Keep the Faith
Forest.
Over six years ago, five men created the forest.
Five hearts, five souls, five pairs of eyes—those of Gerard and Mikey Way, Ray Toro, Bob Bryar, and Frank Iero—toiled.
Everywhere they walked, new seeds were planted, and new trees came into being. The plants grew in their love and adoration of the men who had created them, just as much as the men loved them. The five worked endlessly, creating at first naught but a garden. They cared and nurtured the plants until they grew strong.
Weeks, months, years passed, and the garden grew into a forest.
The trees were open and welcoming, warm sunlight forever filtering through the leaves. Strangely, amazingly, the deeper they went, exploring what they had created, the brighter it seemed. It was full of life and light and love. The forest welcomed them in its warm caress, as thanks for being its creators. It was a beautiful partnership, it seemed, and one that would never end.
The five traveled for years, weaving through the trees and vines they had gladly cared for. Every obstacle, the forest would move out of the way, just for them. The path was always clear; food was forever abundant. They were happy traveling and meeting their handiwork.
But it was a bittersweet love. Sometimes the forest flew into a rage of temper. Sometimes the skies turned black, the trees thrashed, and the wind would scream. The very forest itself would attack the five creators, lashing their ankles and faces with vines and decayed leaves. There would never be even a scrap of food to be found during those times, and they would nearly starve.
It all only seemed to happen when something else went wrong. Perhaps when one of the creators tripped. Or when somebody laughed a little too loudly. Simple things that anyone—creator, hero or otherwise—should be able to do. Yet the forest still grew in its mindless fury.
Sometimes they wished they could end it.
But in the end, it would always be calmed, by some outer force; perhaps by the men themselves who fought so hard to stay alive, with heavy hearts that it had betrayed them—but never did they give up or lose any devotion to the forest.
Of course, it was worse when something really did go wrong.
None of the five knew exactly why it occurred. It was irrational, completely irrational—what had they ever done? The entire forest would have never existed without them! Why were they chosen to receive the beatings? Did it really expect all heroes to be perfect?
Was it the forest’s foolishness?
Weeks would pass in this torture, but finally, beams of light and warmth would meet them again, the trees would stop, and all would be calm again. The five would always march on, through the neverending forest, like they had been meant to do.
Until one day, when the simmering rage of the forest grew and burst.
All it was at first was the wind. It was wind that happened to glance through the trees’ leaves and speak in harsh and bitter tones.
“They’ve changed,” it whispered. It was just a few, here and there. At first, it didn’t seem to matter.
At first no one noticed, and kept walking confidently. Yet the infection grew. The sound was closing in on them.
Still it repeated those words. They were lies, all lies…but the forest didn’t know that. It increased in tempo and sound. Just sound, but piercing and blazing with senseless hate.
The creators noticed now. They stopped, huddled on the trail, gazing at the sky and trees.
The wind whipped around them, screaming now.
“They’ve changed…they’ve changed…they’ve changed…”
The five clung close to each other, holding on tightly, but it was all in vain. They had created a monster, a creature that rose up and fought against the creators who, even after all this, had still loved it…
What was it that had driven the forest to swallow the lies? Had it grown arrogant, confident, and mocking? Had it forgotten that without them, it would…?
Five men huddled, fearful of their own following, that night.
And without mercy, hundreds upon hundreds of tendrils snaked after them, driven by thoughtlessness and cruelty against what should have been its other half in creating what should have been a utopia.
Six bodies, six corpses, were lying there at the end of the night.
The five creators, strangled by their own vines, and one forest.
The forest had forgotten that killing the five men ultimately killed itself. The five were its life force, the only thing that kept it alive.
They weren’t gods and they weren’t heroes. They were human beings.
No human being is perfect.
And so in Gerard, Mikey, Frank, Ray and Bob’s times of trial, no matter how small, the same forest of fans which kept them alive had turned against them. The breath left the creators’ bodies, and so the forest’s life left it, too.
