White Room
Ch. 8- Moonwalk
Excerpt from Moonwalk by Ted Hughes
A glare chunk of moon.
The hill no colour
Under the polarized light.
Like a day pushed inside out. Everything
In negative. Your mask
Bleak as cut iron, a shell-half—
Shucked off the moon. Alarming
And angering moon-devil—here somewhere.
The Ancient Mariner’s Death-in-Life woman
Straight off the sea’s fevered incandescence
Throwing black-and-white dice.
A sea saracen and cruel looking.
And your words
Like bits of beetles and spiders
Retched out by owls. Flourescent,
Blue-black, splintered. Bat-skulls. One day, I thought,
I shall understand this tomb-Egyptian,
This talking in tongues to a moon-mushroom.
Never wake a sleepwalker. Let the blame
Hit the olive-trees….
The doctor who humours, and watches
As the patient dies in his care…
After taking off my shoes, I folded up the hem of my jeans. I breathed in the strong smell of flowery floor cleaner coming from the half-filled bucket. Grasping my mop proudly like a Viking warrior, I surveyed the spectacle that was my apartment with the demeanor of a General ready to send his troops into battle. My Windex, Kaboom, and Lysol bottles were my weapons.
“Alright, apartment,” I said. “It’s just you and me.”
Colorful language, huh? There are not many things which I could describe as a “battle”, but cleaning my apartment is definitely one of them. Those slimy little bacteria are everywhere. Some of them take the shape of squishy disgusting mold creeping ever so slowly in kitchens, and they eventually infect your drinking water with their sickening poison. Some of them, though, are wiggling worms that tread on couches in search for their next prey. Others are blobs that blindly eat their way into your body, into your belongings, and even into your food. My mother showed me the pictures of these little beasts in a Biology book when I was 7. Since then, mother always taught me, that along with good hygiene, cleanliness is next to Godliness. I would wash my hands three times a day, take a shower daily (sometimes twice), and put my clothes in the washing machine as soon as they were dirty. Despite all of these safety precautions, I’ve never felt completely safe from those microscopic monsters.
Thankfully, medical scientific technology has come a long way with the inventions of the disinfectant and the antibacterial sterilizers. However, those disgusting creatures still taunt us by multiplying. Multiplying every millisecond. And with each passing second, getting more numerous. And more numerous. Until the lovely contents of your apartment have disappeared and are replaced by billons of billions of tiny critters laughing at you… ruining the perfect apartment you worked so hard to create.
This is, again, why I hate messes. I hate stains. I hate marks. They attract germs. Especially in my apartment, which had been painted a few days ago using a solid white color carefully picked by yours truly. Now, they cannot run or hide! It’s now easier to spot a spilled drink where germs gather. It’s now easier to spot a careless person’s sweaty handprint where germs gather. It’s now easier to spot any mark or stain where germs gather… in my “white rooms”, so to speak.
Two days ago, though, Marshall invited himself over to my newly painted and redecorated apartment. After taking one terrifying look, he turned as pale as the room itself and stormed out of the apartment before he could even enter it. As always, I was on “good girlfriend” patrol, and chased him begging him to tell me what was wrong. He was seemingly attempting to brush it off as if it was no big deal, but strangely, he kept repeating, “I’m okay, but I can’t ever go into your apartment ever again.” When I asked why, though, he refused to tell me. I never knew what in God’s name had made him freak out that day, but I wasn’t going to beat my brains in order to figure it out either. If he wasn’t going to open up to me, then why bother trying to open up to him? Why bother deciphering him if he didn’t let himself be deciphered. I know that he is indescribable and what not, so then what’s the point of describing him if he cannot, or worse, refuses to be described?
One day, I thought,
I shall understand this tomb-Egyptian,
This talking in tongues to a moon-mushroom.
Never wake a sleepwalker. Let the blame
Hit the olive-trees….
RING!
I jumped, annoyed by the interruption.
“Hello?”
“Yo, sis. ‘Sup?”
“Oh, Kwame…” He sounded older than 17, I thought. His voice had grown deeper. Even though he was becoming a man right in front of my eyes (and over the telephone), he would always be my little brother.
Sarcastically, he sneered, “Shit, you sound excited to talk to me.”
“Don’t cuss, Kwame! It makes you sound immature!”
“Sorry, mom.” He snorted. “Are you cranky, again, Sara?”
