Trapped In Nowhere

A little rise of some strength

(Manson's perspective in the vision)

I'm lying on a gray operating table in a white, sterile room. I'm not dead and the doctors don't analyze my corpse. I'm only heavily anesthetized, unfortunately. Because I wish that I was dead after all these traumatic things that I've been through. Because then I could no longer feel, could no longer remember. One of the workers in this hospital leaves the operating room briefly and comes back after a few minutes with two snow-colored boxes. This person lifts the lid, reaches in with the green gloves and brings out a human jaw. One that is exactly adapted to my head shape. It looks exactly like my own jaw, which I tore off while I was still locked in this cell. In the other box, a folded flap of skin. It seems so scary to me, and as if the thing that happened to me was just a creative joke of black humor. How funny that would be, maybe even a weak, ironic giggle would catch from my mouth. I don't know how I would react if I were awake now. Unpredictable. They push the also white cloth away from my face. The distortion is now exposed. I'm a puzzle with a piece missing But soon, I'll be whole again. Red meat, the upper teeth and a tongue hanging from the bottomless throat is catching their eyes, along with a skinless area from neck to head. Scissors, seams and needles have been ready for a long time. Now the operation begins ....

Manson frantically remembers the time and that he only has seven hours. Without his lower jaw, he cannot speak or scream. Just a little, incomprehensible noise, like crying. It feels like the burden of the whole situation is eating into him. He shakes the cell door, pulls on it, tries to kick it in and hits his hands so hard against the hard and cold iron that his knuckles start to bleed, and over time even more and more because he doesn't stop. As careless as he is now, he uses his skinless, red-discolored, fleshy forehead and bashes with his head vigorously, often against it, until his forehead cracks a little and paints larger, thicker blood stains on this damned door. Pinching headaches pulsate through his skull makes him stop. Because if he dies it means the end for both of us.
Suddenly his dirty, battered body squirms, his back stings upwards and the sounds of gagging fill the sick emptiness of this lonely room, which is part of a building that is definitely stuck somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Marilyn Manson pukes nothing but stomach acid, mixed with a bit of blood, which splatters on this still closed door and runs down the battered, old bars in slow motion. In the claws of his monstrous desperation, Marilyn begins to cry. Now everything looks to him like the view of a damaged camera, unclear and blurry. Something like when he woke up in here. He still has 4 hours, then it's game over, manson will be stuck here forever and i will die if he fails.

He will now do what he wanted to avoid all the time. He grabs a pipe, tears it until it bounces down and has a good size. He hesitates for a while longer, but then he thinks of me, of himself and our future together. Marilyn spots a razor-sharp edge on the shattered end of the pipe and rammed it quickly and coldly into his stomach. Stinging, burning pain pierces him, increasing his feeling of being empty inside and giving him another reason to feel that way at all. A stream of blood rushes out, some parts of his organs hang from the open, fresh and extensive wound like the loops of trees in the air. When enough had been torn, he throws the used pipe out of his reach so that both of his hands are free, whose fingernails look like beetle wings, by the way, to rummage around in his energyless flesh, chasing the target to finally find the key. And then, in some area of ​​his exposed flesh, Marilyn grabs the key that the stranger has hidden well in his body. Manson pulls the key out of its unimaginable hiding place and excitedly and finally opens this cell door. When Marilyn Manson got hold of the key in his sweaty, bloody and battered hands. He turns it in the lock as the door moves, he opens it carefully and vigilantly, and steps out. Freedom from this prison-like room.
Now he and I have 3:30 hours left.