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They had never burned before. They had felt the sun kiss their skin whenever they lingered outside, they had felt the warm, welcoming glow of a campfire, but they had never burned. It was foreign, then, the hellish inferno that raged in their chest that hurt—more than anything they had ever seen or heard or tasted or smelled or touched. Yes, tonight, The Balladeer felt something new.
What was this, anyhow? Was it discomfort? Annoyance? Determination? They know it’s not dread; as of late, the feeling had wrapped its hands around them, squeezing them until they were suffocated, emptied of air. No, this was the reason for the dread, the apotheosis, the great ending their soul had seemingly predicted—and it was hot.
Tonight was the night of new things, for it was not just them who were submersed in new experiences. They heard light and joy and new beginnings and a new membership. Screams became chants as the assassins’ victory became louder and louder. Had they won? Was it a fight? They wished and hoped and begged it wasn’t, but wishes don’t change anything, do they?
God, what were they thinking? It was never meant to be this way. They weren’t meant to fade. They weren’t meant to be drifting through the woods, coming to terms with the fact this was their end. It wasn’t the end. It couldn't be. It wasn’t. Without them, the only truth would be of sinew, gore, and viscera. Of lies, death, and bloody one-way tickets to attention. There would be his truth, the truth he had tricked 8 (or 9? They could never seem to remember) into believing. This couldn’t be it for them, or that would be true. And it wasn’t. It wasn’t, The Balladeer repeated, it wasn’t, it wasn’t, it wasn’t.
They tried to raise their head, to see the light—to see something—but they were greeted with nothing. Not the artificial night of the carnival, not to a sky of cheaply lit stars, but to an inky black nothing that held their senses tight. The fire burned on. The pain was constant and overbearing, fully enveloping the emptiness that had found them—then, a jolt.
You cannot stand this injustice. You can not stand for tyranny. You scorn the future that will pass. You will make them feel the same pain they have inflicted. You will be remembered for doing the right thing. You won’t, but still, you know what to do.
The burning didn’t dissipate, it morphed into something new. It was a fraction of something greater, a page in a novel of thoughts—but it was real and something they thought they couldn’t suffer. It was above them. It was under them. It wasn’t them. Then—
You have been denied what is yours. You are a man not meant to be overlooked that has been rejected. You have been guided by God. Things need a change. It’s His will. It’s exciting, isn’t it? Look on the bright side, you’ll be remembered! You won’t, but still, you know what to do.
The Balladeer would cough.
There is great pain, great suffering, men dying for men rich off the back of abuse. You’ve endured it too, in your hands, heart and mind. Enough is enough. You've read of a man whose shot killed a despot, an enemy of the good, working people. You hope the people remember that their pain has been designed. They won’t, but still, you know what to do.
The Balladeer would clutch their chest, empty except for ephemeral hope, already flying away.
It’s unbearable. There aren't words to describe it. Nothing works, nothing has stopped the torment. There is more wrong in the world than your stomach, however. You know why. It’s not fair, it’s not right—vengeance is in order, at least in a way. Something will change, something will stop. The pain will stop. It won’t, but still, you know what to do.
The Balladeer would double over anguish, a mass of light and feelings and concepts held together by circles and sprawling fields of hands and cheap denim and flannel brought to its knees by what? 8 people? No, 9. They were suddenly sure. They were more sure of it than of their own existence, there was 9, there is 9, there will be 9—9 people that were counter to all that they were? What—
▇▇▇ It hurts ▇▇▇.
It hurt like hell. The Balladeer would vomit or bleed or cry or scream, or do something, but they couldn’t. There was a pause, but not a reprieve.
Then it started again.
For something to trust, against lies, for something better, to do something in a world of shit.
For the land, water, animals and air—for all that lives and for the goodness of life.
For a place to come from and a place to go.
For love—a chance at acknowledgement, a chance for togetherness.
Over and over again, they screamed and begged and pleaded for help. Over and over again, they yelled and cried out. Over and over again, they taunted and jeered. Every single component of who they were grew and shrunk yet still withered and decayed until everything cut out again.
Justice, God, people, pain, ▇▇▇, lies, life, places, love.
Justice, God, people, pain, ▇▇▇, lies, life, places, love.
Justice, God, people, pain, ▇▇▇, lies, life, places, love.
▇▇▇▇▇▇▇, ▇▇▇, ▇▇▇▇▇▇, ▇▇▇▇, ▇▇▇, ▇▇▇▇, ▇▇▇▇, ▇▇▇▇▇▇, ▇▇▇▇.
In between the wretched reminders, there was a pool of nonexistence. A feeling that time had passed without them in it washed over them over and over again. Another loop, and the feeling lapsed at the shore of their mind. Another loop, and it grazed against their weak consciousness. Another loop, and there was nothing to touch. Another loop, and The Balladeer desperately latched on to existence. Another loop, and they clawed at the feelings, at the tragedy, at the hardship, at the hurt, and they placed it. The burning, the woe, the flames—anger! That’s what it was! That’s what they needed.
They clung on to the fury, the rage, the apathy to the message they were made to spread, they held on and on, squeezing tight and cherishing their own unraveling. It was beautiful, these new feelings. They were exactly what The Balladeer needed. They just needed pain. The suffering could help them listen, they thought. If the assassins needed someone to listen, to understand, then they could be there. What they were before was never enough—it could never be enough—destined to lose the fight and be beaten, broken and bruised. Now the tides could turn, now ideas could change, ideas gifted with the experiences of the downtrodden and weary.
Perfect, perfect, perfect it was, the pain. So what if they were a failure? So what if some group of people had proved them wrong. That was in the past. The future was to be of technicolor love and hope and understanding. A bridge built and crossed, where drums and shouts would ring out with jubilation, for the beauty of the idea that they were. A new version. A version who understood.
The Balladeer would laugh if they could. How exciting, how thrilling, how amazing, how American it was, to wipe the dirt off their knees and get back up again. They couldn’t contain themselves. They quickly brushed off and away the excruciating pain. They needed the memory, though; they, in fact, took that memory and stored it like a treasure in their head—but now, they needed to get up.
The sky shone bright. It was still night, still illuminated with fake lights, all while the true light of elation shone on the ground below. They twisted their form into something more human—just like before, and yet so changed. They have changed, they thought, in a good way, the best way. The Balladeer would not mope in misery. No, with renewed hope and conviction, would they sing and strum. With belief and certainty they would step into something new and beautiful. Tonight, oh, tonight the others could have their celebrations. They deserved it. But one day, maybe even the next, The Balladeer would rise. Now was their chance. They could do it—now was their time to connect!
Connect!
Connect!
Connect!
Wasn’t that beautiful?