White Room
Disclaimer: I do not own Marshall Mathers, his family, his friends, or any famous celebrity for that matter and this story was not meant to harm anybody (Basically, I wrote this story out of boredom!) I do own, though, Sara Tyler and her family and friends (with the possible exception of Medea Tyler who is... well, you'll find out who this person is). Also, be forewarned that there are some graphic sex scenes so please heed the NC-17 warning label... Thank you and enjoy!
Introduction: For the people who don't know who Sylvia Plath is: She was a famous American poet in the early 60's who often used her personal life as inspiration for her poems. She had many issues with both her father (who she characterized as a nazi devil in "Daddy") and her mother (who was characterized as an unsympathetic mother in her book "The Bell Jar"). Throughout all her life she dealed with depression and anxiety. She married the famous English writer Ted Hughes who cheated on her. Finally, at the age of 31, Sylvia Plath committed suicide.
As you can see: even though she died ten years before Eminem was born, both have so much in common. You could even say that Sylvia Plath can be considered the "Female Eminem" (or more accurately, Eminem is the "Male Sylvia Plath"). First of all, the story was formulated in my head way before I decided to add these poems into my story so my story was not directly inspired by Plath or her poems. However, as I started thinking about my story and then reading Plath's poems, the more I realized the similarities between both artists. Many of Plath's poems fit perfectly with the chapters (it's kind of eerie!) so I decided to add the poems (and name the chapters after them) as a special treat... I hope you enjoy!
In addition, during the chapters featuring the POV of the character Sara Tyler, I used Ted Hughes' poems. Ted Hughes was an English poet who married Sylvia Plath. They soon separated when Sylvia found out that he had been cheating on her with another woman. Soon afterward, Sylvia Plath committed suicide and her fans retaliated by going to Ted Hughes' poetry readings yelling "Murderer!"... He has had to deal with the stigma of being Plath's cheating husband... For many years he wouldn't talk about Sylvia until in 1998 when he published "Birthday Letters" which were a collection of poems addressed to Sylvia 40 years after her death.. In the poems, Hughes gives his side of the story so they're very interesting and SO APPROPIATE for Sara.. It is as if Sara (through Hughes) is answering back to Marshall (Sylvia)...Chapter 1: Mirror
Excerpt from Mirror by Silvia Plath
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me.
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me, she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fishWhite room… I dreamt about that fucking white room again. And it was the same dream too. I’m stuck in a room of pure white! It’s fucking blinding… I start getting short of breath and my blood freezes completely. My eyes desperately dart around the room looking for an escape. Or even better, I search for something not white… a mark, a stain, shit anything! But I can’t! It’s all fucking white… I think about shouting for help, but the words die in my tongue.... All I can cry is this pathetic little yelp, barely audible because I was drowning in this white room… FUCK, I HAFTA WAKE UP!
And I woke up…. I don’t even know why I worry so much about that dream. No matter what, people always wake up from their nightmares. That fucking philosophy comes from my own experience. Every time I have the “white room” dream, I always wake up back in my own room (or hotel room which seems to be the case today). Anyways, I must have been contemplating for about 20 minutes in this hotel bed. The vomit green walls must have puked all over my bed sheets overnight because they are the same colors as the walls. I honestly do not even remember checking in to that hotel room. The smell of burning incense threatened to choke me out of my mediation while the alarm clock screamed, “Get up, lazy ass. It’s 9 in the morning!” What more can I say? I am a slave to time. I obediently followed its orders, sat up in the bed, and after noticing that I was naked, immediately began searching for my boxers.
“Baby?” groggily asked a voice next to me in the bed.
It was a naked woman. Barely a woman, I thought. I mean, she certainly had the fucking body of a woman, but she seemed like a little girl. Maybe it was the way she looked at me. She was a brunette – no, wait… she was definitely a blond, and I remember her big tits--- I mean, her big ass. I don’t know and frankly, I don’t even care about describing her. I swear her face must have blended right into the puke colored walls.
Great Marshall! Look what you dragged in! You must have slept with this ho-bag last night. I really hope you used condoms, dumbass.
Polite words… Polite words… “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Marshie baby! You leaving so soon?” she answered
.
Marshie? What the fuck? Where did I pick up this retard? After a one-night stand, she thinks she can call me “Marshie” like she’s known me all my life. I stifled a laugh.
