Trapped In Nowhere

Another stretch of madness

He takes the vat with the disinfectant and the fire breather with him. Excitement builds up harder in him. The satisfaction he gained through Nancy's suffering and death is slowly waning again. Somehow a phenomenon that he can feel something like a fulfillment in this place with such circumstances. Churned up, panting while having brook-like outbreaks of sweat, he sets the bled out scab that divides his stomach, into blazing flames, after he first moved the tapeworm-long, thick, fleshy thing that squeezes inside him like a labyrinth, his bowel to its original place and tries to hide it in the holey-skin and muscle curtain, with what he is suitably successful.

Blaring and lamenting, weeping too with wildly shuddering hands, Marilyn Manson gives the heated fire the permission to burn a coating on his curdled stomach. A protective shield.

(Manson's poV)
As if innumerable, poisonous insects, hornets or something like that, put their hot, pain-rending acid into my stomach. Flowing, but also tugging, biting with rather blunt teeth that pluck the skin from my scraped bones, this is how this burn feels, which I do to myself in my blossoming madness. The remaining power that I collect like candy, distributed chaotically in a wide room, evaporates and flows dissolved with the wind. My arms are getting weaker and more tired, as if bags with very heavy chunks are attached to my wrists. I can't hold the fire breather any longer. It hits the floor, turned off. My screams fall silent. I sway in weakness to myself, so does the heat that has just patched my stomach together. But I still feel it clearly. A hammering, pulling throb. Death literally holds out his hand to me, but I don't put my hand in his, or at least I try to. I challenge myself to ignore these shady but bright points of light that are floating around in front of my nose. They resemble a group of fireflies at night. In a way, they're actually beautiful and comforting. I desperately force myself to resist their hypnosis and close my tearful, tired eyes. In a bad sense, they manage to shimmer through my eyelids as if my face was turned at the sun. Holy shit, when was the last time I even got a glimpse of the sunlight or a touch of it on my skin? I don't even know what it feels like to breathe fresh, cold air, or even take a deep breath. My current breaths are fast, irregular and sometimes cut off. The air in here is stuffy and smelly. As if it were old. It feels like a big, big lump is in my dry, sore throat. Not only am I dying from the injuries and the psychological torture that some serial killer is doing to me, no, of course it gets worse - lack of food and fluids with such overexertion add to that. My throat is uncomfortably itchy, and my fragile voice is hoarse when I manage to make a sound. When the fascinating, at the same time scary little dots seem to be obsessed with me, I turn around. Away from them. I turn my back on the path of death in the high point of my supposed end times. I notice how the suction that they chase in my direction to lure me into their claws subsides. I calmly fold the smeared black lids of my eyes upwards and the suction and the flashing spots, like the feeling of weightlessness, took flight from my perception. I think the universe didn't want me to stay on the astral plane yet. It didn't want to take my time away yet. I have a few more things to do on this strange planet here, and the universe seems to agree with me on that. I thank it that I have at least still one chance, one try, to save Christina and maybe myself too ...

More exhausted than ever before in his life, awakening from the rigidity of a near-death experience, manson stumbles straight down the path. It was a ticked box in the calendar of his planning to heat his jaw in order to achieve what he has achieved with his stomach, but now he lacks every drop of strength for that. Not only the physical strength, but especially precisely the willpower. He just leaves it behind. The upcoming rooms are similar to laboratories, but actually they look exactly like the hospital-like, bulky rooms he wandered through before. Sometimes manson swings back and forth in his thoughts as to whether he is really going further or going in circles. He is so lost, he stutters with a sickly voice some confused stuff that no one would understand. It is incomprehensible and quiet. He vegetates to himself, in his disintegrating brain, which begins to produce hallucinations. Because unexpectedly he sees me. I am standing a few meters away from him. I wave him to me and shout: "Come on, Marilyn, come on. I know how the route continues. It won't be long before we made it. But hurry up, we only have an hour and twenty-five minutes left." Then the illusion runs away and Manson follows "me" at a pace that can keep up with "me". He doesn't say anything as if he had the knowledge and understanding for everything here ... understanding for me. Well, that's most likely the way I know Marilyn, so. "I" lead him down the stairs. In a dark cellar. "C-hristina w-wait for m-me" he stutters, but I, the fata morgana, don't listen. "P-please ... I-i'm sorry ... if I did something w-wrong ..." repeatingly his are eyes wet. Filled with tears, they seem even more glassy. He is feeling the stony wall with his hands when, after a few seconds, he feels the light switch and activates it.