Keep the Faith

Marionette

He was a puppet.

A jerky mess of string and bone, dangling lifelessly from the black-polished fingertips of a teenage nation. Nothing more than a wooden toy hanging over a stage, stiff limbs that would bend and bow as they told him to, performing, singing the words they loved, churning out the despair and angst they fed on. He had fought so hard to lead, to inspire, bending over backwards for them until his vertebrae had strained and cracked, bones crushing and collapsing monstrously inward.

Them. Who were they? Fans. Supporters. Aficionados. Seemingly harmless teenagers with kohl-ringed eyes and hope in their hearts. Such uncertain little misfits his small band of followers seemed at first! Such delicate, lost individuals, fighting for a voice in this vast world.

And he answered their call. A lyrical mish-mash of rosaries and razor blades, ferris wheels and flames, cyanide and champagne. Most dismissed it as a disastrous cacophony, but they – his lost little souls – had patiently deciphered the chords and drum beats, the screeches and wails, and uncovered the deeply buried grace of it all. A dirty, unexpected kind of beauty – a gasoline rainbow, tears collecting on spider eyelashes, the gossamer whisping of cigarette smoke.

But now.

Now.

Metamorphosis had taken place. Their minds twisted and warped, dark thoughts sprouted, and they became something else. Maliglant vultures with boney cartilage beaks, peeling agonizing strips of hot, raw flesh from his body leaving but an empty cage of white carcass, licked clean.

How ironic – the hero who had strived to be so different, to fight against to bland flow of normality was nothing more than a slave chained to the expectations of his followers. He had created them – broken adolescents who blossomed with the help of this strange man, an oddity with black hair and a white face. He had made them believe, given them a little shot of hope in the form of poetry. And so they had risen up gloriously, an ever-growing army of underdogs, all marching the same march, singing the same tune.

A black parade.

And when had it all gone so wrong?

Somewhere, somehow, he had stumbled a little, missed a step in their victory dance. And so they had pounced – he isn’t perfect! – pulling him down from the pedestal they had placed him on, a proud marble statue that cracked and split when it hit the ground.

“What did I do?” he whispered.

Large eyes – so large and full in your bewilderment. I couldn’t look at those eyes – spilling with an aching sorrow that clenched itself around my heart and squeezed it to a pulpy red ball of bitterness. Sometimes, I looked at him and knew exactly why they had mistaken him for an immaculate angel – that porcelain skin, radiating such light that it was easy to imagine it didn’t cloak a meaty mess of flesh and bone. They had pinned all their hopes to him, not knowing that the needles would pierce delicate skin, that pinpricks of blood would surface.

Who could think he was a mere human?

For that was all he was – a man, his soul hiccuped with flaws, stained with sin – nothing more, nothing less.

I’m just a man, I’m not a hero –

It was so blatantly obvious. If only they would fucking listen.

“I... just don’t understand.” Those weary eyes closed slowly. A vein jumps in his temple, a flicker of purple.

“I haven’t... why do they hate me, Frank? Why?”

My jaw clenched so tightly I could hear my teeth crumbling like dusty cement, the rumbling grate of enamel on enamel echoing dully. Anger. Angry at them for their disgusting lies.

And angry at him for being so... so weak.

For needing them. Because if he didn’t keep clinging onto the edge of his glass pedestal, the taunts and slurs would be meaningless. They had once needed him, the savior of the broken, beaten, damned. And now he needed them. He needed someone to save, but his lungs were collapsing under the Superman suit that was slowly tightening its lycra grip, chest heaving, straining, sweating.

Fuck them. How dare they. How dare –

Don’t listen, we told him. Don’t. They’re just kids. They don’t know what they’re saying. Who cares what they think? But the whispers had infected him, parasites of hurt and gossip, worming under his skin. A spreading cancer that wriggled through every vein and artiole like a black, inky sickness, invading every delicately branching capillary of his body.

He’s changed.
Asshole. God, he thinks he’s so hot.
Who does he think he is?
He let me down.
Hate him.
Loser.


What does one do, I wondered, when they are told they are nothing without a greasy mask of face paint and a handful of white pills? What does one do when, after searching for so long, they finally find themself, only to be told to change?
He had risen above his demons, battled and won – “Hey guys, I’ve been clean and sober three years now!” – only to be congratulated with acid sneers and skepticism.

I hear he’s drinking again.
Gerard’s back on drugs. Jesus, he’s so pathetic.


I said something, only because the silence screamed defeat.

“They don’t hate you.”

“Liar.”

His snarling retort was a quick and painless slap across the face. He was right, of course. We were all liars, really. Me. Them, the ones who vowed to never stop believing. And him, for singing such untrue words.

Take a look at me, because I could not care less...

He did care. He cared so deeply it threatened to come retching up his throat, a shot of bile, poisoned by his own integrity. And when that happened, My Chemical Romance would be lost in the wreckage, twisted metal and crushing glass, another band destroyed by the downfall of their splendid frontman. Once a hero, now discarded like a dusty doll, a spidery crack down its china cheek, nylon ringlets tangled. Imperfect. Useless.

“It’s just fans, Gerard. They come and go.”

“I know.”

Eyes closed again, shutters down, wounds sewn shut. My rage was crackling dangerously in the air, ready to lash out at any moment, at anyone. Trash the room. Kick the television. I wondered what he would say if I hit him. I turned towards the door.

“It’s just – “

I stopped but did not turn. His whisper was white noise, a faint buzz of radio static.

“I thought ours were... different. You know? I thought ours were different.”

I! Don’t! Care! We’ll carry on...

The door clicked gently shut behind me.

One day, perhaps everything would be like before. Perhaps their faith would return. And when it did, I knew that he would spring back to life at their first impatient tug on his strings. Once more, he would smile in grateful delight at the cheering, euphoric crowd. He would grab his mike and sing for them, shrieking for a nation, straining against those chains until his vocal chords shredded and bled.

And me?

I would stand behind him, guitar at hand, strumming in time to his shrieks. Their roars of adoration would fill my ears but I would not smile. He would beam and laugh and wink at a new audience every night, but never again would I throw myself into the music and rejoice with them.

Never.

Because whenever I would look at them, those joyous teenagers, fists pumping, all I would see were fucking predators with gleaming teeth and glistening eyes, feeding on a worn and faded man.

And never again, and never again, they gave us two shots to the back of the head, and we’re

all

dead

now.