It had forgotten how to believe in them.
Five hearts, five souls, five pairs of eyes—those of Gerard and Mikey Way, Ray Toro, Bob Bryar, and Frank Iero—toiled.
Everywhere they walked, new seeds were planted, and new trees came into being. The plants grew in their love and adoration of the men who had created them, just as much as the men loved them. The five worked endlessly, creating at first naught but a garden. They cared and nurtured the plants until they grew strong.
Weeks, months, years passed, and the garden grew into a forest.
The trees were open and welcoming, warm sunlight forever filtering through the leaves. Strangely, amazingly, the deeper they went, exploring what they had created, the brighter it seemed. It was full of life and light and love. The forest welcomed them in its warm caress, as thanks for being its creators. It was a beautiful partnership, it seemed, and one that would never end.
The five traveled for years, weaving through the trees and vines they had gladly cared for. Every obstacle, the forest would move out of the way, just for them. The path was always clear; food was forever abundant. They were happy traveling and meeting their handiwork.
But it was a bittersweet love. Sometimes the forest flew into a rage of temper. Sometimes the skies turned black, the trees thrashed, and the wind would scream. The very forest itself would attack the five creators, lashing their ankles and faces with vines and decayed leaves. There would never be even a scrap of food to be found during those times, and they would nearly starve.
It all only seemed to happen when something else went wrong. Perhaps when one of the creators tripped. Or when somebody laughed a little too loudly. Simple things that anyone—creator, hero or otherwise—should be able to do. Yet the forest still grew in its mindless fury.
Sometimes they wished they could end it.
But in the end, it would always be calmed, by some outer force; perhaps by the men themselves who fought so hard to stay alive, with heavy hearts that it had betrayed them—but never did they give up or lose any devotion to the forest.
Of course, it was worse when something really did go wrong.
None of the five knew exactly why it occurred. It was irrational, completely irrational—what had they ever done? The entire forest would have never existed without them! Why were they chosen to receive the beatings? Did it really expect all heroes to be perfect?
Was it the forest’s foolishness?
Weeks would pass in this torture, but finally, beams of light and warmth would meet them again, the trees would stop, and all would be calm again. The five would always march on, through the neverending forest, like they had been meant to do.
Until one day, when the simmering rage of the forest grew and burst.
All it was at first was the wind. It was wind that happened to glance through the trees’ leaves and speak in harsh and bitter tones.
“They’ve changed,” it whispered. It was just a few, here and there. At first, it didn’t seem to matter.
At first no one noticed, and kept walking confidently. Yet the infection grew. The sound was closing in on them.
Still it repeated those words. They were lies, all lies…but the forest didn’t know that. It increased in tempo and sound. Just sound, but piercing and blazing with senseless hate.
The creators noticed now. They stopped, huddled on the trail, gazing at the sky and trees.
The wind whipped around them, screaming now.
“They’ve changed…they’ve changed…they’ve changed…”
The five clung close to each other, holding on tightly, but it was all in vain. They had created a monster, a creature that rose up and fought against the creators who, even after all this, had still loved it…
What was it that had driven the forest to swallow the lies? Had it grown arrogant, confident, and mocking? Had it forgotten that without them, it would…?
Five men huddled, fearful of their own following, that night.
And without mercy, hundreds upon hundreds of tendrils snaked after them, driven by thoughtlessness and cruelty against what should have been its other half in creating what should have been a utopia.
Six bodies, six corpses, were lying there at the end of the night.
The five creators, strangled by their own vines, and one forest.
The forest had forgotten that killing the five men ultimately killed itself. The five were its life force, the only thing that kept it alive.
They weren’t gods and they weren’t heroes. They were human beings.
No human being is perfect.
And so in Gerard, Mikey, Frank, Ray and Bob’s times of trial, no matter how small, the same forest of fans which kept them alive had turned against them. The breath left the creators’ bodies, and so the forest’s life left it, too.
It had forgotten how to believe in them.