Keep the Faith
"Just Men; Not Heroes."
The lights died down and he walked off the stage, letting the microphone swing and swivel off the stand, only for it fall to the floor. He was the imperfection that so many young women lusted for, even some men. He had “it,” it seemed. He had the walk, the talk, the talents, and charisma. He had the goofy laugh and cheesy grin, the profession and friends, and loving family.
Yet he didn’t need – nor want – any of that.
He could have done perfectly fine with a wife, his brother and friends, and his family somewhere back home. But he chose to do something… productive. Was that the word? “Productive” made it seem like he had wasted his life slaving away for that corporation, drawing and drawing, getting coffee for executives, and trying so hard to make it to the top.
The mighty have to fall sooner or later.
And so, he decided to do something that truly would help people. If you looked at him now, you would see a hero, not a man. The complete opposite of that song that thousands among thousands of teenagers listened to, attempting to decipher the lyrics and tear apart the chords in order to find deep meaning amongst the multiple metaphors.
Lighting up a cigarette as he strolled down the hall, passing dressing room doors and conversing with his companions, his ears perked up at the familiar sound of impatient fans, waiting for him to appear and fulfill their wishes of meeting him, or them.
His heart began to rush, his pulse increasing as the old fear struck again like a lightning bolt. He shivered and placed an arm around his brother in a sort of introverted way of pleading for protection from those monsters.
It’ll be alright. You’ve survived all those other nights before this one, he thought desperately.
The door leading outside lurched open, revealing a group of teenagers screaming at the sudden burst of light and silhouettes; but the excitement died down a bit when he walked out. It seemed halfhearted and bitter, and mutterings; whispers accompanied the screeches.
“I heard he’s back on drugs.”
“Come on, Anna, don’t think like that. He’d never do that.”
“But he’s dating Lyn-Z now. And I heard she’s getting him into booze and stuff now.”
“Wow… what a bitch.”
His body shook and his eyes averted everyone’s gaze, suddenly feeling self-conscious and betrayed. His hearing seemed to have intensified by now, hearing all of those rumors and such being thrown out into the open, voiced and heard, not just seen on some computer monitor.
“He didn’t even say ‘Hi’ to me.”
“He’s not the same anymore.”
“Liar…”
“Bastard…”
“Whoa… I think I smelt alcohol on his breath.”
“Really? Me too. He’s not the savior that I once knew now…”
It all echoed and reverted on the walls of his skull. Had he changed? Had he become some sort of rock and roll clone that he had said he’d hated? He was clean and sober still, and he had found love. True love; the kind you saw in romantic comedies. He was working hard on his comic book, and on the next album.
Was he the kind of person people so very loved to hate?
He supposed he was. But it didn’t stop the stinging of those comments to go unnoticed.
Being pulled away by the bodyguard after fifteen minutes of torture, he turned and walked away, his eyes still staring at the ground, biting his lip in a desperate try not to yell out. But as he did, he heard a piercing argument.
“He’s not back on drugs! If you had any sense of trust you would know that!”
“Well he’s definitely changed! They all have! They’re not the same anymore!”
“What do you expect?! They’re not the same inexperienced men like before! They’re happier, comfortable with where they are, and successful. If you can’t be supportive of that, then why the hell are you here?” The person in question took a slight pause before continuing. “They aren’t immortal or perfect. Why can’t you see that? They make mistakes, they have scars too, they have pasts, but what you need to worry about is the present. How badly you can hurt someone with words or expressions.”
And before he could turn around to look at the man or woman, girl or boy, whoever it was, they added one last thing.
“It’s just like the song says: They’re just men, not heroes…”
Yet he didn’t need – nor want – any of that.
He could have done perfectly fine with a wife, his brother and friends, and his family somewhere back home. But he chose to do something… productive. Was that the word? “Productive” made it seem like he had wasted his life slaving away for that corporation, drawing and drawing, getting coffee for executives, and trying so hard to make it to the top.
The mighty have to fall sooner or later.
And so, he decided to do something that truly would help people. If you looked at him now, you would see a hero, not a man. The complete opposite of that song that thousands among thousands of teenagers listened to, attempting to decipher the lyrics and tear apart the chords in order to find deep meaning amongst the multiple metaphors.
Lighting up a cigarette as he strolled down the hall, passing dressing room doors and conversing with his companions, his ears perked up at the familiar sound of impatient fans, waiting for him to appear and fulfill their wishes of meeting him, or them.
His heart began to rush, his pulse increasing as the old fear struck again like a lightning bolt. He shivered and placed an arm around his brother in a sort of introverted way of pleading for protection from those monsters.
It’ll be alright. You’ve survived all those other nights before this one, he thought desperately.
The door leading outside lurched open, revealing a group of teenagers screaming at the sudden burst of light and silhouettes; but the excitement died down a bit when he walked out. It seemed halfhearted and bitter, and mutterings; whispers accompanied the screeches.
“I heard he’s back on drugs.”
“Come on, Anna, don’t think like that. He’d never do that.”
“But he’s dating Lyn-Z now. And I heard she’s getting him into booze and stuff now.”
“Wow… what a bitch.”
His body shook and his eyes averted everyone’s gaze, suddenly feeling self-conscious and betrayed. His hearing seemed to have intensified by now, hearing all of those rumors and such being thrown out into the open, voiced and heard, not just seen on some computer monitor.
“He didn’t even say ‘Hi’ to me.”
“He’s not the same anymore.”
“Liar…”
“Bastard…”
“Whoa… I think I smelt alcohol on his breath.”
“Really? Me too. He’s not the savior that I once knew now…”
It all echoed and reverted on the walls of his skull. Had he changed? Had he become some sort of rock and roll clone that he had said he’d hated? He was clean and sober still, and he had found love. True love; the kind you saw in romantic comedies. He was working hard on his comic book, and on the next album.
Was he the kind of person people so very loved to hate?
He supposed he was. But it didn’t stop the stinging of those comments to go unnoticed.
Being pulled away by the bodyguard after fifteen minutes of torture, he turned and walked away, his eyes still staring at the ground, biting his lip in a desperate try not to yell out. But as he did, he heard a piercing argument.
“He’s not back on drugs! If you had any sense of trust you would know that!”
“Well he’s definitely changed! They all have! They’re not the same anymore!”
“What do you expect?! They’re not the same inexperienced men like before! They’re happier, comfortable with where they are, and successful. If you can’t be supportive of that, then why the hell are you here?” The person in question took a slight pause before continuing. “They aren’t immortal or perfect. Why can’t you see that? They make mistakes, they have scars too, they have pasts, but what you need to worry about is the present. How badly you can hurt someone with words or expressions.”
And before he could turn around to look at the man or woman, girl or boy, whoever it was, they added one last thing.
“It’s just like the song says: They’re just men, not heroes…”