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The Rose and Thorn	By : FlameWolf666 Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Marilyn Manson Views: 3123 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I still don't know Marilyn Manson, Johnny Depp or any of the other famous people in this fic in real life. Needless to say, this is a work of fiction. I make no profit from this and this is just for fun.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Author’s Note: Surprise guys! I was gonna take a break on this trilogy but my muse had other plans. Oh well, I’m sure none of you are about to complain. The new fic rotation will be ‘The Rose and Thorn’ and ‘Midnight Roses’ taking priority with ‘Loving the Heartless’ and an unrevealed mystery fic being worked on when I get the inspiration.
Spade (c) Marilyn Manson

Chapter Two: Rise from the Ashes
    It had only been a fucking week. Seven days! A blip in existence in the grand scheme of things! So why the hell did seven fucking days feel like forever?! Forever, trapped in a swirling vortex of roaring pain, anger and despair. Forever feeling like some vital part of him had been ripped away. Forever feeling as if his world was falling apart beneath his feet! In desperation, he had thrown himself into work on his next album; the one she had inspired. He had also begun drinking heavily, not helping his already foul temper. The only thing that had made these bleak, endless, seven days the least bit better was when he had received a final package from her.
    Manson had been in a rather foul mood when a knock came from his front door. Glowering at the piece of wood as if it had committed a personal affront to him, the singer prowled toward the closed entrance and flung it open; a heavy glare on his naked face. His heterochromic gaze fixed on a UPS delivery woman who stared up at him with a mixture of awe and fear. Glowering down at the hapless female, he noticed small package in her hands. Without so much as a word to her, he grabbed the small box and slammed the door in her face.
    Once inside, he carried the cardboard receptacle to the kitchen and set it on the counter before going off in search of a knife to open it with. Once he found a small kitchen knife, the singer deftly cut open the tape to swing open the flaps of the box. As he opened the cardboard square, his band and Jeordie slowly filed down the stairs in various stages of a zombie-like state. Ignoring the five other men, he began to rummage through the box.
    At first it was just clothes and make-up he had left at her house but then his fingers brushed on something fluffy. Blinking slightly, he began to pull out the clothing in an almost frantic manner, letting out a ragged gasp at what was revealed. “Manson?” came a timid, concerned, male voice behind him. Ignoring the speaker, the rock star pulled out the floppy, worn looking dog plush with an odd look on his face.
    “Hey? You okay?” came the voice again, a hand coming to rest tentatively on his bare shoulder. Whirling to glare at the person behind him, his eyes narrowed when he saw Ginger. Clutching the ragged looking canine to his scarred chest, the rock star let out a low, warning growl; only relaxing when the drummer backed off a bit. Then, without a word of explanation to his band, the singer stormed up the stairs and into his room; slamming the door behind him.
    Once he was locked in his room, the singer curled in a fetal position on his bed and wept bitterly as he held the well loved plush to his thin chest. Just holding the stuffed animal tore his scabbed heart open anew, opening the doors to the tears he had been holding back for far too long. After he was sobbed out, he lay with the toy dog on his chest and ran a shaky hand of it’s ragged fur. Despite himself, he felt hope begin to grow within him. If she had given him her treasured Kathy then maybe that meant there was still a chance. The thought filled him with an unwanted happiness that he was unable to deny.
    A hand on his shoulder snapped him out of his memories and he turned to glare at the keyboardist behind him. On the vanity in front of him rested Kathy, her dull, brown eyes gazing forward lifelessly. “It’s almost time to go on stage,” Pogo tittered, a huge grin on his face as he gave the irate singer’s bony shoulder a brotherly pat. Growling low in his throat, Manson got to his feet and stalked out of the room; leaving his band to stare after him with a mixture of concern and fear.
    The singer had been getting progressively more and more violent every show, nearly raping the ones on the ground with him in front of the audience. He had even begun chucking his mic stand at Ginger again, something he hadn’t done since his divorce with Dita. The drummer had almost been knocked off the high platform a few times but knew better than to speak to Manson about the ill treatment. All it would serve in accomplishing would be a heightening in aggression, something the bleach blonde desperately didn’t need. The only one not afraid was, of course, Pogo. Like usual, the mohawked keyboardist seemed all too amused by the goings on. “Come on ladies! We got a date with the devil!” he giggled before sauntering out of the room, closely followed by the other band members.
