The Confrontation

A Chapter by Jess

Yelawolf and Eminem have a heated argument after trying to pick up where they left off.

“Not even once say you appreciate me I deserve respect

I’ve done my best to give you nothing less than perfectness

And I know that if I end this I'll no longer have nothin’ left

But you keep treating me like a staircase it's time to f*****g step

And I won’t be coming back so don't hold your f*****g breath

You know what you've done no need to go in depth

I told you, you'd be sorry if I f*****g left”

- “25 to Life”, Eminem

You died on a Sunday. I’d never seen you so…defeated. I don’t know. I guess I always believed that nothing could possibly take the spark from your eyes. Apparently, AIDS did something- something horrible- to you so that you couldn’t think of a way to make the situation better. No matter what, you could always crack a joke or make me smile. Yet, as soon as you entered that hospital room it was like you were already gone. I tried to tell myself that you would pull through, but obviously you never did. You fell victim to something…Not AIDS but something else. You fell victim to reality. That was one other thing that you weren’t immune to. Instead of thinking that everything was going to be okay, you saw your death with clear vision. You knew that you couldn’t stop it, so you stopped pretending. You were like Clark Kent instead of Superman. But I don’t blame you for not being positive; I know that if I was in that sort of situation that I wouldn’t be able to crack a smile. Still, I wanted you to be brave. I didn’t want you to give up. You did, though. Even if there was nothing that you could do, I wanted you to believe that you could pull through. I guess I fell victim to something too: hope. I was hoping that it wasn’t true. I was hoping you would have a miraculous recovery. Considering how much of a pessimist I am, that’s saying a lot. But, none of it came true. So, you died on a Sunday. A holy day. A day where we would’ve gone to church with the girls; maybe go to a diner and get some coffee and pancakes; then we would get home and watch football. A day where I would fall more in love with you, just like I’ve been doing for the past three months. You died on a Sunday. And just like a Sunday, you were brilliant; you were bright; you were an angel. No one else in this world could’ve made me as happy as you did. You just had such a charm and such a charismatic personality that it was hard for anyone not to love you when they met you. That’s why it’s so unbelievable that you’re gone…that you’ve left us. They always say, “He’s still with you”, but I don’t believe it. Because, if you were with me, you would hold me. You would sing me to sleep. You would pick out my clothes in the morning. You wouldn’t be a feather-like touch that makes me shiver. You wouldn’t be some withered husk stuck in a box. But I know that nothing I say will ever change what happened to someone as wonderful as you. So, James, I love you. Your parents love you. Your friends love you. And we all know that you love us back. Let’s celebrate your life, not honor your death.

Marshall leaves the podium and the church erupts in subtle applause, soft sniffles dressing the atmosphere. Pure white tissues contrast the stark black decorating the sea of relatives and friends. Ivory roses embroider James’ dark brown coffin. Marshall refuses to look at it.

He walks through the aisles, swaying patiently from side to side as the mourners shuffle outside. Marshall tries to focus on everything else. The wrinkle in the woman’s dress in front of him. The stain-glass windows in the faint shape of Mary Magdalene. The gray, damp weather outside. Everything but James’ two brothers carrying out his coffin on their shoulders. Everything but James’ parents, thanking him with tears in their glass eyes on the “wonderful” eulogy. There’s nothing wonderful about a twenty-nine year old body lying dead in a coffin.

Marshall had never step foot in a Roman Catholic Church before, but he was definitely happy to leave. The sermon was too sad. The priest was too finite in his readings. The deacon was too remorseful about James. He had been to a Baptist Church a couple of times in his life, and those had been fun and lively. Then again he had never been to a funeral or memorial in his will, and Proof was Methodist. There was just something about Catholics that they always felt the need to make everything sad.

And it’s hard for Marshall not to be sad right now. Once he penetrates the humid air of outside, he feels surrounded by sadness and depression. Strangely, this sadness is burdened by the church’s garden, adorned with beautiful flowers and fresh green grass. Little does he know, he’s been staring at the peculiar sight for a while.

“Our pride and joy.” Marshall is shocked by the voice but is quickly comforted by a warm hand to his shoulder. He looks to find an old face, silver hairs in his beard and freckles on his nose.

“Oh, hello Father,” Marshall says, wishing that he remembered the man’s God-given name.

