Keep the Faith
Monument
A flash of thoughts. A memory. An inspiration. Everything that once helped him create music was gone. Perhaps sitting on an empty stage wasn't the best place to be, to think of ideas for new material, but it was the only place at the time. So be it.
Thinking back, he could see everything that had come to pass, right up until this moment. He felt like a leader, an inspiration for many, a hero for the few. He had started out so small and grown into something so large:
Along came a man, a man with a cause, with a purpose. He picked up the rubble of the heart, the mindless fools, and gave them something they never felt before. He gave them hope, and the courage to continue and fight for what they believed in. The man built an empire around his ideals and his dreams. The empire was vast; it spread, contagious, like a disease.
And then the empire fell, just when the man did.
A man can fall because of a mistake.
The man sitting on the stage made many of those himself. He dabbled in the world of alcohol and drugs. He lied to people in the past, twisted his words, hid the truth under the heavy cloak of deception. Not unlike other adults in the country.
But wait, Gerard, you're special. You're not SUPPOSED to be like other adults. Don't you remember?
The man - this Gerard - shook his head and focused on the blank white paper in front of him, pen in hand. Now was not the time to be thinking of things passed.
It's hasn't passed, you know. It's still going on. Your empire, your army, is crumbling beneath you. You know it. You can see it.
It was true. He could see it all of it. The blurbs of messages: "MCR are sellouts," "are THESE TWO really DATING?!?!?" and "what HAPPENED to them" were etched into his mind every time he went to bed, every time he opened his eyes, every time he stared out into the crowd of self-proclaimed "fans" who turned their backs on you once you left your mold.
Tsk, tsk. That's your fault Gerard. Bad boy. You should've known better. You just HAD to go and dye your hair red, you fool. You just HAD to change your sound, to design new costumes, to create new personas. You're not ALLOWED to change, to mold, to develop.
They want you to stay the same, to be the permanent image on that poster in their bedroom.
Don't you dare stray from that image.
But he did. He did, and hell exploded in his face. He couldn't walk into any music store without seeing the magazine covers with his and his friends' faces on it, the glaring words screen printed in bright colors: "IS THIS THE END?"
It is not the end. Not by a long shot.
Silly boy. Denial is a short phase. You'll get over it, don't worry.
Gerard gave a slight cough and shook the cynical voice out of his head, so to speak. He knew his empire was indeed tumbling out from under his feet.
At least it stood for a while. It made an impact, however small it might be.
True. But, then again, the impact didn't last very long, did it now?
"Gerard...?"
He turned towards the source of a new voice, one that was not in his head. It was his younger brother, Mikey, walking out to him from behind the backstage curtain. He was probably finished with his sound check by now.
Poor little thing. He doesn't see the world crashing down around him like you do.
"Yeah?" Gerard answered, his voice hoarse, his tone nonchalant.
You stopped caring about yourself when they did, when they stopped caring about you too.
"We're not on for another two hours. People haven't arrived yet. You wanna go through a quick run-down with the guys? Just to make sure we're up to speed?" Mikey stood next to him.
Gerard shrugged. "Why?"
Mikey's eyes boggled. "So we sound good for tonight's show. We have an entire arena to fill up with kids; we don't wanna disappoint them..."
Too late for that, Michael.
Again ignoring that little voice, Gerard stood up next to his brother.
"Listen Mikey," Gerard sighed. "I know you're not gonna wanna hear this, but it's for your own good." He paused before continuing. "Do you honestly think any of the kids coming here care about the music anymore? 'Cause they don't. They all just want to come so they can see their fallen heroes us guys who they thought could lead them through that dark tunnel called life 'cause we had the fucking flashlight. Everyone loves watching a hero fall, Mikes. Don't deny it. When we were little we always secretly hoped in all those cartoon shows that the hero wouldn't succeed in the end, and that they'd fail. It's just like that now. These kids want to see us fail, just so they can say they've been there and they've seen it. None of them care about the music anymore. Why should we?"
"You know that's not true, Gee," Mikey protested, a hurt look on his face. "I know you know it's not true."
"Don't tell me you haven't read the tabloids lately. They're all about us. Our failure, our demise, how close we are to the end. They're just waiting for us to cross the edge and disappear. They want to see us fail. The music doesn't matter to them anymore."
"Why?"
"Why? Because they don't see the message in them. It's all lies now. They think we're playing with them, that we're just changing our look and attitude because of the money. All we care about is the damn money. They think we've forgotten about them."
He paused, unable to go on. But then, after a moment's silence, he found his voice again.
"And once they thought that, they gave up their faith in us."
With that, Gerard turned his back on his brother.