    The performance had been a nightmare from the start, Manson starting out with yanking a random female onto the stage with him. As the concert went on, the singer did increasingly lewd things to the stunned female, coming very close to having a sexual act on the stage. Then, once the last notes of the final song had faded, the rock star had flung the hapless female into the crowd and simply walked off the stage. The four band mates left behind could only stare after their leader, identical looks of worry on three faces and rage on a fourth. Then, with an anger that surprised the other three, Pogo jumped off his platform and stalked after the performer at a fast clip.
    Manson paced the dressing room like a caged tiger, a snarl on his face as he poured himself a shot of pure absinthe. The silly bimbo he had pulled on stage had reminded him too much of Raven, bringing back the roaring pain in his chest in full force. Downing the burning drink in one swallow, the singer shuddered as the licorice flavored fluid filled him with a slight burning sensation. “What the fuck Manson!” came a vicious snarl as the door to the room came flying open, the door knob embedding into the wall from the sheer force.
    “You could have killed that girl! Tossing her off the stage like that, what the fuck!” the keyboardist hissed, anger thick in his voice as he glared heatedly at the rock star.
    “The crowd fuckin’ caught her, so kindly fuck off,” the super star snarled, glaring back at the mohawked male as he poured himself another shot of alcohol.
    “That isn’t the fucking point! You only did that because she looked like Raven!” the normally jovial male screamed, veins standing out in his pale neck from his rage.
    “Do not say her name around me, ever,” Manson hissed in a deadly voice before he downed the second shot with a shudder.
    “Raven, Raven, fucking Raven! Christ, Manson! Are you going to treat every girl that looks like her like shit because you fucked things up?!” the keyboardist snarled, not batting an eye when the singer charged him and pinned him against the wall by his neck.
    “Shut. Up,” the singer bit out in a deadly sounding voice, pressing his upper arm against the other male’s neck. This only drew a strangled chuckle from the musician.
    “Oooh, did I hit a fucking nerve? Well, tough shit! You can’t keep treating fans like that, no matter who they look like,” the unafraid male bit out in a choked voice as he smirked down at the fuming performer. Then his throat was released as Manson stalked back to his bottles of alcohol and poured himself a shot of Vodka.
    “I fucking miss her,” came a soft, almost whispered reply from the singer as he kept his back turned to the bleach blonde behind him.
    “We all miss her. She was a part of our family,” Pogo whispered, placing a hand on the singer’s bony back.
    “This stupid, silly toy, this fucking ratty ass thing has been the only thing giving me any sort of hope lately,” Manson hissed out, raising Kathy into the air and shaking her violently. The floppy plush swayed back and forth, her long ears flailing with the movement.
    “We saw ya with that during that tour you were on when you were still together. Where on Earth did it come from?” the keyboardist asked, watched the stuffed dog that the rock star held in the air.
    “This is Kathy, she belongs to... her. She told me that the plush had belonged to her for a long time, since she was nine. She apparently has never slept without it before. The fact that she sent it to me...,” the singer growled out, his throat clogged with emotion as he gently brought the toy back down to the counter of the vanity.
    “Marilyn...,” the mohawked male began, looking from the plush to the hunched, defeated looking rock star.
    “What does it mean? Is she fucking with me? Was what she told me about this thing all a crock of shit,” he hissed out in a bitter, pain filled voice as he clenched his hands on the top of the vanity counter.
    “Raven wouldn’t do that and you know it! You know as well as I do that the only reason she isn’t here is because you decided to be a dickhead! Did you honestly think she’d just sit by and let you date other women while you treated her like shit for no reason?” Pogo snarled, gesticulating with his arms in exasperation.
    “I know what I did Madonna,” Manson bit out turning slightly to fix his band member with a furious glare.
    “Then why the fuck do you insist on acting like this is her fault?!” the mohawked male growled out in a frustrated tone, not fazed by the performer’s ire in the slightest.
    “Because that’s the only way I can fucking deal with the fact that I was the one that fucked up! Fucking christ!” the singer screamed suddenly, throwing a half full bottle of Vodka at the glaring keyboardist and hitting the wall right beside his right ear. Then the ‘Antichrist Superstar’ was crumpling to his knees as a ragged, heartbroken sob left him, his black nailed hands coming up to cover his face.
    “Do you have any idea how it feels to know that I hurt her? That I drove her to leave me? That, if I could just fucking control the demons in my head, she would be by my side right now? Do you have any idea what torture that is for me?!” the distraught rock star murmured into his hands, almost making it impossible for Pogo to make out what he was saying.
    “Marilyn, her giving you that thing had to mean something,” the mohawked man replied, a sympathetic edge to his voice as he gestured to the plush behind the performer.