“Yah… I need to go.” And after grabbing my boxers, I raced to the bathroom for a quick piss locking the door behind me.
Alone again, I thought, in this huge marble bathroom. Every bathroom accessory was made of marble with gold-covered handles. Except, I noticed, some dick forgot to put in a marble toilet. The pathetic toilet stood out because of its porcelain…. whiteness. White! The dumb thing had to be white!
Of course, the random groupie of last night already had made herself at home! Her bag lay open next to the sink with all her bathroom shit--- moisturizer, make-up, and razor for shaving her legs.
I then caught my reflection in the mirror and cringed at the disfigured monster I saw. All of the features of his face were crooked. Eyes--- off-center and dead. Lips--- bitten and broken. Nose--- narrow and pointy. His face was ghostly pale and old. Since the age of twelve, this man has followed me. However, I still had to make sure that this deceased-looking man was not completely dead. The man held his wrists up to the mirror. With his other hand, he grabbed the groupie’s razor blade and made a cut across the skin of his lower inner arms. The cut became more distinct as liquid of red thickened the line. Pretty soon, a little more blood was rushing from his veins across his skin until it dripped, staining the marble sink. THE MONSTER/MAN HAD NEVER FELT MORE ALIVE!
As he turned on the sink to wash the blood off his arm, the man admired all of the other scars on his wrists and arms. They were his Purple Hearts. Each garnered a different memory.
That fucking white toilet! It fucking stands out in this bathroom! I hate this goddamn color, and it is not because of my dream neither. The color is so fucking blinding because it is so fucking perfect. Think about it! White is always associated with perfection and purity. White is made up of all of the colors mixed together as if they all had to work together to achieve the unachievable. I believe it is an evil color. You see, it believes it is perfect, rather pretends it is perfect. But there is always an imperfection. There is always a mark and a stain even though it can sometimes be impossible to find. Whenever I see white, though, I hear the color arrogantly taunting me to my face. Shit, how can a color so invisible be so goddamn visible to me?
I decided if I couldn’t find the imperfection, I would make one. With the groupie’s red lipstick in her bag, I made a huge red mark on the lid of the toilet. The taunting temporarily stopped.
“Marshall! Baby! Jenny wants to join you in the shower!” proclaimed a voice from outside the bathroom.
Oh, Jenny! That was her name! “I’m not taking a shower just yet. You can shower first if you want.” I unlocked the bathroom door.
The still naked Jill (sorry, Jenny) entered the bathroom with the excitement of a kid in a toy store. She marveled at the marble bathroom accessories as if she had never been in this room before (Obviously, the bitch had seen all this shit before when she left her bag in here.) Her tanned hands with long pink fingernails caressed the gold-encrusted sink handles.
“Wow, this room must be really expensive. Look at the gold!” she squealed. Dumb bitch. Of course, the first thing she notices is the gold.
“Anyway,” she continued, “Don’t forget, baby, you promised me to take me sight-seeing today around New York.”
Oh! We’re in New York. That’s right. I remember.
“And if we’re still gonna go to Chez Pierre for dinner tonight, I need some money for a new dress. I got this really bad stain on my other one.”
Did I really promise her that or is this chick fucking with me?
“Oh, my god, I can’t wait to tell my friends that I’m dating Eminem. They are going to be so jealous!”
Holy fuck! What a bitch! I had to lose this chick fast. But, you know, I honestly tried to be frank with her. I tried to tell her the truth. I had this whole speech prepared in my mind about how this was just one-night stand and how Jody (I mean, Jill… no wait, Jenny) was just a money-grubbing slutty leech just like the three million hos that I have fucked for the last six years. However, the words froze on my tongue and the only thing that thawed out of my mouth was: “Lemme take a shower first! I just remembered I have to go!”
“No, let’s take a shower together. It will save time,” she said with hungry eyes just begging for sex.
I gave up. This bitch was never gonna leave me alone so why even try to kick her out of the bathroom. Besides, how can I turn down an offer for free sex? I took off my boxers, turned on the shower, and let the hot water pound my back. She followed me into the steamy area and started kissing my chest.
“Can I wash my hair first?” I impatiently asked and she nodded surprised at my annoyance. As I was scrubbing my hair, she used some soap and sponge to clean my body gently caressing every inch of my body. When she was done, she bent down and started licking my cock.
“CONDOM!” I yelled.
“But I’m clean,” she protested, “and I’m on the pill.”
