A/N: The last chapter was part of the hallucinations Lydia will experience throughout the story, much like Pink did in the original Pink Floyd album. I'm not sure if I managed to do a good job at it, because is not meant to be a complete translation of the album, just themes and images that I wanted to incorporate into my interpretation. Another important theme that hasn't been explored in Beetlejuice fics was how Lydia would react to her surrounding enviroment if both of her parents were out of the picture. I don't say that my fic is the definitive explanation of that's how she would end up, but it's just one of the many. There are some historical inaccuracies in order to make the entire storyline work, though I don't think it will ruin the overall experience.

Having said that, and if you really want to say something about it, I would appreciate it a lot if you gave any thoughts about the story and ways I could make it better. I have an image of how I wanted it to be and how close should stay to the album, but I would always love to hear what other people have to offer, and if I can accommodate that to the flow of my story. Either way, the story will carry on as I planned. Only hope that you still like it.

Chapter 2: The Thin Ice/Another Brick In The Wall, Pt. 1

Los Angeles, March 19, 1982

It was now 8:32 A.M and the hotel room that hosted the famous rock starlet, Lydia Deetz, was still as messed up as it was yesterday. The woman herself had no idea how she woke up back to the hotel, after the little stunt that opened her last concert, but she reached to the conclusion that perhaps it was one of her peculiar dreams of hers. The most unsettling aspect of that dream was how she ended up wearing a fascist uniform such as the one she donned for said concert, even more so than how she was able to instill a great deal of fury and anger to her loyal fans and let them go about their destructive route against the police and the minorities of the city.

While she was thinking about that, standing outside the room near the swimming pool that rested there, she decided that a swimming exercise in the pool would be the most relaxing she could do for the moment, since she had already put her red bathing suit almost two hours ago. But it was at this moment to let her yellow towel with the initials of the hotel to fall beside her and actually try to get into the water.

Once inside, she swam for some time, and then she thought she would like to take a break by relaxing near the middle of the pool and stare upwards, seeing the first stars making their entrance into the sky, though the sun hadn't fully set down.

She made an unconscious effort to stay floated in a position that had both of her legs locked together and her hands stretched in either direction, with her face looking up to the heavens. Her black hair was wrapped up in a messy ponytail and she started to feel uneasy for some reason, but it wasn't the water that was causing it. It was the memory of a single man, or more likely a part of her wild imagination.

''What if it wasn't?', the young woman thought to herself, a worried expression now framing her face. She was trying to process through her head who was that man in the trenches in the Anzio battlefield during WW II. She had recalled seeing a few pictures of him with a black-haired woman in her house when she was little, during the time a woman named Moira Mercer took her under her custody as her legal parent when both of the Deetz parents were wiped from the face of the Earth, and her life as well.

Now her mind drifted to images of soldiers falling down either shot or dead in a beachhead, and a few platoons of troops tried their best to protect their base from incoming enemy fire, only getting themselves caught in the crossfire. This time, however, another detail entered the picture of this hellish enviroment, a blonde man who screamed out when he realized that his own time was up once the bomber would throw its destructive element to decimate this man, his companions and their base.

The voice that seemed to come out of the depths of her own psyche provided a chilling song to accompany this brutal image, as Lydia tried her best to piece together all the war images that flooded her mind.

Momma loves her baby, and daddy loves you too.
And the sea may look warm to you babe

And the sky may look blue
Ooooh babe

She felt as though the person singing to it was her dead mother, but it felt more like something that Moira could have come up with. Her worries came true once the blue sky was slowly fading and darkness began to fill its place, as if on cue with this bizarre song she was hearing from

Ooooh baby blue
Oooooh babe.

She closed her eyes and the only image that filled her mind was only the one of the man she thought about yesterday. She started feeling more strange than usual once a string of words escaped her lips.

''Dad? Dad, its that you? Daddy? Dad, it's me, Lydia. Dad. Dad, where were you when I was born, Did you really die for a bunch of men who never stood on their own and they let you take their ''bullet'' instead of them? What the hell happened back there, Dad? Is there really something that Moira whore, that bitch never told me, so that she could always keep an eye on me? Is it true, Dad. I know you died there, but is it true? Dad, where are you now?

If you should go skating
On the thin ice of modern life

''Daddy, noooooo!'', Lydia screamed as she felt as if she was sliding on the surface by some unknown force again and again, never seeming to cease, until her mental image of her screaming father was replaced by the face of a bluish-painted figure, with its mouth wide open, as if screaming to her, or probably echoing the young woman's own scream.

Dragging behind you the silent reproach
Of a million tear-stained eyes

Don't be surprised when a crack in the ice
Appears under your feet.

Instead of sliding like a few minutes ago, Lydia now began to swirl around herself, disgusted by what she saw of what became of the pool water after her inner realization of the situation. When she opened her eyes, she noticed that the entire water had taken another shade, that of blood red. She became worried that the water was turned into the red color of blood because she had involuntarily taken the burden of the lives of all the men that died in the battle, including her father's, and she made her best effort to stop her manic swirling, but nothing helped her.

You slip out of your depth and out of your mind
With your fear flowing out behind you
As you claw the thin ice.

