Chapter One
The venue is small and packed to the brim, a dark, sweaty room where the walls seem to pulse with the raw energy of the crowd. The stage is barely a step up from the floor, and the air is thick with the smell of beer, cigarettes, and sweat. The dim lights cast long shadows that dance with the beat of the music, making everything feel alive, like it's breathing in time with the pounding bass.
Marilyn Manson and the Spooky Kids take the stage, and the crowd surges forward, a wave of black leather and thrashing limbs. The sound is deafening, raw, and unpolished, but it has a kind of magnetic pull that's impossible to resist. They launch into "Lunchbox," the guitars screeching, and Marilyn's voice cuts through the noise like a knife. The lyrics are aggressive and rebellious, the perfect soundtrack to the chaos unfolding in the room.
I'm pushed and shoved, but I don't care. I'm caught up in the energy, the sheer intensity of the moment. The music wraps around me, and for the first time, I feel like I'm part of something bigger—something that matters. For someone who's never truly felt like they belonged anywhere, this moment feels like a lifeline, tethering me to something real, even if just for a little while. They follow up with "Get Your Gunn," and the crowd goes wild, the floor vibrating under our feet. Marilyn is a force on stage, commanding and chaotic, with a presence that fills every inch of the room.
By the time they end with "Dope Hat," I'm drenched in sweat, my heart racing. The show was everything I didn't know I needed, and as the lights come up, I'm not ready for it to be over. But the crowd begins to thin out, and reality slowly creeps back in.
As I make my way to the exit, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn to see Marilyn standing there, his makeup smudged, his eyes dark and intense under the harsh lights.
"I'm taking you home," he says, his voice low and insistent.
"No, that's alright," I reply, shaking my head. I don't want this night to end, don't want to be thrown back into the uncertainty of my life.
"Come on, Cece. It's late. Don't fight me."
"I'm not fighting you..." I pause, feeling a lump in my throat. "I don't have a home for you to take me to."
His expression shifts, concern etched into his features. "You mean you're homeless? How?"
I give him a look that says it all—how do you think?
"No, I mean, how is it that a sixteen-year-old girl doesn't have a place to call home?"
I take a deep breath, the words spilling out before I can stop them. "Not a safe home anyway. The government doesn't care if the roof they put over my head is stable or safe. They just place kids with people and cart them off to prison when shit goes wrong. I'd rather not be the reason someone goes to prison, so I left."
He's silent for a moment, processing what I've just said. The noise of the venue fades into the background, leaving just the two of us standing there.
"Where do you sleep?" he asks quietly, his voice softer now.
"Playgrounds mostly. Sometimes a local pastor lets me sleep in his church. It's safe, and I appreciate it, but I don't like being preached at."
He stares at me, and I can see the gears turning in his head. Without another word, he grabs my hand and starts walking, leading me through the dimly lit backstage area.
"Come on," he says.
"What are you doing?" I ask, trying to keep up with his long strides.
"I'm not leaving you to sleep wherever. You're coming to the hotel with me tonight. We'll figure shit out in the morning. I'm fucking tired."
YOU ARE READING
The Ties That Bind: Portrait Of An American Family
Fanfictie"Don't do that!" I blurt out, my voice sharper than I intended. "Sorry," he says, stepping closer, his voice low and almost hypnotic. "I didn't mean to scare you." "When you sneak up on people, you're bound to," I snap, trying to hide my nervousness...
