The Good Fight

Impossible odds loomed on the horizon. To them, there wasn't even an umbrage of disaster. It was small now, but before they knew it, it would be out of control. No one worried, it never attacked them; it always went after someone else. Someone that they felt bad for, but they didn't know the half of it. They felt bad because they heard it was bad, and because they were supposed to, not because they knew anything about it. And why would they want to? This thing is so noisome a thing, such a horrendous monster, that people would rather pretend it doesn't exist, would rather push it out of thought, than to fight it, to beat it, to kill it.
And then, the monsters struck. They came in many varieties, some with tentacles, some just massive beasts, uncontrollably growing, with a vile hunger. They stormed the villages, searching for their prey, unerringly precise, and unmatched in their viciousness. But all had one deplorable, shared goal. They came for the young, some barely old enough to speak, others still in the nonage before walking, or even crawling. They took them; they took them from all over the continent, all over the world, by the hundreds every day, and yet people still did not pay attention. It took the children away to these designated areas, these arenas, where they would fight for their lives. They were scattered throughout the land, but the children always ended up in the company of many others. They were at the crux of both death and life, in places bathed in both hope and blood.
And, in these places, battles were waged. Some were struck down before they could even muster a resistance, and they were sorely missed. The survivors' parents would follow, and they would do anything to save their beloveds. But they could do nothing; other than cheer their children on, give them emotional bracing and support. Unbearably, they were sidelined, helpless as their offspring fought for their very existence. It was inhumane, but their enemies weren't human. They were much worse.
They fought. As the children weakened, the beasts grew stronger. Seeming to grow, they towered over the miniscule gladiators. They bled, they hurt, they cried, they screamed. But they did not give in. They fought. But they were fighting a losing battle. No solitary amount of courage, valiance and determination would let them prevail against these vicious hellions. Family and friends soon joined the fight, cheering them on, cheering them up.
Even though they were giving it their all, they were losing ground. Although their spirits never crumbled, the children's bodies had taken too much. They fell. The others, through whatever miracles, fought on. They could not triumph on their own, so they fetched help.
Nevertheless, even the foremost masters at killing these monsters could do little. All they could do was give them a fighting chance, a chance to live. However, the only weapons effective against the beasts were double-edged. They were just as dangerous to the small warriors as they were to the beasts themselves. The weapons were unwieldy, as they were the same that had been used for ages to attempt to beat the beasts, and for every blow they dealt the fiends, they wounded themselves.
Nothing bands people tighter together than fighting side by side. The kids fought together, for each other, gathering strength from their companions. Strength they so direly needed just to keep on going. The parents and families stood by one another, gaining power in numbers, giving them what they needed to keep on cheering and never let their kids down.
Yet, they weakened. They bled, they hurt, they cried, and they screamed. Their helpless parents still cheered them on. Their children would not fall. They could not fall. But they did. Yet even then, with the odds so stacked against them, the remaining pushed on. They had to. For their own sake, for the sake of their parents, and for the sake of those the monsters had taken.
Even then the fight had just begun. They gritted their teeth, and they fought. Weapons in hand, they faced the beasts. They bled, they hurt, they cried, they screamed. But now, so did the beasts. But for some, the weapons were too potent, too dangerous. Their weakened and frail bodies could not handle the strain. Though valiant till the end, more still fell. The onlookers wept, both for the loss, and because for every child who fell, the odds built higher against their loved ones.
The internecine battle continued. New weapons were devised, new methods of fighting back, and so they were put to use. They had no prior testing- there was no time nor means- so the only trial they were given was a trial by fire. New weapons brought new hope, and new successes. Some of the children seemed to be slowing the relentless beasts. The tide was not turned, and the fight was still being fought, but the powers of darkness were faltering.
Progress brought the new weapons, which brought the children, unlike those so recently preceding them, a fighting chance. And they all made the best of it. For some, all they managed to do was help them hold out for a little while longer. But for others, they made all the difference. They were starting to hurt the monsters more than they hurt themselves.
They bled, they hurt, they cried, they screamed. But less. The monsters didn't scream or cry- they wouldn't give the children or their families the satisfaction- but they did bleed. Empowered by their victories, the children fought harder than ever.
After the fight had gone on for so long, however, the support from the sidelines had diminished. It was still there, certainly, but it lacked the intensity from when the fight began. Not from families, or even friends, but from the communities. They showed amazing support for the children, then most simply moved on, though not necessarily through any fault of their own. Nevertheless, the families still cried themselves hoarse.
Now it was the children, who weren't children anymore, who seemed to grow; they towered over the beasts. After causing so much pain and agony to so many, it was finally the monster's turn, although they didn't have the capacity to realize it. The weapons tore through them, decimating countless beasts. They still hurt the kids, but now the spark that had brought them this- hope- was a blazing flame. This flame beat back the darkness.
Yet even then, with the darkness receding, more still fell, and even more were being dragged into the fight. Both the children themselves and their families that fought with them, but they knew the darkness. They knew that there was so much they could do nothing to prevent. But they could help make the fight easier. And yet, at long last, although many were just beginning their fight's, theirs' were finally over.
When this titanic battle ended, when the dust settled and the air cleared, those still standing, rejoiced. But, in their elation, they looked back and remembered. They remembered the darkest times and how hope's brightness led them through. They remembered the blood and tears, the chills and the fevered sweats. They remembered how the worst times of crisis brought out the best of everyone. They remembered that every one of the little angels, both those who so tragically fell, and those who miraculously pulled through, would forever be survivors, whether in body or in spirit.

Author's Note: The monsters are pediatric cancers. The story and the fight are both true, and they're still happening. It's our responsibility to make sure they have a happy ending, and to do our best to help, in any and every way possible, all of the kids who are still fighting.

46 kids are diagnosed with cancer every day. That's more than two full classrooms of kids. Each year cancer kills more children between one and 20 years of age than asthma, diabetes, cystic fibrosis, and AIDS, combined. The number of potential years of life put at risk by childhood cancer each year exceeds the number for most adult cancers. And yet, they only receive a fraction of funding. For every one dollar donated to the American Cancer Society, childhood cancers only receive a single penny. See the problem?