“No,” I answered. “You just interrupted me from something important.”
Kwame sighed. “Sara, are you cleaning your apartment again?”
“How do you know I’m cleaning my apartment? For all you know, I might be typing up a very important article.”
“Heh, nothing’s more important to Sara Tyler than cleaning her apartment! Sara, you clean your apartment, like, every day.”
“That’s ridiculous!” I snapped. “I clean it only once a week. And maybe sometimes twice a week when guests visit!”
“Sara… I never see anything dirty in your apartment, and yet, you keep cleaning it even though it’s already clean.”
“And I intend on keeping it that way.” I shook my head. “If you’re gonna have a clean germ-free apartment, then do everything possible to have a clean germ-free apartment. If you want to have (although, I can’t see why) a dirty pig-sty apartment full of infestation, then, by God, do everything possible to have a dirty pig-sty apartment full of infestation. You’ll die of some unknown disease, but you’ll at least be satisfied with the fact that you died striving for perfection, and you succeeded.”
A sea saracen and cruel looking.
And your words
Like bits of beetles and spiders
Retched out by owls.
“Damn, Sara, you should write the messages in Hallmark Cards.”
“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain, Kwame!”
I could have sworn at that moment that I actually heard him roll his eyes at me over the phone.
“Oh!” his tone suddenly changed. “Wait ‘till I tell you about Ebony!”
“What about her?”
“She changed her college major!”
I sarcastically gasped, feigning shock. “Again? What is she studying this time?”
“Latin American Literature!”
“There’s actually a major called Latin American Literature???”
“Yeah, apparently, if she’s studying it. I don’t know… when she came home last week, she started babbling on and on about her renewed interest in the culture that we have so shamelessly hidden, blah, blah, blah. She went on a trip to Brazil, and supposedly, she was enlightened or some shit like that. Now, she wants to learn Portuguese, live in the Amazon, and study the great writers of Brazil. Funny thing is that I didn’t know Brazil had great writers that you could study.”
“Oh, Lord have mercy on that poor child’s soul…”
“And get this…She also wants to ride a motorcycle to every country in South America and fight for the oppressed people or whatever!”
I laughed. “That Ebony just gets weirder and weirder!”
“But Dad is pissed! This is like the fifth time or something that she has changed her major, and she’s costing him a lot of money. He’s thinking of cutting her off real soon.”
“Well, be thankful it’s only the University of Michigan and not Yale or Harvard.”
“Yeah, I know, but he’s still complaining that it’s a lot of money. Plus, Ebony will probably never pay Dad back for her college education. I mean, how many well-paying jobs can you get with a degree in Latin American Literature?”
“Maybe she could bum some money from her beloved so-called oppressed people. They probably pay real well.” I chuckled. “Oh, tell Dad not to worry, though. Ebony’s just going through her rebellious stage. I’m sure after she finishes studying all of that nonsense, she’ll apply to law school or something.”
“For real. But ooh, speaking of colleges, I got my acceptance letters from…” He trilled his tongue imitating a drum roll. “Princeton, Duke, Stanford, Harvard, Yale, Brown and Howard!”
“Wow!” I clapped. “So where do you wanna go?”
“I don’t know. I was thinking Howard.”
“Really? Why?”
“’Cause I think I need to be around more black people.”
“What are you talking about, Kwame? There are plenty of black people in Rochester!”
“Yeah… but we’re still the minorities, ya know?”
“Kwame, unless we move to some African country, we’re always gonna be the minorities! You might as well get used to it.”
“Yeah… I still got ‘till May 1st to figure it out…”
His voice suddenly trailed off. After 17 years, I know Kwame well enough to realize when he’s got something else on his mind.
“Um… Sara, I want to ask you something, but I know you’re probably not going to answer me… and then, you’ll probably start bitching again.”
“It depends on what the question is, but go on. What is it?”
“Who’s your new boyfriend?”
Oh, no… “What do you mean?”
“Well, I heard from Chris ,who heard from Deonne, who heard from some other guy, who heard from Lucee, who heard from Mary, who heard from Sean, who heard from Vanessa that you got a boyfriend.”
Vanessa?! That gossip-mongering bitch!
“I don’t have a boyfriend. Plus, it’s not of your business anyway!”
“And they also told me that he was famous! Sara, is he a basketball player?”