It was only after a few minutes that she started moving towards the surface of the area outside the pool, horrified by what turned out to be another one of her hallucinations, which it was confirmed when she turned her head when she came out to see that the pool water was still the same colour of blue as it was. Drying herself, the young woman moved back to her room, and tried to find something else to wear and how she could spend the rest of the day. One she had drown herself completely, she removed her red bathing suit and went to one of the chairs in the room to collect her discarded clothing, since she thought there was no point to throw another one of her booze-filled parties, not when opening night of her tour was tomorrow night, so she needed all her energy for this stunt.

Even though she had contemplated through time to time since her arrival to California that she could contact her husband, or better yet, tell that excuse of a manager of hers to piss off and find some other girl to promote the record company's new line of products, if not actual music, she came to the conclusion that the only best option available to her was buy her time doing something else.

If she wanted to leave the building she only had to inform the reception though the intercom, and any expense she would make for shopping or anything that she wanted to buy. She had planned to dye her hair back into her natural hair color for a long period of time, and if she hadn't time for that today, then perhaps she could squeeze in somewhere inside her schedule a quick visit to a decent hair stylist, because she didn't like the one they had in this hotel.

She only thought that these could help take those nightmares of hers away. The kind of medication she was prescribed to never mentioned any of those side-effects, but she had to know for sure before she went to the big event tomorrow night.

Not much to do after putting on the same clothing she had for the last two days, she went to light another cigarette and go back to her vanity to comb her hair, after unleashing from the black rubber that restrained them. She liked the way her hair were flowing down her shoulders, and once she found where she left her comb, she started massaging her head with it, more relieved that she could get to do something for the moment.

And that's when another memory hit her, one that was triggered when she saw her black hair and she recalled the time she was still a brunette, a time before she even signed her first studio album contract, before all this rock tour and fame shit happened.

She even recalled the voice of her husband, Bernie, when she told him that this was not her natural hair color, and he told her right away that day. what he thought about it.

I liked them great, but when will get them back to the way they were?'', was the reply of her husband, when she asked him what color did he liked the most.

Lydia had to contact him on the phone either tonight, or very early in the morning. The last time she called him, he told her that he had to visit a friend of his, but they we'll keep in touch. He promised her that he will wait here from where he was in Hartford, Connecticut.

She only hoped she could make it through the ordeal that awaited her in the next 24 hours, given that she didn't lost her sanity over a few memories that somehow made their appearance and somehow tried to stop her from keep going on with her life and career.

Not wanting to throw herself in another bond of some form of middle-age depression, she continued combing her hair, with her mind flowing to another memory this time. Her childhood at a Connecticut town named Winter River, as she was raised by the last person she considered a mother figure, her father's friend, Moira Mercer.

New England, Winter River, CT, 1956

An obese woman with a little nine-year-old girl in her school uniform were inside the local Catholic Church, which was somewhat deserted, save for another elderly couple and the pastor that went through his everyday chores of making sure that everything was in place.

She sat in one of the long chairs and started mumbled something in her praying the brown-haired girl wouldn't really understand. The girl was left two chairs beside the older woman to play with a miniature plane she had from one of her birthdays. She imitated the wiring sounds of an airplane crashing, landing, taking off and so on, not really caring what her legal guardian was talking about.

Daddy's flown across the ocean
Leaving just a memory.

The girl then noticed the woman going in another route of praying; tired of looking at her, she continued playing with her plane. A few hours after they returned home, she went to the park, sitting all by herself in one of the swinging chairs, staring at the other kids who were either playing on groups or with her parents, with happy faces and laughter feeling the park.

The brunette girl only had a bitter sense of disappointment painted in her face, and that was only accentuated when she saw a couple of days ago the names of the few American men who participated in the British conflict in Anzio, Italy. She was a bit shocked at first when she came to the name of her father. Despite her age and how people would perceive of her and her attitudes towards life and death in general, Lydia had become at that moment on the kind of person who tried to embrace death as a natural part of life, but never really like this.

She missed her mother, the woman she never got to meet because she passed away while giving birth to her, and her father was also one of the many casualties of the last great war, as many important people wanted to declare, though that wasn't true. And that was case, since all kinds of wars or conflicts were continuing in some form or another, so why did they ever called the ''War to end Wars'', to begin with?

A snapshot in the family album.
Daddy, what else did you leave for me?
Daddy, what d'ya leave behind for me?

With a single tear staining her right eye, Lydia stood up from the swinging chair and started walking towards the exit from the park, not wanting to deal with all those emotions of abandon and grief filling her all over again.

All in all it was just a brick in the wall.
All in all it was all just bricks in the wall.

Though she wasn't in the mood to call for any favors from her surrogate mother, it was perhaps the best she could do and ask her if it was alright to go visit the cemetery to find the name of her father. If none of that worked and told her that she was still too young to understand, then once she was older, she would find the ones who thought her father was one of the best men they thought they could spare for the war effort in aiding the British.

She still couldn't believe it, as she was returning to the house on the hill, that both parents will never be with her to see her grow up and be a real family like all those people she saw earlier this afternoon.

She hoped she would be wrong on that account, as much as she convinced herself for the contrary. She only hoped that was the case, after all.