Never Cover up What We Did With a Dress

The only contact I ever got from Manson was money.

A lot of money.

With this money I purchased the apartment he and I discussed about getting, and it was the most beautiful place I have ever seen, let alone lived in.

Lily's room was a gorgeous light pink, the carpet a frosted sugar white, matching her crib and skirting boards. A white butterfly net hung sweetly around the crib, and I had bought little pastel coloured butterflies that hooked on the material. The only light in there was natural, but around the top cornice was a string that wrapped around the whole room, of little pixie lights.

Her room had a large window that faced out toward the city, looking up the hill from Haight Street and Avondale. Her windows had a bay where I usually sat with her before she slept. There was a small shelf that went between the pillar and the window, and on it sat a picture of Manson. There was one opposite that, which had a picture of myself and Lily. Both frames were identical, white, with a little pink butterfly in the left corner. When I rock her to sleep everyday, I look at the picture of Manson, and that's when I cry. Lily looked like him. Her eyes were the exact same colour.

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It was a normal, rainy day in San Francisco, and I was swaying Lily in my arms, talking to her sweetly. Her little face molded into a series of smiles each time I made a funny nose. I was in the process of cooking fairy cakes for her preschool bake sale fund raiser, and she was covered in vanilla flavoured mix. I placed her on her play mat, and she feverishly began to reach for the many hanging ornaments on it. Her giggling soothed me as I tried to keep my mind off her father, but I couldn't help it. As I iced the cakes and placed rice paper fairies on them, I couldn't help but wonder what he was doing right then and there.

The only thing keeping me going was the fact that I had Lily. With out her I would have been depressive, unable to move, like I was the night Demi and I had driven to Orlando to see Manson. I played his music to Lily, and she responded weirdly to it. If I played it her eyes glossed over with something that looked like longing, but I told myself how ridiculous that was. It was literally like she knew, and it scared me a little.

He was always on my mind.

I would lay in bed every night, curling up in a ball to keep myself warm, cursing Dita and her pregnancy, picturing Manson keeping her warm, rubbing her back when it started to hurt because of the baby, giving her everything.

But then I realised there was nothing I could do, his heart was with her.