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Lest we forget our friends	By : CherubChild Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Marilyn Manson Views: 2262 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know Marilyn Manson. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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I stood in the large kitchen with my back to the double French doors, and I could hear a set of keys jingle and a click, the sound of it being unlocked. I kept facing forward, in front of the island counter top, finger dipped into a glass of cool water, stirring. Patient. Listening to the footsteps edging near me, until I could smell the sweet scent of cologne.

The scent wasn’t of Ginger. It was overly classy. If sugar had been made by Satan, was watered over dead roses, and then put into a bottle of wine, you’d probably have that scent.

Him.

He walked past without acknowledging me. Tall, slender, silhouette. Hair slicked to the left, sides of his head shaved close, and overall cropped a bit shorter than when I had last seen him. He certainly looked like the cabaret gentlemen, living in a time period all his own. He went to the brassy refrigerator doors, peeking in, but not really looking for anything at all. He just needed a reason, or a gimmick, so that he could glance over at me without me noticing. But I new him so well, too well, that I ended up locking eyes with his mismatched pair. Mr. Antichrist Himself.

“I thought you were trying to stay away from that.” He said, approaching me, then standing directly in front of me, but on the opposite side of the counter.

“Who brought you home? Pogo?”

“Kenny.” I smiled, lifting my brows.

“That’s Ginger on your lips--?” His eyes widened, navy blue fingernails tapping on the counter tap.

“Not yet. In few minutes, it will be.”

“I’d be impressed, but I know you’d fuck a lamp post if it could make a pass at you.”

I smirked, because I didn’t have anything to say to that. My mind wasn’t where it should have been. I just sat back on the stool behind me, and rested my hands over my lap.

“So the whiskey has taken its toll.” He was a mind reader.

“Right. I’m drunk, and you’re losing a band. Or, no, even better… you’re losing your friends. I’m gone, John’s gone. Pogo’s never been ‘all there’, and I’m pretty sure Ginger’d rather enjoy fucking me than getting fucked by you.”

He leaned against the counter top, chin in his hand, “I don’t loose my friends, I get rid of them. I take out the trash once it starts to rot. I don’t sit around and let the stench fill the air.”

“You never got rid of me.”

“No. I didn’t. You threw yourself out, because you thought you were a broken toy that I didn’t want to play with anymore.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yeah, it is, and its called jealousy… who else did you sleep with tonight?”

“None of your fucking business.”

“Fucking is always my business. It’s what we have in common, other than our artistically-inclined-brain-waves. It’s our compatibility.”

“Our compatibility went down the drain. I’m on one side of the fence now, while you’re left alone on the other.”

“Fence? I don’t believe in boundaries, now do I? I might’ve mowed your lawn while you weren’t looking, and planted my seeds in your filthy dirt.” Taking his thumb to my face, leaning over the island, he unhurriedly proceeded to smear to the rest of lipstick left around my lips. My body tensed, but I showed no reaction.

I gathered my skinny knees up to my chest, rocking from side to side on the stool for comfort. “You should leave.”

“Twiggy, I live here.”

With one hand I reached up and did a very pointless thing; I swung at the glass of water and sent it flying across the kitchen floor. It seemed to shatter in a million pieces, and glittered like diamonds under the artificial light. I had every right to be mad, but I couldn’t win in an argument with him. Not now. Again, I stared at him, hard, coldly. I just wanted the pain and frustration to go away. Leave the past behind. Fucking Ginger would get my mind off of it for awhile.

As I turned to hop down from the stool, Marilyn grabbed me roughly by the wrist, and I felt a striking sting fly up the side of my arm. I pulled away quickly, screaming, “What the fuck?!” And he backed away calmly, showing me the palm of his hand that was covered in a thick layer of blood. “You cut yourself.” He spoke tenderly, his voice as sensual as when Ginger had described the house.

I looked down at my wrist. A small piece of glass was still jammed in the cut. Manson towering over me, like the leaning tower of Pisa and without any hesitation, plucked it out quick. He replaced it with his hand, covering the wound tightly to stop it from bleeding.

At that, I moaned loud. So loud that at the perfect moment, when Marilyn guided me to the sink and ran my wrist under cold water, with his body pushed hard against my backside in what could’ve been a very sexual position… did Ginger decide to walk in.
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Lest we forget our friends