoughts lay around gasping for sought breaths.
Those skeptic voices flashing to torment his mind were gone; no songs to sing, no doubt to wrestle.

Sad, sad man... The nurses would mutter observing the frail deformed ink of the letter within his shaky fingers.

Hero, hero, hero, hero don't cry. Tears will run out then you'll bleed.
Don't bleed, hero.

The crushed paper sent more tears tearing his eye apart as the words ran by his eyes over and over.

Hero, hero, hero; nobody used hero to describe him ever since he was close to the edge again.
Those words were too pretty to mutter out loud and for that he was thankful.

Hush, hero; you live inside our hearts, not our speakers.
That word again...

Feelings twisted and wrenched within his fingers and trembles as the nameless sheet of paper rested on the mingled bed-linens softly as he just... stared at it now.
Headaches attacked in a much more violent manner, triggering the flood of hot tiresome indignant drops, eventually thinning out to delicate streams almost interlacing with the protruding green of the wiry veins scattered across his face like scrawny roots invading exhausted hopeless deserts.

Silence kissed his lips tenderly again as his breaths faded out; dead sounds dangled from his lips and rotted to the ground, numb thank you's and oh's laying languid on the floors.

Tremble, tremble, tremble...

Tiny paper-cut engravings caressed his hands as he cascaded into waterfalls and swamps of confusion; hero, hero, hero... why would anyone call him that?
Hush, hero.

Irony? Hush?

He just learned a new word and can't say it. Pity, the letters sound like they were coined to pour from his wax lips, melt them away; melt all the useless parts now.
They can't sing, they won't kiss, what's the use?
Ripped apart by teeth, actually ripped apart. They didn't get the chance to sing to his children; they didn't get a chance to see the miniature hazels stare back at him polished with laughs and giggles as his voice lulls them to slumber.

Heroes don't cry.

Well, heroes aren't human. He scribbles on to the crushed paper's aching back.
Heroes aren't silent; rage cleaved his fingers; heroes have a fucking voice!
They CRASH! They BREAK! They SCREAM! They suffer!
They're not humans.
They never lose their voice.

New words, new revelations; old silence, old memories.
Numb crusted memories sleeping on the corner of his lips hushing him to smiles; unwanted smiles.

Can't talk, can't protest.

They mocked him in his face, their voices swung smashing against his eardrums loud and white-hot. It hurts to listen, it hurts to listen, it hurts to listen...
No right to listen.

Blustering fiery blue splatters on wild cherry red pouring, pouring, pouring.
The gentle delicate fingers of cold press against his lips:

Hush, hero.
You'll dry.