If Marilyn Manson had 3 Days to live: The Conclusion Story

Don't call it a game, Don't call at all!

Annie might make sense if you remember in the last book: "Remember when you broke up with that last girl- the 19 year old? . . .You made me promise that I wouldn't let you make a mistake like that again" Yeah. . . Read on! :D

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The phone rang. And it rang. And it rang.

My bedroom door was locked, I lay as limp and lifelessly depressive as a fallen tree in a dead forest. I was hardly distinguishable among the other things I lay amidst. I could have been a blanket, or a pillow. . .I moved not, and thought not. I lay, and only wished.

Begging for the wish I gave away.

I could have wished him with me.

"He. . .hated me." I said, scaring myself. My voice was raw. The tears had stopped, my head was so hot it burned them all away. "He hated me for leaving him, and he killed himself."

I hadn't thought about him for a year. Not even during my birthday, where I'd realized I had everything. I didn't stop to think that he was missing. If I had at least wished like the pathetic little princess I was to have him there, (even if it didn't come true), I would have at least been humble of the thought of him. That would have been something. But no.

I didn't know what I had until I lost it.

I rolled over and faced the night stand. My iPod was in, and I scrolled with the remote through the artists; selecting him.

His gorgeous voice began to sing in a live concert recording I had bootlegged from youtube.

He wouldn't have minded, would he? It's just pirated music.

I still owed him more than .99 on iTunes. I owed him my life.

I hadn't thought of last year, but now it was all too prudent to regurgitate all of the horrible and beautiful things I had seen.

"You saved my life, Brian," I whispered, "I was trapped, and hopeless, and you. . ." tears finally choked out of me, "kept me going."

That warehouse was horrible. I was kept there for how long? Three days? I closed my eyes, trying not to see it, but I did. Curling my fingers into the blanket under me grounded me to reality. I was home, I escaped.

Brain was there to help me. That's how I escaped. 

His face was finally in my mind's eye.

He turned 43 in January. He still looked like the rock star he was when he was 20. Sleek black hair; Light skin with tales of Tattoos on his arms, chest and back; His dark, romantic eyes that could see through your soul. When he smiled the flesh of his cheek bones made the most adorable wrinkles on the corners of his eyes.

He rarely smiled though. He made up for it by always talking, and always having something important to say. Even when he was drunk or scared or immature.

His voice was the best part of him. It melts me down into the ground. I feel small, but mezmirized. People have worshipped his voice, his song, and his words longer than I have. But I know that I loved it the most.

"I love you, Brian." I kissed my iPod, where his face was on the screen. Was it really the only I thing I had of his?

No it wasn't. The ring!

I hovered over my jewelry box and found it in its place on a cushion. Taking it out, I saw my reflection in the black glass and remembered what he told me:

" this will always be yours. The last fraction of my black heart in existence. In the center is my love, your face will always reflect off of its darkness, it's up to you to wear it on your line or not "