“I DON’T HAVE A BOYFRIEND!”
“See, I knew you’d start bitching! I’ma tell Mom and Dad if you don’t admit it.”
“It’s not true. I’ll just deny it!”
“Sara, if he’s famous, they’re gonna find out anyway. I’ma still tell them about the rumor, though, and then they’ll start calling you more often and incessantly asking you if the rumors are true and demanding details about your secret love life. Just think about it, Sara! Mom and Dad are never gonna leave you alone ‘til they find out the truth. And they always know when you’re lying, those bitches… so then, should I call them? ‘Cause I can call them right now. They’re close by… MO-- ”
“Alright, you little devil. I’ll tell you… Yeah, I do have a boyfriend. Satisfied?”
“Who is he?”
“You’ll see. I’ll bring him over to Rochester sometime.” I hope God forgives me for that lie.
“When?”
“Soon.” And that one.
“Promise?”
“Yes!” That one also.
“God, I don’t want to wait and find out!... Is he a rapper?”
I had a lie all set and ready to go, but my jaw just wouldn’t budge. All I could utter was silence.
“It is a rapper!!!”
“Kwame!!! Shh…”
“Aw, shit, can I have his autograph?”
“Kwame, don’t swear-- ”
“You gotta introduce him to me!”
“NO!! I mean, yes… later… much later… Right now, please don’t tell Mom and Dad.”
“Yeah, if they find out you’re dating a rapper, they’re gonna fucking pop a vessel!!!” He laughed as if he had just struck gold. “But you can’t hide this forever. They’re gonna start getting suspicious.”
“I know… Just give me some time to think. I’ll introduce him in due time. Just be patient. But please, for now, don’t tell Mom and Dad.”
He paused for a second. “Okay, I won’t tell them… for now.”
I really didn’t feel like talking about this subject anymore. Not because I was tired, but because I was scared to death that Kwame might wheedle the answer out of me.
“So then, Kwame, get good grades, make good choices, and goodbye!”
All you could hear was a muffled, “But-- ” before it was drowned out by the loud beep of the telephone being hung up.
He was right, though. I couldn’t keep Marshall hidden from my parents forever. They would eventually sniff him out and force him to come out of hiding. That’s how my parents are. It’s not that I’m ashamed of Marshall. It’s just that if my parents ever met him, they would chew him alive. First of all, he lacks the social grace to charm my parents. He may be a “charismatic performer” according to many magazines, but surprisingly, that charisma does not translate to off-stage activities. He’s rather quiet and shy—bad personality traits for a woman like my mother is very fond of people who take charge of conversation. Plus rapping is not a respectable career according to my father; not like being a doctor or a lawyer or a politician like him (extra points if you’re Republican). Marshall is not any of these—a bad career move for a man like my father who is very fond of men who take on “important” roles in our society. I remember that my James set the bar very high in the eyes of
my par
ents. They loved him. And Marshall is the complete opposite of James… in so many ways.
Ah, Marshall… whenever I think of him, I get the urge to clean my apartment.
One day, I thought,
I shall understand this tomb-Egyptian,
This talking in tongues to a moon-mushroom.
Never wake a sleepwalker. Let the blame
Hit the olive-trees….
The doctor who humours, and watches
As the patient dies in his care…
After mopping the creamy tile floors of my kitchen, I filled the sink with soapy water so that I could clean all of the dirty pots later. Meanwhile, though, it was time to wipe the mirror in my living room. And so with my best friend Windex in hand, I performed my duty happily even though I grew increasingly frustrated at the fact that no matter how many times I’d wipe the damn smudges on that mirror, they would never completely disappear.
As I was cleaning the mirror, though, I quickly glanced at the image staring back at me. She was beautiful, as always, but her hair was a little disheveled. I looked a little closer to see if maybe it was just my imagination. But, after a few seconds of squinting, I gasped in horror when I finally focused my eyes to my forehead: a zit!!!
I dropped my Windex bottle and after pulling myself together from shock, stared at myself closer in the mirror… this time was nothing there. It must have been the shadows, I thought, or my eyes playing tricks on me. Laughing at my mistake, I grabbed a nearby hairbrush, and started making singing poses in front of mirror. In the background of the lovely image in the mirror were the white walls of my newly painted living room. I finished my imaginary photo shoot by ending with a sexy provocative pose on top of my leather white couch. This is going to be the album cover for my first platinum selling Grammy-winning CD, I thought. I think I will name it… Girl in the White Living Room… And when they make my VH1 Behind the Music episode, I will tell them that this is where I found inspiration for the name of my groundbreaking first R&B/Hip-hop album. My apartment will be turned into a museum when I am long gone… when my name is forever enshrined in every Hall of Fame imaginable.
