Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > The Echo Never Fades
Start the song whenever. I'm sensing a pattern here...
http://www.fileden.com/files/2007/4/19/999693/Rainstorm.mp3
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It's raining today. Gray, silver, metallic...whatever you make of it, it's still rain.
I'm watching it through a window on the second floor of the theater. I already saw most of the rest of this place, and I know what it looks like. Dull, slate-blue shadows and light. Dead-looking. A watery, navy blue-gray speckled with silver.
All a bit too light-hearted for me. So I found the nearest flight of stairs and came up here.
As I climbed the stairs, I could see darkness spilling from the upper floor like a cloud of ink, as if the ink had been spilled into water and curled through it like poison. Some kind of fog, maybe. Something that would blot out my vision.
Maybe even something so dark it would blot out the memories.
When I got up here I could barely see. I ran into the wall more than once because it was so dark; the clear-cut lines defining the difference between wall, ceiling, floor, and door had not yet made themselves known to my eyes. At first I thought it was exactly what I needed, but then I remembered the darkness of the Paramour.
And when I remembered the Paramour, I remembered Gerard. I remembered him staying in his room at all hours of the day and night, screaming that he was going to drown himself. I remembered him wandering around the mansion like a ghost, putting himself through torture and misery - all for his fans. I remember how the hours blended into days and nights and everything in between, until time just lost its meaning within the dark walls.
Now, as I look around this room, seeing it highlighted by the gray glow of the rain, I see so many similarities between this theater and the Paramour that it sends warning signals to my brain. But I don't run. You can never run from the rain.
Pieces of paper are scattered everywhere. I see empty jars of ink - how old is this place? - lying on the floor, their remains spilled out on the wood and chipped away like paint. Maybe that's where all the darkness came from. A small tornado swept through here, ruining someone's masterpieces and taking all the ink and filling every space with it, until everything just became black. Or blue. A dark navy color, just narrowly highlighted with bits of silver light from the rain outside this small window.
I never did understand why Ray was so quick to try and get us a new singer. It didn't make sense to me. I could understand if he was worried about the fans...well, at the time, I guess I couldn't. The first time he told me we needed a new singer, I told him Gerard could never be replaced and there was no way around that. He said we had to think of the fans and how much they depended on us.
So I told him, "Well they're all killing themselves anyway. Pretty soon none of 'em will be left and we won't have anything to worry about."
I never knew Ray could punch anyone with so much force. He broke my nose with a single blow. I deserved it. I deserve it again. I can't believe I said something so stupid.
And I know he hates me for what I did to the shooter. But to me, that man wasn't a person. He was no human being, for no human could have killed such a beautiful person. He was a murderous creature, an animal, as far as I was concerned. And that animal had killed my best friend. I hunted him down like a predator going for prey. I remember every single blow, and how he didn't even fight back. It was like he knew he had it coming.
I can see a desk in one corner of this room. The wood is old, faded, and slightly silvered, though it could just be the lighting. I walk over to it and slide one hand across its surface. It's completely worn and smooth. I wonder how long it's been here. There is a word crudely etched into one corner, with several thin splinters sticking up from it as if in protection. I can barely read what it says because of the shadows falling across it.
It's not a word at all, but in fact someone's initials.
GW
I back away from it as my heart rate shoots through the roof. Gerard. It's Gerard's initials and I know it. Because only he would ever think of doing something like that.
The rain continues to pound against the window relentlessly. It almost looks like little droplets of silver-white light are falling from the sky, committing suicide against the pane of glass. Thunder growls deep within the clouds like a monster just awakening from its sleep. And I know the rain is only going to worsen.
Gerard was like the rain. Pale and sad and beautiful. Sometimes like a monster that had just awakened from its sleep and unleashed its full raging fury on large crowds of people who screamed at its presence. Other times like a few soft, frozen snow clouds...delicate, cold, and so easily breakable.
