Fallen Angel

Chapter 4

“Shit, what took you so fuckin’ long?  I leave, and it’s twenty minutes later!”

“She moved!” Marshall replied with elation.

“Moved?”

“I think, at least…”

“What?  How can’t you know?”

“I think I felt her squeeze my hand…like, real soft.”

“Man, you’re probably imaginin’ shit now.  You’re hopin’ for too much.”

“I called in the nurse, and she was sayin’ how it might’ve happened, but it also just might’ve been some reflex reaction…”

“See, you’re already getting into this too deep!  You’re practically dancing with the slightest movement.”

“Can’t a man be happy?  You saw her—she’s barely alive; of course I’m happy she’s moving!”

“Boy, it was in your mind!  You were just wishin’.”

“Whatever,” Marshall glared at his friend and fastened his seatbelt.  “Take me to my hotel, will you?  I’m sick of discussin’ this shit with you, and I’m tired as hell.”

“If you promise me somethin’.”

Marshall groaned silently.  “What the fuck do you want?”

“You gotta promise me you’re gonna think this through.  Like, you ain’t gonna hop a cab and see her at nine am tomorrow.  If you’re going take on the task to help her, you’re gonna be making sacrifices left and right—so I want you to pay close attention to what things you might be giving up.”

“Oh, please, stop being such a drama queen,” Marshall mumbled.

“Like your career.  You can’t tour, you’ll have to work at home…”

“I just got off tour, man.  I tour every, like, two years.  I work at home most of the time anyway.  I’ll think about this, though,” Marshall conceded.  “Really, Dre.  I’ll think about it logically.”

“I hope for your sake—and my peace of mind—that you do.”

“I will, damn it!”

~*~

Marshall flicked through the limited television stations that the hotel was receiving, finally settling on turning the thing off as nothing interesting was catching his eye—nothing that could distract him from a young woman wrapped in white and laced in scarlet in a lonely hospital bed.

He groaned loudly and leaned against the headboard of his ruffled bed.

“Jesus, what the hell am I going to do?”

He’d quit his pacing an hour earlier; his feet were tired when he started, and he felt ready to collapse after a good half hour of wearing the plush carpet to its thinnest fibers.  At least, though, the constant movement had kept his mind a little less jumbled—just fractionally more focused.

Laying down teased his eyelids—they wanted to close on him; it was a continuous struggle to keep them from shutting—from staying shut and shut tightly.  With darkness enveloping him as his eyelids drooped, memories and nightmares danced across his mind—in vivid displays of scorching color and horrifying images.

Of her body splayed across the highway, off to the side, limbs twisted in positions he’d never known the body could be manipulated in—the way her hair was blood-soaked; her locks covered in it, making the color indistinguishable.  Being in his hotel room, he could still smell the mountain breeze and the smell of copper and gore in the air.

Angrily, he shook his head to clear his thoughts of the sickening illustrations being painted for him.

“She’s safe.  She’s at a fuckin’ hospital, for Christ’s sake…” he reprimanded himself for his concern, when it wasn’t warranted—when he was struggling not to make her life his concern, his problem, his responsibility.

What Marshall did next was unjustifiable—nothing could explain the causation of the lightning fast act; and it would be impossible to come up for a logical reason why he’d already memorized the number for the hospital.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Marshall—”

“Mathers?”

“Yes, that’s me.  How’s she doing?”

“Same as she was when you left, sir.  Stable, which is the best we can expect right now.”

“Thanks,” he sighed and slammed down the receiver into its cradle.

“You’re losing it,” he chastised as he stood up.

~*~

“Don’t think you can escape me, bitch,” Dre replied as Marshall attempted to slam the door in his face.

“It’s too early for this shit, man.”

“It’s nine am.  I wanted to make sure you didn’t run before we had a chance to talk.”

“Don’t you mean you talk, I listen?”

“Yeah, but it sounds better with a we in it.”

 ~*~

“So, did you think about it last night?”

“Until I knocked myself out.”

“Come again?”

“Nothing.  I was so fuckin’ exhausted after awhile that I just feel asleep.”

“Did you come to any conclusions?”

“Sort of.”

“I don’t like the sound of that…”

“It’d never work, but I’m going to wait until she wakes up before I make my final decision.”

“Oh, hell!”

“Look, at the very least I wanna see her when she wakes up, regardless of whether or not I’m gonna stick around after that.”

“Just like a woman to have you all twisted around her finger.  God damn.”

“It’s not her fault she’s in the hospital.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”  

“That girl was beaten with the intent to kill.  How the hell is that her fault?  What in the world could merit that kind of violence?  Nothing.  Absolutely nothing!”

He was livid in his anger—it was something palpable; the air cracked as if it was strung with an electric current.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry I said it,” Dre replied patronizingly.  “I didn’t expect you to be so damned diplomatic about the situation, Marsh.  Shit, I was hoping you’d come to your senses and come back to Detroit.  Leave this mess behind…”

“I can’t do that!  You know I can’t,” he emphasized.

“Yes, Marshall, you can.  You just don’t want to.”

Chapter 5

Author: zines@aol.com

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These stories are for entertainment purposes only.  They are completely fictitious, and the authors mean no harm to EMINEM, his family, friends, or anyone else that may have been depicted as a 'real life' character.  No money was made on the fiction here, either directly or indirectly, i.e. paid advertising. In other words - it's just a bunch of shit we wrote for fun. Please don't take it seriously.