A glare chunk of moon.
The hill no colour
Under the polarized light.
Like a day pushed inside out. Everything
In negative. Your mask
Bleak as cut iron, a shell-half—
Shucked off the moon. Alarming
And angering moon-devil—here somewhere.
However, my foray into the future was put on hold when I noticed on the mirror image the stupid letter I had gotten today. I had almost forgotten about that letter. Almost. But lo and behold, the letter was still there, on the counter, where I left it. It was my bank statement reminding me that I had only $50 in my bank account. Readers, the truth of the matter was that, over the last few months, I had been having trouble finding freelance journalism work. It seemed that whenever I would ask for work from the magazines, I’d be rejected or ignored. I thought, it couldn’t be me or the quality of my work because every article that I write is consistently top-notch. And I was right. It seems that a few “so-called” hip-hop journalists have been gaining influence over some of the editors of their magazines. They suffer from a disease, which I call jealousy, and in order to cure their condition, they feel like they have to bring me down. They’re spreading libelous rumors about me, and threatening their cowardly bosses to quit if they feature my articles in their magazines again. Jealous haters! They’re mad because they don’t have ¼ of the writing talent that I have. Because they can’t beat me in my own game, they attack me using other methods; the kind of methods spineless idiots use.
In all honesty, I hadn’t had a job in almost three months. And coupled with the fact that my lifestyle was… a little bit on the extravagant style, money was becoming scarce. I could hear my proud father yelling at me, and my mother scolding me. I could hear them repeatedly telling me to stop whining and stop spending so much money. In reality, I could never stop spending money. Who can? For 26 years, I had always had money, and I could spend it without worry that it might ever end. My journalism assignments always guaranteed big paychecks, which is why I could buy Prada purses, Gucci dresses, and Manolo shoes without even looking at the price tag. How can anyone stop spending habits that have been 26 years in the making? How can anyone stop their life just because they don’t have as much money as they used to?
Of course, I can’t ask my parents for help. They completely cut me off financially almost five years ago. They’ve already got one money leeching daughter; they don’t need another one. Besides, I’m the “daughter that makes [them] proud”. If I come crawling back to them for help, they would never let me hear the end of it. In addition, there was a good chance that father might even refuse to help me. The same goes for my brother Ben. And also my friends who sometimes catch the jealousy epidemic.
No, there was only one person who could and would help me, and he still didn’t know that I haven’t paid most of my bills for the last two months. I guess when it comes down to it, that’s what rich boyfriends are truly for. See, for the last few months, I had grown pretty bored of the relationship; he wasn’t opening up at all, we had no emotional connection, and we argued all the time. If he had been average Joe from Normal, U.S.A., I would’ve broken up with him at the first sign of trouble. But this was Eminem, or the more accurate term, Eminem with a full bank account. I know that, at this very moment, the more sensitive, romantic readers are probably shocked by my statements and are now coming up with new and exciting ways to kill me because of the way I was using Marshall. However, try to put yourself in my shoes. If you were only a few dollars away from living in the streets, wouldn’t you take advantage of your boyfriend’s money regardless of whether you loved him or not? Wouldn’t you gladly stay in a relationship you would otherwise hate if it meant one more month of financial security? The people who answer no are hypocritical liars.
The doctor who humours, and watches
As the patient dies in his care…
Besides, I won’t have to depend on Marshall for long… I have other plans in mind. When I visited Marshall at his studio while he was producing 50’s new track, I had an epiphany. I should make my dreams of stardom come true! Why am I putting my dreams of being a singer on the back burner for a job that I’ve grown to hate? The music; the photo shoots; the fame; the money! I remember dreaming about being a famous singer when I was little. I’d line up all of my teddy bears on my bed and sing to them as if they were my fans. That day in Marshall’s studio, I asked myself, why are those dreams still dreams? Maybe this temporary job drought is a sign that I need to do what I really want to do with my life. I thought, my destiny is calling and I’ll be damned if I don’t answer!