Still other times, such as in the quiet lulls between morning and concerts, like a single drop of brilliant gleaming silver that looks white, running into a solid object with full force, only to slide to the floor and shatter, releasing thousands of droplets of water. Like every time he would finally let the madness and the darkness overtake him, he would run into the nearest brick wall and pound his fists against it, finally sliding to the floor as flecks of blood appeared on his hands. He would break down and cry so hard that I worried he would die of dehydration as countless droplets and pools of water formed around him.
But when he was in front of the fans...he was beautiful. Beautiful and perfect. Pale under the unnaturally bright stage lights, hair becoming silver and metallic, he would literally throw his heart into every single song, not caring if it shattered against the floor. He would have time to pick the pieces up later, like he always would.
I remember when the time finally ran out. I cried so hard I thought I would be the one to die of dehydration.
We can't replace him. You can replace a singer, but you can't replace a friend, a brother, someone who's practically your clone. And if we try to replace our singer, the person who meant so much to us, the man who was like a friend, a brother, and a clone to all of us, then it would be like trying to replace an angel with a human. It would be similar, but not the same.
I can hear a soft melody playing. Until now I wasn't paying attention to it. It sounds like a piano, no...a music box. I suppose I haven't noticed it because the rain is making music of its own.
I leave this room and shut the door behind me, following an unknown direction until I find the room in question where the melody emanates from. I open the door, wincing as it creaks on its old, rusted hinges. I walk inside, and a single lurid bulb flickers to life. I can see the music box now. It has a small rectangular mirror on the inside of the lid, reflecting the image of the ballerina twirling endlessly on one leg in front of it, losing speed with each rotation as the music winds down. I close it and pick up the box, turning it over, and I wind the key up until it clicks. I set the box down and reopen it. The song is faster now, but still beautiful.
It brings me to my knees, and I place my hands just on the edge of the table, looking at it with a childlike wonder. I remember that my mother had a music box once. It had always fascinated me, since I could never figure out how it worked. Even on the day I took it apart, scattering the pieces around myself with delight as I rearranged them until it occurred to me that I did not know how to put it back together, she didn't scold me. Instead she helped me dry my guilty tears and showed me how to rebuild the pieces of a broken wonderment.
If only I had someone to do that for me now.
"Bob?"
I jump at the sound of my name and turn towards the person saying it to me. My heart sinks. It's Ray.
"Hey." I stand and quickly brush myself off. He walks over to the box and closes it, picking it up.
Just like the painting," I hear him mutter to himself. I ask him about it. He denies speaking, naturally. No one wants to think they're going insane by speaking to themselves. "I didn't say anything," he insists.
"Yeah you did. Something about a painting."
"Oh. Well, I found this painting downstairs that has the same title as this song..."
I follow him down the staircase, stepping lightly as it creaks ominously under my weight. I look at the painting, quickly scanning it, then catching sight of the nameplate beneath it. 'The Lonely Ballerina.' Interesting. And beautiful. Like Gerard.
I tell Ray I'm sorry. And I mean it. I haven't felt this apologetic and guilty since I took my mother's music box and tore it apart to see what was inside.
"What do you think he'd be doing right now?" I ask him, trying to hide a smile - and failing miserably, I'm sure. "What would he say if he were here?"
"He'd tell us we should spend less time appreciating art and more time creating it. He'd tell us he wants to start a game of hide and seek, and that we're already losing because Mikey and Frank are hidden and we're not." I almost laugh at his words.
"He would tell you he misses you."
We both freeze at the sound of the familiar voice. We turn around and see him standing there, in all of his rain-like glory. Hair that gleams a perfect silver-white against the watery navy blue-gray shadows of the theater, outshining any of the barely silvered spots of light that exist there.
He smiles.
"But he would also thank you for coming to his performance."
And, just as quickly as a raindrop passes through a cloud in the sky and falls into a growing pool of water on the ground, he vanishes. Not more than a few moments later, I hear the song again, even though I know Ray closed the music box before we left the room.
And we applaud him and the rainstorm that he is. The rain outside joins us, adding ten thousand billion drops of water splashing against the pavement and windows to create thunderous applause. And the monster living in the clouds applauds as well, laughing its deep laugh, because its own silver-haired rainstorm has returned to join it.
