Guest Blogger: David Anderson

Lipstick

there were two hours until the concert began. marilyn manson sat astride his dressing-room stool, staring blankly at his reflection in the mirror. he'd already finished his white foundation, and was beginning to outline the black circles of eyeliner around his eyes.

he remembered how at sixteen, when he'd first borrowed his sister's eyeliner, his mother had cried. she hadn't yelled, hadn't told him to take it off, had only looked at him dejectedly before burying her face into her hands, sobbing. forget her, marilyn thought. this is who i am. i don't have to conform to her hypocritical idea of what i should be.

but as he finished the last black ring and lifted the lipstick to his face, he thought, this is the hardest part. he thought of how his mother used to tell her friends proudly how little marilyn was the best science student in the whole sixth-grade class, how he was going to grow up to be a doctor just like his father. that was before his father had left his mother.

the days were a blur now, of orgies and shattered hotel rooms and screaming fans and drugs.

he finished the lipstick and smacked his lips together, as a single tear rolled down his cheek, tracing a crooked path through the white powder on his face.