Keep the Faith

Rumor-Sharpened Daggers

It seemed everything had changed from what it had originally been. The words of praise, the smiles and yells of encouragement had morphed. The words were now contemptible, scorning the once-adored heroes. Their faces transformed into those of disgust and vile rumors flitted from their tainted lips, damning their bodies to the very dirt. More and more people looked down upon them, shaking their heads in disappointment, spreading scornful untrue stories.

"He's back on drugs," they whispered behind hands. "He doesn't care about the fans anymore. He's just obsessed with fame." The comments never stopped; they never ceased to try to bring him down to the ground. "Sell-outs, the lot of them." They can do nothing, can say nothing, to contradict the rumors fluttering madly around their minds. They can only put on cracked smiles, trying hard to brave the world crumbling around them in a tumult of dust and smoke.

At the beginning, everything had been so much simpler despite the countless obstacles they faced on a daily basis. When they merely played in stank, musty basements with a smattering of kids, it seemed everything was much better. They could smile, dancing close to those devoted ones that screamed out the lyrics. They could brush their skin against those who adored them for who they were, no matter what their situation was.

This changed almost overnight. Suddenly, as it seemed they were on top of the world, conquering every challenge, winning the hearts of so many, they began to slip. It took one simple change of image, one little heartfelt idea, to make people turn on them. It took just one concept, a beautiful concept, to make the rumors begin. "They're not the same," they whispered, "They changed for the worse." They braved the stinging comments, touring the world for those that still cared.

The number began dwindling and, despite the multitude of young people belting out the words to their songs, the vile words still reached their ears. "Arrogant!" they shouted with abandon, sneers twisting their lips. "Drunk!"

His eyes flutter closed, his voice faltering on that one line, "I'm just a man; I'm not a hero." He whispers it into the microphone held before his chapped lips, "I'm just a boy..." He trails off, the microphone dropping from his limp hand onto the cold stage. The words ring in his ears, deafening him. He cannot hear anything; he's oblivious to the small amount of encouragement poured upon him from the audience, the words of reassurance his friends say into his ear. He can only hear the rumors buzzing around him, striking harsh invisible blows to his faltering heart.

There are permanent dark circles under his eyes caused by the constant exhaustion. They are no longer an illusion from the copious amounts of make-up he wears. The exhaustion grows greater with each restless night, his mind on the passing looks and disappointed faces he must endure every day. Tears grow in his aching eyes and the smile he wears chips and fades away. Were it not for his friends, family and the woman he loved, he would no longer be alive, striding across the stage each night.

They don't see the internal struggle he must face or the obstacles he must overcome each day of his life. They only see the lies surrounding him, the attitude he adopts to overcome his painful emotions. If he didn't do this, if he didn't act as if everything was fine, he would crumble into a heap on the unforgiving ground. So he carries on, trying hard to face the world with a smile on his trembling lips. It's not for him; the smile is for everyone who still defends him. And slowly, that smile is fading, crashing from his lips as the hope shatters in his head.

His friends comfort him, bags developing under their eyes as they too face the ever-growing onslaught of criticism. He immerses himself in his artwork, the comic he must keep running, the songs he must write for the next album. Still, he cannot ignore the blades digging into his side, pushing in deeper and deeper with each word. Frantically, he tries to rip the daggers from his delicate flesh, desperation replacing the blood cells in his thin veins.

His hands slip on the handles and each time a knife is pulled out even a centimeter, a hand appears to dig it in another inch. And he gives up trying, gives up trying to make others believe in him. He simply continues, zombie-like, screaming the words to their songs with barely any emotion. They don't want what he offers; they don't want his tortured mind and bleeding heart. They don't want him. So he offers his shell, screaming to them to take it because he no longer needs it. They jump at the offer, grabbing the vestiges of his being, tearing it mercilessly into shreds.