    Looking up at the keyboardist with a considering look, Manson heaved a sigh as he got to his feet. “You could be right. Kathy did seem to mean a lot to her and she wouldn’t lightly give such a thing away,” he murmured, moving over to the vanity to pick up the plush and cradle it to his scarred chest.
    “Mr. Manson?” came a timid, male voice from the doorway, drawing the attention of both males. In the door stood a harried looking man who was rather small, thin and had huge glasses.
    “U-um, it’s time to move onto your next venue,” he whispered out, looking outright terrified of the two band members. Behind him, the other three members were already moving equipment out to the tour bus.
    Dismissing the man with a wave of his hand, the rock star gathered his bottle of absinthe and stomped out to the bus. Pogo followed close behind, a thoughtful look on his pale face. Without looking at any of the men currently packing the bus, Manson merely stormed into the back room and slammed the door shut. Heaving a sigh at the singer’s behavior, the keyboardist pulled himself out of the bus and walked over to help the others load the instruments. Once everything had been packed, the four members moved into the bus.
    As soon as Ginger sat down, his phone began to play ‘Every Rose has it’s Thorn’, causing the Drummer to jolt upright and open the object. “Amanda? Are you okay? Is Raven okay?” he murmured, worry thick in his tone as he got to his feet and began to pace. Unknown to the four men, the door in the back opened just a little bit.
    “Things have been... rough,” he sighed after a long pause, tiredness and deep concern tinging his baritone voice. The drummer halted in place as he ran his hand through his bleach blonde locks, unaware of the angry, heterochromic gaze glaring at him from the rear of the bus.
    Letting out an angry snarl, Manson slid the door shut on the rest of the conversation. He had an idea of where it was headed and he doubted he could stop himself from strangling Ginger. Clutching Kathy to his scarred chest, the bony singer stalked over to two half full bottles that sat on top of a small, messy dresser. Pouring himself a shot of a mixture of the two, he took the drink in one swallow; shuddering violently as a warm, tingling sensation began to spread through him. ‘Brian, why are you doing this to yourself?’ came Jeordie’s sad voice from the back of his head, drawing a wince from the rock star.
    “I just want to forget her! I don’t want to fucking miss her anymore! I don’t want to feel the fucking hole she left in my heart!” Manson bit out angrily, pouring himself another shot in an effort to silence the voice in his head.
    “The fuck do you care any way. You left again when it got too hard,” he continued in a broken voice.
    ‘Everyone has a breaking point Mare... I couldn’t take watching you self destruct,’ whispered the sad facsimile of Twiggy’s voice. Growling in frustration, the rock star flung himself onto his bed and pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead.
    It wasn’t until some time later that he was being shaken awake and he swatted at the person with a snarl. “Come on man, we’re at the venue!” came Pogo’s urging baritone. Hissing in irritation, the singer rolled out of his bed and stalked into the bathroom to fix his smeared make-up. Once that was done, he stormed out of the bus and into the dressing room to wait for the band to finish unpacking. As the band unloaded, Manson began to pace in agitation while he held Kathy tight against his torso.
    After what seemed like an unbearable wait, Ginger timidly appeared at the door; looking like he wanted to be anywhere else but there at that moment. Stiffening when he saw the drummer, the singer carefully placed Kathy on the nearest vanity and began to stalk toward the bleach blonde with a heavy glare. “You spoke to Amanda,” the super star bit out, his mismatched gaze sparkling angrily.
    “Raven’s... she’s had a hard time but she’s starting to do a little better,” Ginger squeaked out in a scared voice, answering the singer’s unspoken question. The bleach blonde didn’t dare move, almost didn’t dare to breath as the rock star continued to glare at him.
    “Did I fucking ask about the stupid cunt?!” Manson roared, worry tinging the deep rage in his voice as he shoved past the drummer. Ginger only watched him stalk towards the stage, a concerned look on his acne scarred face.
    Manson tilted his head back and spread his arms out to his side, sweat pouring of him and his thin, scarred chest heaving as smoke billowed behind him. The last notes of the song echoed in the packed stadium as the sea of people swarming below him cheered and surged towards him as a singular entity. His mismatched gaze roved over the huge crowd, a hateful sneer on his face. “This final song is dedicated to a very special bitch,” he snarled into the mic, signaling the band behind him. Pogo nodded and began a beat on his keyboard just before the rock star began to sing in a bitter, sad voice.
