Lest we forget our friends

Later that night, I ended up back at that bar. Drowning myself in shots of all sorts (that’s including whiskey), watching the pretty boy get photographed from afar. His make-up was now perfect again; he had changed his clothes into something more formal, a dark gray suit, black t-shirt underneath, all very form fitting. I still had on the same all dark contrasting get-up, jacket hanging on the back of my stool, his lipstick still smeared around my lips.

I was dirty. But I felt very numb. And though that numbness was only mainly physical now, I realized that: like when on stage, we were separated by Marilyn Manson.

I decided to approach him on my way to leave, brushing through a couple of young Goth girls with their flashing digital cameras, who happened to recognize me. They tried to grope me, and curl their fingers into my new hair, which made me smile. As I slithered away from them, I found John, who seemed to tease me, “Having fun?”

“Fuck you.” I mouthed, giving him the finger.

“Yeah, and you’re still a fucking slut, do you know that?”

I laughed. I couldn’t do anything but start laughing. I really couldn’t stop myself. He just looked at me, the empty spaces above his eyes tightening, and with much sarcasm, I kissed him quick, my lips smacking loud against his cheek.

“Well, I’ve gotta go settle something before I decide to fuck you again.” I whispered, still chuckling.

“You love being used and abused.”

I heard those words before. I knew them by heart, despite of the fact that they were being worn in a different way and light. Why was he using it on me? I hated that his face was a clean slate and his voice so cold.

“I love fucking too.” I tugged the collar on his t-shirt, letting the elastic band slap back against his skin. I was completely intoxicated, and I needed to call a cab before I became ‘verbally’ unstable. I had more liquor in my blood than a winery.

And unfortunately, as I walked away, trying my best to not turn back to stare at his porcelain face, I wasn’t broken by this. I didn’t know what it was that I wanted from John 5. All I knew was that I was goddamned drunk and pissed off because he didn’t tell me what I wanted to hear.

There was a huge gap now. Like we couldn’t comprehend one another unless Manson was there to hold it all together. He was the operator disconnecting our telephone lines.

John should already know why I left, and I’m sure he left for the very same reason.


…Or did he?