And he shatters like silk before those who love him. Rips and tears form at his seams, dismantling him. There is nothing anyone can do to repair him and he remains broken, the threads that used to hold him together fraying. His friends try desperately to bring him together, to make him the man he used to be. He cannot be helped and he begins to slip through their fingers like sand.

"Failure," those appalling creatures hiss, staring down at his prone body lying on the ground. "Failure," they hiss, kicking his ribs until they become bruised and broken, blood running down his torn body. He listens to their words and tries to hide under too-short raven hair, tries to shut out the sounds. "Failure."

"I am..." he agrees softly so they can barely hear him. But still, their faces light in triumphant smiles at the broken man before him. They begin to mock him, their words nipping at his heels as he runs, trying to escape the lies. He cannot and they crash around him in heart-wrenching waves, driving the silver points in deeper. He looks down and sees the rope they have tied around his neck, constricting his air supply. He gasps, tugging desperately at the rope, trying to stop it from choking him.

He doesn't realize the fact that they're holding the end, waiting for him to collapse so they can pull him up into death. He doesn't realize that he can pull it off himself; he doesn't realize that he has the power to ignore their degrading remarks. He falls to his knees, still trying to tear the harsh rope from his tender throat. Finally, he collapses and they pull on the end, choking him.

As his skin turns blue, he reflects on his life, wondering when he became the susceptible human they tortured. He can find no answer to the rumors; can find no reason for them to try to break him. Tears build in his eyes as his tongue begins to become purple, his cheeks bulging. His friends notice him, hanging there with the life dwindling out of him and they cut him down. His body falls to the floor, his insides already rotting from the merciless torture. Coughing, he turns to his side and they gently remove the rope from his neck, throwing it off to the side.

They're not done; they'll never be satisfied until he falls completely and smashes apart. They're not satisfied with shattered silk; they want broken glass. They continue their attacks, their eyes glinting with malice. He cannot see the falsehood in their words; he can only see his past, the mistakes he had made. And so he continues his life, wondering why they cannot simply be happy for the obstacles he had overcome, why they have to push him off the edge. He lays awake in his bunk, staring up at the ceiling, his vision blurring with every passing second.

"So many
Bright lights that cast a shadow
But can I speak?
Is it hard understanding
I'm incomplete?
A life that's so demanding
I get so weak
A love that’s so demanding
I can't speak.
"

His voice is cracked, his words full of the pain and torture they inflict upon him. He turns on his side, gazing intently at the swathe of dark fabric that seals him off from the world. The knives dig deeper into skin, tearing through the veins and tissue that keep him alive. His blood drips out onto the sheets beneath him, mingling with the sweat dripping off his feverish forehead. He's not fine, despite his every reassurance. And human life suddenly seems so very fragile, so very susceptible.

"Gerard?" a voice asks, startling him from his thoughts. He brushes away the tears, putting on a fake smile as he pulls back the curtain.

"Yeah, Frank?" A figure crawls into his bunk, ignoring the fact that there is barely any space for the both of them. Without a word, he offers his short, strong arms to the broken man before him, wrapping him in a tender embrace.

"You're not fine," he whispers into the man's scarred neck.

"Of course I am," the man counters though he returns the embrace, burying his face in the crook of the other's neck. He shakes his head with a sigh, tightening his hold on the man, somehow avoiding the various blades pushed into his side.

"You're not perfect, Gee. You're not invincible; you're not a god. You're a man. But you're an amazing man; you're incredible in your own way. Don't let them break you down; don't let them take you."

"I'm a fucking failure."

"You're not. I'll never let them hurt you." They have. He sighs, recognizing defeat, falling limp in the other's arms. And he dies in the other's arms, his insides already rotted from the abuse. But he'll survive another day despite the lashes he'll receive from so many vile tongues. He'll survive, just barely, for the shining eyes that still smile at him, for the stars that still shimmer in his direction. He'll survive another day if only so he can die another night.
♠ ♠ ♠
Never lose the faith in those who have picked you up and made you who you are.