-
Not the end.
http://www.fileden.com/files/2007/4/19/999693/Rainstorm.mp3
-
It's raining today. Gray, silver, metallic...whatever you make of it, it's still rain.
I'm watching it through a window on the second floor of the theater. I already saw most of the rest of this place, and I know what it looks like. Dull, slate-blue shadows and light. Dead-looking. A watery, navy blue-gray speckled with silver.
All a bit too light-hearted for me. So I found the nearest flight of stairs and came up here.
As I climbed the stairs, I could see darkness spilling from the upper floor like a cloud of ink, as if the ink had been spilled into water and curled through it like poison. Some kind of fog, maybe. Something that would blot out my vision.
Maybe even something so dark it would blot out the memories.
When I got up here I could barely see. I ran into the wall more than once because it was so dark; the clear-cut lines defining the difference between wall, ceiling, floor, and door had not yet made themselves known to my eyes. At first I thought it was exactly what I needed, but then I remembered the darkness of the Paramour.
And when I remembered the Paramour, I remembered Gerard. I remembered him staying in his room at all hours of the day and night, screaming that he was going to drown himself. I remembered him wandering around the mansion like a ghost, putting himself through torture and misery - all for his fans. I remember how the hours blended into days and nights and everything in between, until time just lost its meaning within the dark walls.
Now, as I look around this room, seeing it highlighted by the gray glow of the rain, I see so many similarities between this theater and the Paramour that it sends warning signals to my brain. But I don't run. You can never run from the rain.
Pieces of paper are scattered everywhere. I see empty jars of ink - how old is this place? - lying on the floor, their remains spilled out on the wood and chipped away like paint. Maybe that's where all the darkness came from. A small tornado swept through here, ruining someone's masterpieces and taking all the ink and filling every space with it, until everything just became black. Or blue. A dark navy color, just narrowly highlighted with bits of silver light from the rain outside this small window.
I never did understand why Ray was so quick to try and get us a new singer. It didn't make sense to me. I could understand if he was worried about the fans...well, at the time, I guess I couldn't. The first time he told me we needed a new singer, I told him Gerard could never be replaced and there was no way around that. He said we had to think of the fans and how much they depended on us.
So I told him, "Well they're all killing themselves anyway. Pretty soon none of 'em will be left and we won't have anything to worry about."
I never knew Ray could punch anyone with so much force. He broke my nose with a single blow. I deserved it. I deserve it again. I can't believe I said something so stupid.
And I know he hates me for what I did to the shooter. But to me, that man wasn't a person. He was no human being, for no human could have killed such a beautiful person. He was a murderous creature, an animal, as far as I was concerned. And that animal had killed my best friend. I hunted him down like a predator going for prey. I remember every single blow, and how he didn't even fight back. It was like he knew he had it coming.
I can see a desk in one corner of this room. The wood is old, faded, and slightly silvered, though it could just be the lighting. I walk over to it and slide one hand across its surface. It's completely worn and smooth. I wonder how long it's been here. There is a word crudely etched into one corner, with several thin splinters sticking up from it as if in protection. I can barely read what it says because of the shadows falling across it.
It's not a word at all, but in fact someone's initials.
GW
I back away from it as my heart rate shoots through the roof. Gerard. It's Gerard's initials and I know it. Because only he would ever think of doing something like that.
The rain continues to pound against the window relentlessly. It almost looks like little droplets of silver-white light are falling from the sky, committing suicide against the pane of glass. Thunder growls deep within the clouds like a monster just awakening from its sleep. And I know the rain is only going to worsen.
Gerard was like the rain. Pale and sad and beautiful. Sometimes like a monster that had just awakened from its sleep and unleashed its full raging fury on large crowds of people who screamed at its presence. Other times like a few soft, frozen snow clouds...delicate, cold, and so easily breakable.
