Manson slowly dragged his feet across the cement ground, sulking. With his dark hood over his bright blue eyes staring blankly at the ground, music blared in his ears. His eyes, they looked so lifeless, so bleak, so unforgiving. Looking up an empty road ahead of him lay, fog creeps in, making it darker, damper, more, more lonely. Silence. Completely silent, the air was so still. Abruptly turning, Manson hops up the stairs to an old stone house, with a dry-rotted door. Walking in then slamming it, he sealed off the world outside. Abandoning what was already deserted.
Inside the old house, a small skinny dog approaches and licks the 5í11 foot tall boy. Manson patted the excited white mutt before plopping on the couch. As his eyes start to close, the images come..
** [Blood curdling screams] blood splattered the walls; a man with a knife violently stabs my mom and sister. All I can do is watch. Watch and hide. I heard their screams, their pleas for help. Blame! They say I did it! Aaaahhh the voices! They say Iím guilty! That I did it! I didnít, I swear! ((You did!)), the voices, they scream.**
Manson gasps his breath short and quick. Fear tingles within. Awake, he laid in the empty room. Next to him the white dog curled up and asleep. Pulling the dog closer, Manson tries to forget. Starting to shiver, he remembers the voices, the dreams, and his family. Crying so hard, he choked and couldnít breathe. As he calmed his self, the night passes.
His stomach growled, and he has to pee, another typical morning.