The Speed Of Pain

Separation Anxiety

Chapter Eight

Modesto, California

March 31st, 1998

Charlotte

I thought the time I spent missing this man between Christmas and New Year was bad... The ache of missing him has intensified since our intimate encounter, making the time apart feel unbearable. 

Last night, a nightmare about him only exacerbated these feelings. In the dream, we were adrift in the ocean on separate rafts, drifting further apart with each gust of wind. I called out to him, but it was as though he couldn't hear me or chose not to. I woke up drenched in sweat, my heart pounding with an inexplicable sense of dread.

I've thrown myself into work this morning, attempting to shake off the lingering unease from the dream. As a third-generation Cajun, my mother's family places great significance on dreams, seeing them as potential signs or warnings. While I'm aware of this belief, I also know how unreliable dreams can be. The message may not necessarily be about Marilyn himself but rather conveyed through him as a familiar symbol to my subconscious.

Despite my reservations, I can't shake the feeling that I need to discuss the dream with my mother. However, our last conversation didn't end well. She disapproved of my decision to join Dad for the remainder of Ozzfest and was even more outraged when I chose to accompany Marilyn to Canada. Her disdain for him stems from his rock persona, and she would likely interpret the dream as a validation of her concerns.

My mother's reaction is understandable, considering her past as a rock groupie and her apprehension about my association with Marilyn. If she knew about the substances I've indulged in with him, she'd be beside herself with anger, as would my father. While I've dabbled, it hasn't become a habit, and I'm determined to keep it that way.

Taking a break, I head to catering and fill my plate with fresh food, unable to shake the worry about Marilyn's well-being. I can't help but wonder when he last ate and if he's taking care of himself properly.

Picking up the phone I dial a familiar number.

" I'd like to order some food for delivery, " I say into the phone, determined to ensure he's nourishing himself adequately.

Marilyn

"Let's get it to-fucking-gether," I growl, frustration boiling over as I deal with incompetent people.

Since Char left for Modesto, I've been feeling like I'm in hell. Is this what missing someone feels like? Without her vibrant presence, everything seems bleak, and the mechanical routine of life feels suffocating. 

Mechanical Animals, indeed.

" Excuse me, Mr. Manson? " a studio worker interrupts.

I whirl around, snapping, " What? "

" There's a delivery man here for you, " he stammers.

Trying to reign in my temper, I reply, " I didn't order anything. "

" He says it's from Charlotte Osbourne, " he clarifies.

At the mention of her name, my irritation dissipates, and I stride out of the studio. " What is it? "

" I was just told to deliver this food and say it's from Charlotte Osbourne, " the delivery kid stammers under my unintentional intimidation.

" Twiggy! " I shout back into the studio. " Get your ass out here and help me with this food. "

There's a loud bang before Twiggy emerges. I roll my eyes and gesture to the food. Fishing out a fifty from my pocket, I hand it to the kid. " Thanks, kid. "