Still other times, such as in the quiet lulls between morning and concerts, like a single drop of brilliant gleaming silver that looks white, running into a solid object with full force, only to slide to the floor and shatter, releasing thousands of droplets of water. Like every time he would finally let the madness and the darkness overtake him, he would run into the nearest brick wall and pound his fists against it, finally sliding to the floor as flecks of blood appeared on his hands. He would break down and cry so hard that I worried he would die of dehydration as countless droplets and pools of water formed around him.
But when he was in front of the fans...he was beautiful. Beautiful and perfect. Pale under the unnaturally bright stage lights, hair becoming silver and metallic, he would literally throw his heart into every single song, not caring if it shattered against the floor. He would have time to pick the pieces up later, like he always would.
I remember when the time finally ran out. I cried so hard I thought I would be the one to die of dehydration.
We can't replace him. You can replace a singer, but you can't replace a friend, a brother, someone who's practically your clone. And if we try to replace our singer, the person who meant so much to us, the man who was like a friend, a brother, and a clone to all of us, then it would be like trying to replace an angel with a human. It would be similar, but not the same.
I can hear a soft melody playing. Until now I wasn't paying attention to it. It sounds like a piano, no...a music box. I suppose I haven't noticed it because the rain is making music of its own.
I leave this room and shut the door behind me, following an unknown direction until I find the room in question where the melody emanates from. I open the door, wincing as it creaks on its old, rusted hinges. I walk inside, and a single lurid bulb flickers to life. I can see the music box now. It has a small rectangular mirror on the inside of the lid, reflecting the image of the ballerina twirling endlessly on one leg in front of it, losing speed with each rotation as the music winds down. I close it and pick up the box, turning it over, and I wind the key up until it clicks. I set the box down and reopen it. The song is faster now, but still beautiful.
It brings me to my knees, and I place my hands just on the edge of the table, looking at it with a childlike wonder. I remember that my mother had a music box once. It had always fascinated me, since I could never figure out how it worked. Even on the day I took it apart, scattering the pieces around myself with delight as I rearranged them until it occurred to me that I did not know how to put it back together, she didn't scold me. Instead she helped me dry my guilty tears and showed me how to rebuild the pieces of a broken wonderment.
If only I had someone to do that for me now.
"Bob?"
I jump at the sound of my name and turn towards the person saying it to me. My heart sinks. It's Ray.
"Hey." I stand and quickly brush myself off. He walks over to the box and closes it, picking it up.
Just like the painting," I hear him mutter to himself. I ask him about it. He denies speaking, naturally. No one wants to think they're going insane by speaking to themselves. "I didn't say anything," he insists.
"Yeah you did. Something about a painting."
"Oh. Well, I found this painting downstairs that has the same title as this song..."
I follow him down the staircase, stepping lightly as it creaks ominously under my weight. I look at the painting, quickly scanning it, then catching sight of the nameplate beneath it. 'The Lonely Ballerina.' Interesting. And beautiful. Like Gerard.
I tell Ray I'm sorry. And I mean it. I haven't felt this apologetic and guilty since I took my mother's music box and tore it apart to see what was inside.
"What do you think he'd be doing right now?" I ask him, trying to hide a smile - and failing miserably, I'm sure. "What would he say if he were here?"
"He'd tell us we should spend less time appreciating art and more time creating it. He'd tell us he wants to start a game of hide and seek, and that we're already losing because Mikey and Frank are hidden and we're not." I almost laugh at his words.
"He would tell you he misses you."
We both freeze at the sound of the familiar voice. We turn around and see him standing there, in all of his rain-like glory. Hair that gleams a perfect silver-white against the watery navy blue-gray shadows of the theater, outshining any of the barely silvered spots of light that exist there.
He smiles.
"But he would also thank you for coming to his performance."
And, just as quickly as a raindrop passes through a cloud in the sky and falls into a growing pool of water on the ground, he vanishes. Not more than a few moments later, I hear the song again, even though I know Ray closed the music box before we left the room.
And we applaud him and the rainstorm that he is. The rain outside joins us, adding ten thousand billion drops of water splashing against the pavement and windows to create thunderous applause. And the monster living in the clouds applauds as well, laughing its deep laugh, because its own silver-haired rainstorm has returned to join it.
-
Not the end.
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