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

Mortician's Daughter

As all decisive conclusions must be, it is a rather short tale

Wow! So many reads so far!! Thank you ALL very very much. VERY much. Jiminy Crickets

***********

I heard myself sigh Brian's name.

Waking with a spooked sound, I pushed myself up into a sitting position and glanced around. I was in the wood still, I had really fallen asleep. He had haunted my dreams moments before.

I swore to myself that I heard him as clear as day, and felt his presence in my bones. I had that same lax feeling in my muscles that screamed to my brain that he was mine and he was real when I slept, the same feeling I always had before when I knew him.

It was only a dream. I remember it vaguely.

It was damn near 2 in the morning, and I was out of bed. I made haste to get back home, shy of a ten minute walk out of here.

The dream I had seemed so real, as if he stood before me aching to reach out to me and say something from beyond his grave. But he wouldn't give into his urge. There was a greater responsibility he had.

I remember him saying something about leaving. Not dying. Leaving.

The voice I had grown so fond of was so close and so real for a moment that I believed he was alive. Staying asleep was my only defense mechanism; if I had opened my eyes like I had wanted to and seen that I was hallucinating, it would've killed me. Or worse, made me distrust him. He would never fool me, would he?

I entered the house quietly and crept to my room, passing out on the bed. I was sick of being awake. Tomorrow was the funeral, and I would go despite the likelihood of provision by paparazzi, press, police, and worse, people in general. I'd grown into a pessimist over the last day or two, it seems.

Oh well, funerals are great places to become humble once again.

**

IMMURE. The word immure has five definitions. All of them have little appeal to any human preference of state. All of them were mouth fulls of words to describe the action of indefinite detention, dehumanizing, and evisceration of freedoms.

Brian was immured at the moment. Now he realized that the word was far too beautiful to properly fit the action. It was a pretty word for a horrific action.

It was like calling the act of leaping desperately from a building to a concrete city street and exploding on the pavement in all directions raining gore, blood and organs before the world plummeting. Plummeting was a beautiful word. Yet it can hold a dark secret as to what it means.

Brian's immure gave him a plummeting feeling.

Yet he could do nothing about it. He was paralyzed by Annie's drug coursing through his veins.

She dragged him into a place of holding in her morgue. Rows of fluorescent lights columned the ceiling and glowed harshly into his unblinking eyes, they watered. The drug was so powerful that it had seized every movable muscle of his being. He could barely breathe, he now realized, panicking him even more. His concentration focused on keeping him steadily breathing, not letting panic race his heart; years of singing and screaming came in handy at this dire moment, he relaxed his throat and steadily thought of his diaphragm. That was enough to keep him going for now. The space below his ribs moved laboriously, trying to obey his will to breathe.

Annie hovered over him. He was stiff as a board and was unable to follow her with his aching eyes, she disappeared and reappeared all the while erratically setting things about him. Things he couldn't see.