We Fed Machines

"New york times have posted a few..."

Manson grunted down the phone as a responce to the publicist who was rolling off a list of different articles, news reports and websites that where blaming him for this mess.

"Look, I'm just going to carry on the way I am. When people calm and the time is right I will speak up properly and direct."

"- Okay, thats fine. But hear me out..."

"I got to go, I will call you tomorrow" He hung up sighing heavily as he put his head in his hands.

Just four months ago two teenagers went into their school and killed 12 fellow students, a teacher and then themselves. But what did this have to do with Marilyn Manson? Well they listened to his music.
So a frenzy began amongst the media that erupted like a whirlwind of mindless, ignorant hate. Video games and TV shows where thrown in to the mix but they held him, Marilyn Manson, responsible.

Not the years of torment, not the killers broken spirits or troubled minds. Mansons music was to blame.

The death threats, insults and overwhelming amount of negative publicity was surrounding him and even listening to the phone call about this was draining.

He put his head into his hands letting his eyes close. Trying to shift and rationalise the thoughts running through his head. The massacre was one he would look at with sadness on both parts; the families of both the victims and the teens responsible must be going through hell. He could only imagine the events that led up to their decision to kill. This took him back to a time when he was a teenager. When he was their age, actually.
A time when he was the outcast, the loser and complete and utter loner. He knew what it was like to look at humanity and see nothing worth liking. To hate every other human with every fibre of your being.
He remembered the trapped feeling, wanting to escape and he remembers it so well he feels it again now. He wanted to be heard, to put out his opinion but he was backed into a corner.

Even his later years and now; going to parties and having sex with moderately attractive strangers was fun, nice sometimes even.
But amongst the drugs, chaos and women there was still this awful ball of empty anxiety in his chest because he realised a long time ago that none of it really means anything.

He realised things and saw things and it hurt but nobody else seen or cared about them and he felt stuck in this bubble.

He felt the seat dip next to him and looked up to see Twiggy; "Hey"

Manson sat up and tried to look proper, "So apparently I killed 15 people"

Twiggy looked confused then looked down, "Pogo?"

The singer chuckled lightly, but added seriously "Columbine, they're saying its our fault"

His hands where clasped together and he stared at them. Feeling the uncomfortable silence blur out over everything. He could tell Twiggy was trying to think of something to say, to avoid the obvious "thats bullshit, ignore it" because he knew that wouldn't work. Twiggy traced through his thoughts to try and piece together something clever to say. But he couldn't. Manson could, he was good at those things, but that's why he was a writer - he could string a sentence together that was both clever and beautiful.

So Twiggy puts his hand on top of both of the singers, separating them in order to lace his with the others and rubbing softly. Manson let his eyes land on the hands then looked up to meet his best friends gaze. This wasn't a time to be defensive, he didn't want to push Twiggy away, to turn of his phone and lock himself away in his room with Lily and paints and get a little drunk. That was a coping mechanism and one he used many times before but it wasn't nice. So he leaned forward, instantly arms where laced around him and they fell into a more comfortable silence on the embrace.

Twiggy knew not to push him further, he knew he wouldn't open up any more - well in fact that was him opening up and he knew adding words would turn into awkwardness, anger or tears so he stayed quiet rubbing his friends back as he held onto him tightly. Even sex wouldn't be needed. He just wanted to connect with somebody, he trusted Twiggy enough to see him at his most vulnerable and not laugh or judge or avoid him. He offered comfort and reassurance and he needed that more than anything else right now.

Marilyn appreciated him and loved him to death, he really did. It was just hard to show people that sometimes. The thought of getting close to somebody then being left was terrifying and he was lucky enough to have never experienced that with Twiggy and he hoped he never ever would.