"You may as well give up tonight too, Mikes. We're not playing a show for fans. They're all gone now. All that's left of them are these empty theater seats."
Thinking back, he could see everything that had come to pass, right up until this moment. He felt like a leader, an inspiration for many, a hero for the few. He had started out so small and grown into something so large:
Along came a man, a man with a cause, with a purpose. He picked up the rubble of the heart, the mindless fools, and gave them something they never felt before. He gave them hope, and the courage to continue and fight for what they believed in. The man built an empire around his ideals and his dreams. The empire was vast; it spread, contagious, like a disease.
And then the empire fell, just when the man did.
A man can fall because of a mistake.
The man sitting on the stage made many of those himself. He dabbled in the world of alcohol and drugs. He lied to people in the past, twisted his words, hid the truth under the heavy cloak of deception. Not unlike other adults in the country.
But wait, Gerard, you're special. You're not SUPPOSED to be like other adults. Don't you remember?
The man - this Gerard - shook his head and focused on the blank white paper in front of him, pen in hand. Now was not the time to be thinking of things passed.
It's hasn't passed, you know. It's still going on. Your empire, your army, is crumbling beneath you. You know it. You can see it.
It was true. He could see it all of it. The blurbs of messages: "MCR are sellouts," "are THESE TWO really DATING?!?!?" and "what HAPPENED to them" were etched into his mind every time he went to bed, every time he opened his eyes, every time he stared out into the crowd of self-proclaimed "fans" who turned their backs on you once you left your mold.
Tsk, tsk. That's your fault Gerard. Bad boy. You should've known better. You just HAD to go and dye your hair red, you fool. You just HAD to change your sound, to design new costumes, to create new personas. You're not ALLOWED to change, to mold, to develop.
They want you to stay the same, to be the permanent image on that poster in their bedroom.
Don't you dare stray from that image.
But he did. He did, and hell exploded in his face. He couldn't walk into any music store without seeing the magazine covers with his and his friends' faces on it, the glaring words screen printed in bright colors: "IS THIS THE END?"
It is not the end. Not by a long shot.
Silly boy. Denial is a short phase. You'll get over it, don't worry.
Gerard gave a slight cough and shook the cynical voice out of his head, so to speak. He knew his empire was indeed tumbling out from under his feet.
At least it stood for a while. It made an impact, however small it might be.
True. But, then again, the impact didn't last very long, did it now?
"Gerard...?"
He turned towards the source of a new voice, one that was not in his head. It was his younger brother, Mikey, walking out to him from behind the backstage curtain. He was probably finished with his sound check by now.
Poor little thing. He doesn't see the world crashing down around him like you do.
"Yeah?" Gerard answered, his voice hoarse, his tone nonchalant.
You stopped caring about yourself when they did, when they stopped caring about you too.
"We're not on for another two hours. People haven't arrived yet. You wanna go through a quick run-down with the guys? Just to make sure we're up to speed?" Mikey stood next to him.
Gerard shrugged. "Why?"
Mikey's eyes boggled. "So we sound good for tonight's show. We have an entire arena to fill up with kids; we don't wanna disappoint them..."
Too late for that, Michael.
Again ignoring that little voice, Gerard stood up next to his brother.
"Listen Mikey," Gerard sighed. "I know you're not gonna wanna hear this, but it's for your own good." He paused before continuing. "Do you honestly think any of the kids coming here care about the music anymore? 'Cause they don't. They all just want to come so they can see their fallen heroes us guys who they thought could lead them through that dark tunnel called life 'cause we had the fucking flashlight. Everyone loves watching a hero fall, Mikes. Don't deny it. When we were little we always secretly hoped in all those cartoon shows that the hero wouldn't succeed in the end, and that they'd fail. It's just like that now. These kids want to see us fail, just so they can say they've been there and they've seen it. None of them care about the music anymore. Why should we?"
"You know that's not true, Gee," Mikey protested, a hurt look on his face. "I know you know it's not true."
"Don't tell me you haven't read the tabloids lately. They're all about us. Our failure, our demise, how close we are to the end. They're just waiting for us to cross the edge and disappear. They want to see us fail. The music doesn't matter to them anymore."
"Why?"
"Why? Because they don't see the message in them. It's all lies now. They think we're playing with them, that we're just changing our look and attitude because of the money. All we care about is the damn money. They think we've forgotten about them."
He paused, unable to go on. But then, after a moment's silence, he found his voice again.
"And once they thought that, they gave up their faith in us."
With that, Gerard turned his back on his brother.
"You may as well give up tonight too, Mikes. We're not playing a show for fans. They're all gone now. All that's left of them are these empty theater seats."