    “The beauty spot was borrowed and now my sweet knife rusts tomorrow. I'm a confession that is waiting to be heard,” he husked out, his voice full of anger as he leaned toward the crowd.
    “Burn your empty rain down on me. Whisper your deathbeat so softly. We bend our knees at the altar of my ego,” he husked out, his anger turning to bitter hate as he glowered at the crowd that surged toward him.
    “You drained my heart and made a spade. But there's still traces of me in your veins,” he screamed out almost accusingly, earning an approving roar from the rapt audience.
    “You drained my heart and made a spade. But there's still traces of me in your veins,” the rock star repeated, sound more bitter as he shoved himself backward from the tip of the stage.
    “All my lilies' mouths are open, like they're begging for dope and hoping. Their bitter petal chant, "We can kick, you won't be back.",” he hissed out quietly, pacing the stage like a caged tiger as he shot the roaring sea of humanity accusing glares.
    “I'm a diamond that is tired of all the faces I've acquired,” the singer continued in a tired, defeated voice, running a hand over his face as he closed his eyes.
    “We must secure the shadow, ere the substance fades,” he hissed through gritted teeth, running his hand from his chin back up to his shoulder length hair and giving the ebony locks a sharp tug.
    “You drained my heart and made a spade. But there's still traces of me in your veins,” Manson screamed into the mic, ignoring the feedback whine of the speakers behind him.
    “You drained my heart and made a spade. But there's still traces of me in your veins,” he belted once again, giving his hair another hard yank as if in self punishment. Then his fingers were uncurling from his greasy locks as he slowly slumped into a defeated posture.
    “And you said ‘til we die,” he breathed into the microphone, his baritone voice heartbreakingly pleading as his gaze fixed on the floor of the stage.
    “And you said ‘til we die,” the rock star repeated, allowing the mic to drop from his relaxing fingers. Then he was collapsing to the stage as a pain exploded in his chest and he found himself unable to breath.
    There was a faint sense of motion, faint, male whispers and darkness. Groaning softly, Manson slowly pulled himself into a sitting position as he reached blindly for something. “Here,” came a soft, familiar baritone as something fluffy was pressed into his hands. Snatching the precious object and pressing it to his chest, the singer began to fumble for the lamp beside the bed.
    All of a sudden a flood of light filled the room, drawing a pained hiss from the rock star. “Oh shit, sorry. I shoulda warned ya,” came an amused titter from his right. Snarling heatedly, Manson grabbed the nearest pillow and hucked it blindly at the position he had heard the voice.
    “Sorry Manny but ya missed me,” came a lightly taunting giggle, drawing an irritated snarl from the ‘Antichrist Superstar’.
    “You okay Manson? You sorta collapsed back there,” came a timid voice from his left, drawing an irritated sigh from the singer.
    “I’m fine! I just... I’m fine,” he hissed out, closing his eyes briefly in an effort to clear his vision. Once he opened his eyes, he saw John 5, Ginger and Pogo surrounding his bed.
    All three band members only gave eachother worried looks before turning back to face Manson. “How long are you going to keep going like this?” Ginger whispered in a timid, worried voice, unable to meet the rock star’s anger filled gaze.
    “It’s none of your fucking business! Just leave me the fuck alone!” he snarled getting to his feet and whirling to glare at the three members of his band.
    “It is our business man. Like it or not, we care about you like family. We don’t like watching you tear yourself apart like this,” Pogo sighed, sounding irritated as well as worried as he glared slightly at the performer.
    “What the fuck else am I supposed to do?! Do you realize how much I loved her?! How much I still need her by my side!” he screamed, clenching his hands into shaking fists as he tried to ignore the growing pain in his chest. All this talk about her lately was awakening his feelings again, feelings he had buried for his own sanity.
    Making a strangled sobbing noise as tears began to clog his throat, Manson dived for the bottles on his dresser and took a deep drag from the Absinthe bottle. “How am I supposed to deal with this pain?” he hissed out in a shaky voice before taking another long pull from the bottle.
    “I don’t know but this shit isn’t going to help keep your head straight,” Pogo growled from behind him, yanking the bottle away from him and snatching the other one while he was at it.
    “What the fuck Gacy!” the rock star roared, making a dive for the keyboardist before he was stopped by the strong grips of John 5 and Ginger.
    “Enough Manson. We’re not about to sit by and watch you kill yourself. We’re not allowing you anymore alcohol for the rest of the tour,” John sighed, worry in his deep voice as he held onto his friend tightly.
    “You can’t fucking do that!” Manson screamed, struggling in their grasps like a worm on a hook.