I need Marshall’s help, though… He knows the business; he knows the right people that can get me through the right doors; he knows the process. Everything he touches turns into gold instantly. If anyone can help me turn into gold, it’s him. I was starting to get bored of him, though. Besides, he wasn’t the only golden fish in the sea…
When I met 50 cent that day in Marshall’s studio, I prepared my bait in order to catch another golden fish. You could argue that 50 cent is exactly like Marshall besides the obvious race difference and the even more obvious personality difference. He was rich, powerful in the music industry, and horny—and absolutely perfect for Sara’s plan for music domination. So, I tried to reel him in by starting a casual conversation with him as he made his way into Marshall’s studio. Of course, I was smart enough not to randomly start making out with Curtis in the middle of the recording studio; instead, I took unassuming baby steps toward catching my fish. I flirted just enough to make it seem like I was interested, but not enough to make me look like a wanton slut. It’s an importance balance to achieve in the game of seduction, especially if the other golden fish, that’s already in your basket, is in the same room.
While taking Marshall to the emergency room that day for his jammed fingers (thank God they weren’t broken), the stuffiness of the waiting room was starting to get to me. Besides, the walls were jammed with colorful messages of inspiration. I thought, what happened to the nice sterile-friendly bleached walls that hospitals were supposed to have? Why did they paint the hospital like a Picasso painting?! This is not an art museum… I needed to go outside for a while.
As I exited through the mechanical doors of the hospital, I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw a figure approaching me, surrounded by bodyguards.
“Curtis?”
“Sara!! How’s Em?”
“He’s fine… Nothing broken.”
“So you came to see Marshall?”
“Yeah, and I also came to see you.” Curtis then gave his bodyguards a curt signal to leave us alone.
I, then, had a crazy thought. Time is running out. I haven’t paid the bills in over two months. I really need the money. Maybe I should just go for Curtis now instead of patiently waiting for him to buckle under the pressure like the rules of seduction clearly state. Who knows? Maybe I’m getting lucky, and he has already fallen in the palm of my hand. Maybe I already caught him… hook, line, and sinker.
Quickly, I fixed my hair and prayed that my make-up was okay. The mechanical glass doors behind me, thanks to the sunlight, projected a mirror image of me. I looked gorgeous.
“So…” I began. “Did you want to tell me something?”
He nodded. “Look, I ain’t got no fuckin’ clue whatchu tryin’ to do… but there are enough beefs in the rap game; we don’t need no more.” He looked at me with a half-somber and half-angry look on his face as he walked past me and into the hospital.
I just stood there watching him intently as he walked away from me, and I simply murmured in an inaudible whisper, “Coward…”
A glare chunk of moon.
The hill no colour
Under the polarized light.
Like a day pushed inside out.
Everything In negative..
Of course, I really can’t blame the guy. I mean, what’s the point of pissing off your boss who basically brought your career to life? It’s not a good strategy. Besides, no matter how much of a gangster 50 cent professes himself to be, in the end, Eminem can create and destroy him. 50 just followed the rules of survival. I’m sure if I wasn’t Eminem’s girlfriend, he would’ve fucked me right there in the studio. So, no… it wasn’t my looks or my intelligence that scared him away, it was my boyfriend. I thought, maybe I should be more like 50, and be nice to my boss. At least until I get all my bills paid, and I get my record deal.
Your mask
Bleak as cut iron, a shell-half—
Shucked off the moon. Alarming
And angering moon-devil—here somewhere
Shit! After five minutes of scrubbing the cooking pot I got for Christmas, the skin on the palm of my hand could not take any more water exposure. A small area split and made a tiny cut. But, I was used to this. It was a small price to pay for cleanliness. I wasn’t going to rest until I scrubbed and washed every single stain and mark in my apartment. I promised to myself that I would kill every damn bacteria and virus crawling inside these walls. No matter how much my hand hurt from the “water” cuts.
I’m sure I’m boring you, readers, with my ramblings about my dreams, my financial problems, and my germ dilemma because, in the end, all of you are more interested in my relationship with Marshall. So… why was I so bored with him? Why was I so desperate to look for a way out? I’ve already mentioned these facts:
1. We did not communicate well
2. We had no emotional connection, in my opinion
3. We argued too much
And then, of course, there is the obvious:
4. We have nothing in common
Then, there’s this:
5. He began to annoy me with his clinginess
Now, I admit it is flattering when your boyfriend and/or beloved wants to spend as much time with you as possible. However, there’s a point where clinginess and neediness can turn into… possessiveness.