“CONDOM!” I repeated.
I could tell she was starting to get annoyed, but I didn’t care. After the condom (my trusty trampoline that stood between life and death) was safely in position, she put her mouth over dick and started sucking it. As I kept pushing my dick inside her mouth, she kept making these weird moaning sounds that made her sound more ridiculous than sexy.
“Take the condom off, Marshall, I wanna swallow your cum,” she said in one of her breathing breaks.
“No, you don’t want to swallow my cum. And I’m not taking the condom off!” I answered.
“Why not, baby?”
“Because you don’t know where I’ve been and I don’t know where you’ve been. I don’t want to catch anything from you just as much as you don’t want to catch anything from me!”
She relented and instead of resisting, she turned around and bent over with her hands separating her ass cheeks, and said, “Fuck me! Fuck me hard!”. I complied as I pushed my erect cock into her, urging her buttocks toward my hips. With short, rhythmic thrusts, I entered in and out of her depths. She moaned and would scream out my name in orgasmic pleasure. Meanwhile, I think how can she get a fucking orgasm out of this? I can understand why it’s easy for me to have an orgasm, but I’m fucking her up the butt, and that shit has got to hurt. How does she get off? Then, the answer came to me. Ms. Jenny (that’s her name, right?) is thinking about all of the money that she can have access to when she becomes the new Mrs. Mathers. The fancy French restaurant and the shopping spree that I “promised” her must get her really sexually excited. Look at her! She’s fucking screaming. I bet right now she’s thinking, “Oh, my God. I’m going to be rich. He’s gonna buy me a new dress. I’m going to be famous! People will be so jealous of me… I’m gonna cum!”
“That was so good, baby!” she said after it was done, and we were putting our clothes back on. Please, I thought, stop lying. You fuck like every whore I’ve ever fucked, and I probably fuck like every other man you’ve ever fucked. Instead, I said, “I need to go.”
“Alright. But when are we going sight-seeing?” she asked.
“You know what. Can we please take a rain check on the sight-seeing and the restaurant? I’m sort of busy today doing some promotional stuff.”
“I see. Well, I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your work. How about the money for the new dress?”
At that moment, I noticed how cute Jessica (JENNY! JENNY!) was when she begged. I still can’t remember how she looked like, but I do remember that she pouted her lips in the hottest way. Besides, this chick did let me shove my cock up her ass. She worked hard for that money. The prostitute!
After I gave her $200 (this dress was according to the bitch “très expensive and yet très chic”), I started gathering all the trash left from my wild night. The empty bottles of gin were “Exhibit A” of the fun I had last night. I need to stop drinking! It costs too much!
“So, I guess I’ll call you and reschedule our date. What’s your phone number?” she asked.
“You know what, how about if I call you? Because I’m gonna be very busy this week.” I answered.
“Aww… You’re going to be stressed. Don’t worry. I’ll stay with you this whole week!”
“NO! I mean, no, please. You really don’t have to. You’re gonna get bored. Why don’t ya go and buy your dress, stay at home, and I’ll call you when I’m ready to take you to … um… wherever I was supposed to take you.”
“Are you sure, Marshie? I don’t want to leave you alone.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be alright.”
“Okay. Here’s my number. Call me.” The piece of paper with the number was signed “love ya lots, Jenny.” I promised her I would because I didn’t know what else to say.
“Oh, Marshall, I almost forgot,” she suddenly blurted, “I need your phone number in case I need more money for the dress because, you know, dresses are really fucking expensive nowadays. Oh! And I might need to buy matching pairs of shoes too.”
“Well, if you need any more money. Just call me on my cell.” I jotted down the numbers on a piece of hotel paper and then she was gone. Ladies and gentlemen, the ho had finally left the building.
Thank God I had given that bitch my fake cell phone number, which I always give groupies who start to get too attached. But, just in case this slut was a psycho:
“Front desk? This is Marshall Mathers from room 407…. Yes, I am staying in town for a week…. I want ask a favor…. If anybody by the name of Jennifer asks to see me, could you please tell her that I’ve left town early? If she asks where she could reach me, could you please tell her that you don’t know? Thank you.”
With a sigh, I hung up the phone and lay on the bed. It was going to be a long week here in New York. I missed Hailie already. I didn’t think I would last the week. I felt like the walls of this hotel room. Like puke.Author: bellababyblu@hotmail.com
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.