    “If you want to see Raven again, you have to stop drinking so much. You can’t very well make up with someone if you’re dead,” Ginger tried to reason, only earning a throaty growl.
    “Stop fucking saying her name! Just leave me the fuck alone!” the furious male bellowed, only slightly gratified when they fled and left him alone.
    Flinging himself down onto his black, silk sheets, Manson leaned forward and clasped his head in both hands; entwining his fingers in his ebony hair. As much as he longed to see her again, to apologize for his behavior, to try to start new; he knew he wasn’t ready to see her yet. Inside he was a turmoil of hurt and betrayal, none of which she deserved. Despite how he outwardly acted, he was well aware how at fault he was for current circumstances.
    If he were to see her again, he was afraid of what he would say, what he would do. His anger was far too close to the surface and every time he so much as thought about her, the shade of Dita would begin to whisper poison in his ear. Growling in frustration, the rock star laid back on his bed and stared up at the ceiling of the bus and it moved down the road. Already he could feel the pain burning in his chest; the intense need to hold her in his arms, to inhale her scent, to never let her go again. Releasing a ragged sigh, he flung himself out of his bed and began to pace.
    Even while lightly buzzed, he could still keenly feel her absence. “Fuck!” he screamed as loud as he could, the veins standing out in his neck as spittle flew from his black lips. Then he was rummaging in a small drawer in the nightstand, his bony chest heaving as his heterochromic gaze searched for something. When he didn’t find the object he was looking for, the singer flipped the small stand over; effectively breaking the lamp and plunging the room into darkness.
    “Motherfucking Twiggy!” he screamed before he punched a wall.
    Ginger and John stared at the bedroom with concern before proceeding to pour out every drop of alcohol on the tour bus, Pogo pulling out hidden stashes like some sort of sniffer dog. Once the trio was sure they had gotten rid of everything, they flopped down on various pieces of furniture with sighs of relief mixed with concern. “Sounds like Twigs stole his supply of razors before he left,” Ginger murmured, staring down at his clasped hands as he released a shuddering breath.
    “How the fuck are we gonna get him through this?” John 5 sighed out with his head tilted back against the back of the couch.
    “I don’t know. All I know is that this tour is only making things worse. All his new songs have memories of Raven attached and not all of them are good,” Ginger replied, closing his brown eyes briefly as he tried to calm his anxiety about the singer.
    “Don’t make him stop this tour. Work is the only thing that’s keeping his mind off the fact that she’s gone,” Pogo replied quietly, staring straight ahead as he placed his left foot on the sofa and draped the corresponding arm over his folded knee.
    “Think about it Ging. If you lost Amanda, would you be able to just sit at home and not go crazy?” the keyboardist continued, his gaze not shifting as worry and sympathy swirled in his chocolate orbs.
    “Well, when you put it like that, I suppose I would be doing what Manson is right now; only a lot less severe,” the drummer replied softly, looking over at his bandmate with a look of slight astonishment.
    “We have to be there for him as much as we can right now, even making some decisions for him. Right now, the right decision is to just let him tour,” the mohawked male whispered, tapping his black nails on his inner thigh as he continued to stare at the wall opposite them. Ginger and John only sighed heavily in response, slumping on the couch in exhaustion and defeat.
    “Do not worry. Things will be okay,” came a quiet voice from the very front of the bus, making everyone jolt in surprise.
    Blinking, the three males all moved to the front to stared at Tim incredulously. The bassist merely gave them a small smile, not taking his gaze off the road as he drove. “Raven will come back,” he said with an assurance the three of them frankly envied.
    “Even if she did, how do you think Manson will react? Do you really think she needs to be subjected to that?” Ginger sighed, apprehension outweighing the hope in his voice. As much as the drummer wanted the female to come back, it was safer for her to stay away for the time being.
    “Things may be rocky but they will be okay in the end,” the male replied, his swedish accent rolling around each word as he spoke.
    “How the fuck can you be so sure?” John 5 growled out in exasperation, disbelief clear in his brown gaze.
    “It is simply meant to be. Could you not feel it when they are around eachother?” Tim replied in a no nonsense voice, as if he couldn’t believe how dense his fellows were being. At that, the three went silent as they considered his words. To be honest, the bassist was right. Every time the pair had been in the same room, they had radiated a contentment and connection that they had all envied and awed. Yet they all found themselves apprehensive of what would happen if they did reunite. Just the thought made the trio shudder with terror for not only Raven but Manson.
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The Rose and Thorn