The doctor who humours, and watches
As the patient dies in his care…
At random times, like when I’m shopping with my friends or when I’m enjoying a quiet microwavable dinner alone, he calls me just to check up on me. Our phone conversations consist of this:
“Hello?”
“Sara, hey, baby!”
“Hi, Marshall.”
Silence.
“So, why are you callin’ me?”
“I dunno. I was just wonderin’ what you was doin’.”
“I was shopping with Jackie and Rochelle. Now, I’m going to the movies.”
“Oh… okay.”
Silence.
“Um… Marshall, was there a point to this phone call?”
“Yeah, I’m just checkin’ up on you to see if you were okay. But if ya need me, call me. A’ight, baby?”
“Alright, bye.”
Then, I would hang up my cell phone to see the frowning Jackie and Rochelle scoffing at the ridiculous waste of time.
Immediately after the movie:
“Hello?”
“Hey, baby!”
“Marshall? You’re calling me again?”
“Yeah, just wanted to see how you were doin’?”
Silence.
“So, Sara, how you doin’?
“I’m cool. Just finished watchin’ the movie.”
“Oh? What movie was it?”
“Miss Congeniality 2… It was an okay movie.”
“Oh…”
Silence.
“So who you with?”
“I told you! I was with my girls Jackie and Rochelle!”
“Oh… okay, well, I’ll see ya tomorrow.”
Again, I would hang up infuriated while my friends just shook their heads.
And then, came the aggravating scolding that he would always give me about my choice of friends.
“But, Sara, you always hangin’ out with fuckin’ rich sluts who spend every fuckin’ dime they have and sleep with every fuckin’ moron they see. Why you always doin’ that? You fuckin’ deserve better! Plus, they’re fuckin’ bad influences.”
“Bad influences?! I’m not a twelve year old girl, Marshall!!”
“Yeah, well, God knows, you act like it sometimes. Pretty soon, you gonna be acting the way you dress!!!”
For that comment, I slapped him. How dare he even say that? Who does he think he is? It’s not like his pot-smoking lazy ass friends are any better. How can he treat me like this? He is trying to control my life now, and I’m suffocating for it. I wasn’t going to let him do that, though. I needed to take back control of my life. I needed to get out of this relationship without destroying my dreams of superstardom, and without ruining my bank account.
-----//That night, I met up my best friends Jackie and Rochelle in addition to Ricardo, Lawrence, Ray and Trina. After seeing a movie at the movie theatre, we all drove to Paulie’s fast food restaurant for a quick dinner. I remember we were all casually conversing over hot dogs and French fries with cheese. That is, until Ricardo nonchalantly looked behind him and noticed something disturbing out the window.
“Yo, it’s that gray Bentley again.”
“What?!” I almost choked on my fries.
“Yeah, it’s fucked up. I dunno if you noticed it, but that gray continental Bentley has been following us ever since we left the movie theatre.”
I gasped and instantly dropped my drink as I rushed out of the restaurant and into the parking lot where, believe it or not, I found a familiar gray continental Bentley with an all too familiar driver parked conveniently next to the window.
I signaled to the driver to roll down his window.
“Having fun, Marshall?”
“What the fuck are you doin’ with those guys?!”
“Nothing! We’re eating hot dogs.”
“Yeah, I bet you were eatin’ hot dogs,” he muttered under his breath. “What the fuck? You said you were only going with your girlfriends!!”
“Will you calm down? Trina wanted to bring Ray, Ricardo, and Lawrence. They’re friends of hers.”
“The fuckin’ point is, Sara, that you lied to me!!! You said you were goin’ with just your girlfriends. Plus, it’s two in the mornin’, and you’re still out at night with these motherfuckers!!”
Okay, now I was pissed. “Oh, alright, Marshall! Do you really want to know what’s going on? Here’s the truth! I was under table giving all three of those guys blowjobs ‘til you interrupted me! There! That’s the truth! Is that what you wanted to hear, Marshall? Huh? That I’m a huge slut sleeping with half of Detroit?!!”
He answered by flaring his nostrils and furiously putting the driving shift of his car in reverse.
