Chant

“Hang him, hang him!” chant the crowds, not knowing why, not seeing how it will keep them safe. The only thoughts furiously coursing in them are those of revenge, the revenge they name justice. They are wronged, oh yes. His blood would be what would have to pay for that. Not today maybe. But they cannot rest till it is shed. Or until they see sense.

Do they not see that he is a soul condemned? He was meant to die. He was meant to die like the others who accompanied him. His blood means nothing to the killers. If anything, keeping him alive has said something to the teenagers who can be like him. Something that would make them see… mercy exists. Because in their worlds, it most likely doesn’t. In their worlds, you hit and one hits back. An eye for an eye. They don’t know otherwise. Hang him, sweet crowds, but you would only reinforce their belief. You think they are afraid of death? You thing a hanging will scare them off? It will just prove to them that blood is returned by blood. And they’re not afraid to have the last word on that.

It is much more, much deeper what they look for. It is distorted meaning. An answer to ‘what am I meant to do?’ It is the wrong answers that are causing this pain. Your chants don’t solve that.

And you.
Volatile, explosive, restless, you. But also, indifferent, cynical, hardened, you.
If I could I would make you see. Your explosion seems not to last, your restlessness seems not to find purpose. Your indifference grows, and yet you know it not. Your cynicism cuts, it is much sharper than any blade. But it the way you have been hardened, that makes me cry.

But the anger swells, the crowds chant louder. For years, all they do is chant. No thought, no sense.
And then the hate pours out. It is ruthless, emotionless, because all feeling has been numbed. All that has remained is hate. Pushed too far, wronged too long, and left with an inability to forgive or remedy.

Insanity arrives, and following it closely, bloodshed.