Keep the Faith

Static. White noise. Fear. The screams of a thousand tortured souls fill the air. Silence. The radio whirs on the counter, spitting out garbled words. Lies. "Don't fall; stand up. They can't keep you down." The voice trails into nothing. It was never anything. Bodies writhe in pain on grime-encrusted floors, tears streaming down their fragile skin. You had never meant for this, had you?

Blood pours from wounds on their tender flesh, from their crying eyes. They scream, the yells tearing at their delicate vocal chords. Your vocal chords shall be destroyed, just as his. They beat their fists upon the ground, cursing the Heavens above. But what can the Heavens do to save you, you broken souls? What can Heaven do to lift your weary bodies from the soil? Heaven can't help you now.

They went and destroyed their savior, tumbled him down from the greatest throne. They snapped his heart in pieces and strew it into the sea, wicked laughter pouring from their lips. But do you see how you are now? Do you see how you have murdered yourselves? They laughed as they beat his tender flesh, laughed as bruises marred his porcelain skin. The others tried to help but they fell in the dust as well; they too went under the mercy of their powerful punches. They weren't spared or given an ounce of mercy; they were just as bad as he was.

But do you see what you have done? Do you see how you have destroyed yourselves? Their destruction was amusement; the death of others was entertainment. They had claimed them their heroes, had placed them on the highest pedestal. They had proclaimed them higher than any other human on earth. They had proclaimed their majesty, their utter importance. And then when they grew bored of that, when they lost their faith, they set to work on destruction.

You brought him down from the pedestal. You tore him from his rightful throne. They grabbed his outstretched wrists, pulling on his lithe arms with all their might. Surprised, shocked, he fell to his knees before them. As he kneeled before them, they turned to the others, pushing and shoving them down to the ground beside him. They looked at each other in confusion, in fear. What was this sudden change in attitude? What had they done wrong?

They did nothing wrong. You simply got tired of them. Like rag dolls, they got picked up and thrown around. Their fragile bones snapped under the pressure of the unforgiving ground and their merciless hands. Their laughter filled the air again as they pounced upon their stunned prey. The fans had become predators. The loved had become hunters and suddenly the heroes were the targets.

They had thought those people would protect them but now here they were, destroying them. Here they were now. But for every injury they inflicted upon the five men strewn upon the ground, they also received a wound. They all seemed to forget that when they had placed those five men on their respective pedestals, they had given them their life. They forgot that their life depended on them. Therefore, for every slash on their bodies, it was a slash on theirs.

Destruction hurts, does it not? You should all know this, with the hungry way in which you caused such chaos. Is it still fun for you? Is it still your means of entertainment? They began to drift away, pain contorting their monstrous features. The men were left on the ground, suffering from the injuries inflicted upon them. They moaned in pain, writhed on the ground. But it was nothing compared to the suffering of the ones that had destroyed them.

They went to their homes, calmly turning on the radios, still unaware of the life-threatening injuries adorning their mangled bodies. They were walking corpses. They were the living dead. They went about with their routines, humming tunes to replace the silence ringing in their eardrums. Confused, they turned up the volume and settled down quietly, suddenly able to hear the sounds blasting from the little machines.

The Black Parade is Dead, they proclaim. El Desfile Negro esta muerto. Objects drop from feeble hands. Clatter. Bump. Thud. Roll. They stare in disbelief, unable to grasp the fact that they are the killers. The Black Parade has perished. But it cannot be so! They rise from their seats and collapse to the floor, writhing in sudden pain. The injuries are prominent, the wounds dismantling them.

Their limbs tear themselves from their bodies, ripping at the seams. Shattered silk. Their horrid mouths crack as screams rent their throats. Without their saviors, they cannot live. Without their heroes high atop that marble pedestal, they have no hope of surviving. They realize this now as they lay there, their bodies still jerking. Their nerves are aflame as the radio turns to static. White noise. Silence...

Fear. How can they survive now? How can they pull themselves together when the were the ones to tear themselves apart? Their mangled yells fill the air, ignored by citizens. No one sees them; no one hears them. They are alone now, frightfully alone. Those who still can beat their fists against the ground, asking themselves the reason for this excruciating pain. You're the reason, dears. You're the reason each and every one of you will be dead. Their hearts shudder and stop, the loss of blood much too great for that organ to ever replace it. They die alone, murderers of the worst kind. Traitors

The five beaten men still breathe. Their nostrils can still register the scent of blood, of broken bodies. They are still alive. They feebly struggle to rise, to return to their rightful thrones. They collapse, their exhausted bodies crashing to raise the pale dust. The dust swirls in mists around them, around their beaten bodies. There are people rising along with the dust, all around them. These obscure figures carry tomes in their arms and the tears rolling down their cheeks match those of those five men before them.

They each offer a hand, each offer the surgical steel, light and hope needed to stitch up their horrendous wounds. The men stare at them, confused as to their presence. "Don't fall; stand up. They can't keep you down. We won't let them keep you down." You can survive because they're gone, sugars, like the monsters under your bed. They're gone like the eyes staring at you from the closet door kept ajar. They were simply an illusion; they don't exist. And the hands help them up, fixing their wounds. Their hands heal their injuries; their smiles give them warmth.

They push them back up on their pedestal, replace their weary bodies on the inky pinprick velvet that compose their thrones. They smile again, their faces dry. "You can make it. We'll carry on, if only for you five. Your memory will carry even when you're dead and buried. But for now, you're in all our hearts. We'll carry on to keep the faith."