“I’ve never cheated on you, Marshall!!!” I yelled. “I swear to God, Marshall, and you know how I never swear to God!!!” He rolled up his window and drove off.
The next day, I woke up to find a giant bouquet of flowers in front of my apartment door with a card from Marshall apologizing for the night before. In that same card, he invited me that night over to his house to “talk it over”, which meant another apology leading up to make-up sex.
-----//
First of all, I must admit that every time I have sex, I feel icky afterwards. Not only because I’m covered in sticky semen, but also because I feel as if I’ve done something shameful or dirty. My mother would always say to me that committing sins makes you feel like your soul is swimming through piles of stinking and disease-ridden garbage. The fact is that I was engaging in fornication, which is a sin that I pray to God every day that he’ll forgive me for in his never-ending mercy. Water is a prominent symbol in the Bible, usually used to cleanse or wash away something dirty and sinful. Maybe that’s why every time I have sex, I have to take a shower afterwards. However, whenever I ask to use Marshall’s shower after sex, he feels the urge to get in the shower with me, which leads to more sex and dirtiness. Therefore, during the last couple of months, after I have sex, I immediately go back to my house and take a shower.
“Where you goin’?” Marshall propped up in the bed.
“I’m going back home to take a shower.” After I kissed him, I picked up my clothes that were strewn carelessly on the floor and started to put them on.
It was strange because he usually doesn’t mind me leaving after sex. I don’t know why this time, he was scratching his head in bewilderment. “You can take a shower here.”
“No, no… I think I’ll take a shower over at my house,” I said as I adjusted my skirt. I smelled dirty too, I thought. I can’t stand bad odor any more than I can’t stand dirtiness. Just when I was heading for the bedroom door, Marshall suddenly sprinted in front of me blocking the door.
“Naw, c’mon. You ain’t got to go yet. Stay with me a while!” He playfully stroked my cheek and softly kissed my lips. “Please, baby?”
“No, I don’t think so…” Why the fuck did he keep on insisting? I never question his stupid quirks! Why doesn’t he just leave me alone? “Please, Marshall, I just need to take a shower as soon as possible.”
He still wouldn’t budge! “Why?”
I was getting desperate. He left me no choice.
“Because I need to!!! Now open the door!!!” I guess the fact that I had yelled at him like that was a little unsettling for him. His eyes trailed down to the floor as he resentfully stepped away.
Hurriedly, I made my way out of his bedroom thinking about the shower I needed to take. Shit! I think I forgot to clean the tub. Wait, I didn’t forget… I just forgot to spray it with some Mildew-Away sprayer. Now I bet it’s full of disgusting mildew and mold—a virtual city of bacteria.
“Why the fuck are you treatin’ me like this?” I heard from behind me. He said it in an unusually calm voice which was ten times as frightening as his angry voice.
“What?”
“You heard me, Sara, why the fuck do you treat me like this?”
“Like what?”
“Like this…” I still did not understand.
“I don’t treat you like anything.”
“Exactly!”
“What???”
“You just said it! You don’t treat me like I'm anything!”
“Look, forget this. I’m going home. I don’t have time for your mind games.” I tried to turn around and head for the stairs, but he tightly grabbed my arm. I could almost feel his raging hand crushing my tiny arm. “Let go of me, Marshall! Or I’ll call the police and send you to jail!!!”
“Don’t leave, Sara! I’ll let you go. Just answer my fuckin’ question!”
“How could I? I didn’t even understand it!! OW! Marshall, let go of my arm!” My eyes were watering with tears as his grip tightened.
“Promise me you’ll hear me out?”
“Yes, I promise, please, Marshall, just let go.” He finally released my arm leaving behind a distinct red mark on my arm. Stupid motherfucker, I thought. I had the sudden urge to slap him.
“Why do you treat me like shit, Sara?!” I noticed that his calm voice was slowly disappearing. “It’s almost like you can’t stand being around me. I feel like you don’t even want to be with me anymore. Plus, I feel like I’m disappointing you… Is that true, Sara? Am I disappointing you?”
My throat became scratchy and dry. It’s strange how the human voice works perfectly when we need to shut up, but fails us when we need to speak up. I remember, though, I half-whispered an answer that sounded like “No.”
“Look, I’m sorry about doin’ this shit, but it was the only way I could get you to listen to me! But, now, more than ever, I need the truth!... Am I in this shit by myself?”
