Man That You Fear (Marilyn Manson)

Part 2: The Wife

  The girl that always picked on Evangeline, Heather, spun around and around in the middle of our community, a sack on her head and a red flag streaming down from her hand that was extended out in front of her, pointing. She was the one who did the 'choosing' every year on the day of The Stoning. I knew Evangeline hated her, and I couldn't say that I liked her too much either, though I was an adult and should have probably been more mature than that. Still, the girl picked on my daughter, so there wasn't too much for me to like about her anyway. Her always smug face didn't help either.

  I was leaned up against the wall where the sliding glass door on our trailer would normally be shut though now it was open. I had my arm held up in front of me, resting on the glass door and my other arm at my side, my hand on my stomach. Evangeline stood a bit inside the house beside me, staring out at Heather as well. Evangeline was growing up, I thought to myself. It seemed like just yesterday when I stood in this very same position, staring out at another child spinning, the only difference being that the child inside my stomach that time was Evangeline.

  I looked over at Evangeline who stood there watching Heather intensely. I felt like I had been the one who was doing something wrong in raising her this way, in a world like this where The Stoning was held. But I knew it wasn't my fault, and I knew she was a smart little girl who didn't enjoy The Stoning like the other children and even adults did. She knew that The Stoning was wrong. I wondered if somehow she would help to change the whole thing in her lifetime.

  I lifted my gaze back up to Heather as she began to slow her spinning a bit, and finally stopped. It didn't register to me at first, and not for a few moments after the girl had pulled off the sack on her head, pointing at us and shifting her feet so as to not fall over from dizziness. My heart sunk to my stomach as I realized that she was pointing directly at our own house, the new House of the Condemned. Evangeline realized at the same moment and spun, taking off into the house. I closed my eyes and bowed my head in grief. It couldn't be him.

  I breathed in so that I wouldn't choke and maybe even cry out, and I turned my body back into the house, still leaning a bit on the wall. I held my gaze sideways, unable to look at him for a moment, but then returned my sight to him, laying there asleep, his perfectly smooth bare back and his arms over his face on the pillow, tattoos up and down them, and his long black hair. Evangeline stood there, her hands on his arm, gently shaking him to wake him up. She turned her head to look at me with her pretty little eyes at the sound of my feet shifting. I bowed my head a small bit in a sort of nod, and she dropped her hands and retreated to her little room at the other side of our trailer house. He was awake now, lifting his body up as she left the room...

  He sat up, his black hair falling gently over his shoulders and down his back, and looked up at me with his beautiful dark eyes. His eyes are what caused me to notice him the first time, as they stared down at me as we paraded towards the area of The Stoning many years back. I hadn't noticed him walking beside me, I was staring at the ground, but when I finally looked up, he was walking there beside me, looking down at me. Our eyes met and I could barely stop gazing into them.

  We didn't speak at all, but we stood next to each other during The Stoning. When it was over, we turned to walk back to our houses in the community, and every time I would look up, he would be staring at me with his neither frowning nor smiling face, like he was studying me. We went our separate ways, but saw each other every day while doing our daily things. Finally, he asked me to go out with him, and I got over my shyness, at least around him. He made me feel much more happy than my family ever had. No one had cared for me there, and it had been an enormous relief to escape from them.

  He would always listen to me when I needed someone, and he was always there. No one else had ever been like that to me and I became dependent on him. He would always tell me that he was going to get me out of that place, my family's house. My dad was a drunk and would hit me often, and my mother would never do anything about it, seeing as she was a drunk as well. One night after he had taken me to our private place in the hills, I'd gotten home to where my dad sat on the front porch, immediately shouting at me for going off again. He rose and backhanded me across the face hard as soon as I walked up the steps. He was still in front of our house and came running. He helped me up carefully and wrapped his arms around me protectively.