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Lest we forget our friends
By : CherubChild
Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Marilyn Manson
Views: 2262 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0Disclaimer: 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
“Am I… interrupting something?” He said, stepping directly on broken glass.
“NO! No, no, no. I just cut myself here.” I shook my body, pushing Manson far away from me. He backed away, gritting his teeth.
“Right.” Ginger looked down, eyeing the floor. Then bent over and picked up small pieces of glass in his hand. I couldn’t read him. Was he angry… sad… or maybe this was something he expected?
“I’ll be on my way out now.” Manson added.
“Why not? You haven’t committed a crime.” Ginger said without looking up.
“No, I haven’t yet. But I’ve been tempted to. I came here to get something, but I just realized I found something better, and unfortunately that something isn’t mine.” He glanced my way.
“I don’t like riddles.” I said.
“Me neither. But to get that ‘something’… to get it… you’d definitely have to steal it, right?” Said Ginger.
“Nothing’s ever just handed over to you on a silver platter.”
“Hmm. But …if that ‘something’ talks, why don’t you just ask if you can have it?”
“I’d rather not.”
Yeah, this was exactly how we “talk about things”. Though Manson is usually constant with using all types of metaphors when he speaks, he surprised me. I expected him to say more, at least to Ginger. He’s always had that… perhaps, more feminine mindset? Where he’s always open to talk about his emotions, no matter what the case. Me, on the other hand, I fuck, drug, drink, and sleep things off and away. End of story.
“Why?” Ginger finally looked up at Marilyn, blue eyes striking.
“Because he already knows the answer, that’s why.” I paused, pulling at the skin of my cheeks nervously, “Now, if you guys don’t mind… I-- (A knock at the back doors) … I’m going to bed.”
All went silent, as there was a second knock at the door. As I looked over at those glass French doors, I saw another flash of white-blond hair waiting on the opposite side.
Another knock.
Again, no one moved. We were all dead.
My first thought was that Warner had gone absolutely mad by creating his own blond-army. What would’ve become of me if I had stayed to be a part of the Golden Age of Grotesque?- You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
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