For the first time, I was afraid to answer with my true opinions; scared to death that in my answer, the truth might sneak out, and destroy my plans. My eyes shifted desperately in every direction searching for a formidable excuse that could serve as my escape.
“You’re being delusional again, Marshall… You’re making up problems! There are no problems…” It’s what I always told him when he starts to freak out like this. This time, though, it didn’t look like he was buying it.
“WHY DOES EVERYONE KEEP SAYIN’ THAT? It’s always, Marshall, you’re actin’ crazy or Marshall, you’re imagining things, or Marshall, you’re hallucinating shit again…What the fuck? Why does everyone treat me like I’m some kind of mental patient? Maybe I’m right!!! Maybe I’m not crazy, and it’s all of you that are the crazy ones!! Maybe I’m normal! Maybe-- ” And he stopped for a second and closed his eyes while abruptly putting his hand over his forehead.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I think I’m just givin’ myself a fuckin’ headache.”
He needs to relax, I thought.
Before I spoke my mind, though, he interrupted me, “You’re about to tell me that I need to relax, aren’t you? Fuckin’ predictable! I always have to please you, don’t I? You don’t fuckin’ care about me at all, do you?! Well, lemme tell you something, Sara! You’re a fuckin’ self-centered snobby big-headed selfish little bitch!!! You think you know the answers to everything, but you’re just as confused as the rest of us!!!”
Okay, now I was definitely pissed. Instantly, I felt my face turn burning red, and my fingernails were painfully digging into my palms as I clenched my fist in rage. “Oh? Well, let me tell you what I think of you, motherfucker! I think you’re a weak-willed, cowardly, juvenile, whiny little bitch who pretends he’s all big and tough when, in reality, he’s just a scared little boy afraid of losing his toys! Let me see how many other adjectives I can use to describe you, Marshall: possessive, controlling, jealous, maniacal… There are just so many!!!” I knew I had struck a nerve because the raging spark in his eyes was suddenly gone.
One day, I thought,
I shall understand this tomb-Egyptian,
This talking in tongues to a moon-mushroom.
Never wake a sleepwalker. Let the blame
Hit the olive-trees….
The doctor who humours, and watches
As the patient dies in his care…
Then, I thought to myself, I didn’t have to take this anymore! I refused to take this anymore. That fucker insulted me by calling me things like “self-centered” and “selfish”… He wasn’t being extremely creative, though, since everybody calls me that. It was surprising to hear those words coming from him, though. I mean, wasn’t he the person who stares at me while I’m watching rented movies on my couch? Wasn’t he the person who showers me with presents? Who tells me that I was his emotional crutch? Who tells me that he loves me everyday, or whatnot? Yeah… This was a very surprising comment coming from Marshall.
But, fuck it! I was almost free from him… If I walked out of that door right now, I could finally get rid of him, and I’d never have to hear his incessant whining, his random phone calls, or his jealous outbursts ever again. Beyond that door lay my liberty. Imagine it: the tempting call of emancipation at the turn of a simple doorknob.
Then again, once I walk out of that door, what would become of me? My bills are still not paid. I still have no job offers because I’d been black-balled out of the journalism world. My landlord was getting impatient. My family certainly had no interest in helping me; neither did my friends. If I shop around a demo by myself, I’d certainly be dismissed as a “former journalist wannabe singer”. But with Eminem by my side, I’d have certain respect and credibility attached as a product sponsored by a famous rapper. Then, I wouldn’t have to sell my beautiful apartment… with its recently painted white walls… and then, I wouldn’t have to watch it deteriorate… with stains, marks, trash, and creepy bacteria when the next tenants carelessly abuse my poor apartment… with its recently painted white walls… Don’t mean to ramble, but it was expensive!
Just a little longer, I thought… until I pay my debts… until I get my record deal…
Almost instinctively, I made my choice. I wrapped my arms around him and collapsed into his shoulder. In response, he softly kissed the nape of my neck and whispered in my ear, “Ya know, it’s scary how much I need you…”
“I need you too,” I sighed softly. And that’s why I fucking hate you…
Never wake a sleepwalker. Let the blame
Hit the olive-trees….
The doctor who humours, and watches
As the patient dies in his care…
To be continued...
Back to fan fiction indexAuthor: 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.