“We’ve had this garden for years. You see that tree, the small wooden brush?” and the priest points to the far corner of the garden. Marshall sees it, bended and twisted, a morphed painting with withered leaves.

“Wow,” Marshall exclaims.

“Yup,” the man sighs. “Had that thing for ten years now. Doesn’t grow, but doesn’t die. We don’t have the heart to let it go.” The priest pats Marshall on the back softly, taking a deep breath. “You made a lovely speech, but I think you should go home…have some time to yourself.” But Marshall wouldn’t budge. And as the Father left, Marshall thinks about that tree.

Ten years. It’s been there for ten years, like it’s frozen in time. Marshall kind of feels like that: half dead and half alive.

He takes the priest’s orders and goes straight home.

. . . . .

Marshall pulls at his tie, slowly loosening it from its restriction on his neck. He feels like a caged demon, so bound for so long that he got used to being locked up. He enters his home with his head bowed, throwing his heavy jacket on the floor like it belongs there. Truth is, he’s too tired. It’s not that kind of tired where you want to go to sleep, though. It’s not that kind of things where he’s just too sad and too drained to even care about anything at all.

He climbs up three rickety stairs, making the only haunting noise in the whole house, and enters the kitchen. He throws his keys disdainfully on the counter, a place once filled with laughter and James’ baked ziti or chopped onions.

“Do you really need that much?” he would say, laughing and covering his eyes. “Yer main’ me cry, dawg!”

But now, he’s crying for other things. Finally the memories are too real and too lost for him to feel happiness, and he breaks down.

His head pounds furiously in his ears when he slams his forehead on the granite, crying and screaming at God for taking him away. The countertop smells like raw garlic.

“Nothing is ever fair…” he whispers. He claws his nails into his scalp, attempting to embody the pain that James felt in his last moments. Just when he’s about to break skin, the phone rings.

He almost lets the machine pick it up, but a rush of cold air hits his body and makes his spine shiver, so he gives in. Although, he makes sure he takes a long time to answer it. He approaches the wireless phone cradle, glancing at the caller I.D. through tears in his eyes like frosted glass. He squints.

Shriner’s Hospital

He furrows his brow, unfamiliar with the name and terrified to answer, but when he hears the last ring he sells his soul.

“H-hello?” he doesn’t realize how miserable his voice sounds, like scattered dust in dense air. There is a deep breath on the other end, startling him with wheezing. He almost hangs up, frightened, when…

“Marshall…”

His body went stiff.

“Yes?” A couple of soundless seconds pass.

“It’s Debbie…”

Marshall hears his phone drop to the floor.

~*~*~

“My name is Kathy…”

“Hi, Kathy.”

“I’m addicted to painkillers…”

Yela has his hands deep in his pockets, looking at the gym floor all waxed and pristine. He doesn’t think he’s moved a muscle in over forty-five minutes, listening to these people’s stories but not really focusing. To him, he’s like an English tourist in a Spanish opera- feeling the mood but unable to understand the actors.

He guesses what his friends forget to think about was that in order for someone to understand the problems of others, that person needs to have problems of their own. What they don’t get is that Yela doesn’t have a problem. He’s like the gym floor- polished and clean.

Yela moves his foot, finally. His muscles twitch with the new release. He furrows his brow, staring at the spot where he moved.

He was sure there wasn’t a skid mark when he first got here.

“I’m seventy-three days clean now, and I couldn’t be happier,” blah blah blah. Everyone in the dimly-lit gym started clapping, a dull roar echoing throughout the large space. He didn’t join them. The therapist stepped up to the podium after whatshername left and cleared his throat through the mic.

“Would anyone else like to share with us, today?” he says in a rough voice. Yela does everything in his power not to make eye contact. Just ten more minutes and he was out of here. “Um, Michael!”

Yela looks up, hoping that there’s another Michael in her. The therapist is looking straight at him.

“Michael…you haven’t said or done a thing all day.” Yela almost laughs. “We’d love it if you could share with us.” He gave Yela a big, seemingly condescending smile. He took a deep breath.

“I’d rather not,” he says, his voice hoarse. He feels like a bug under a microscope; everyone seems to be looking at him disdainfully. Yela pulls his body closer to himself, feeling very uncomfortable for once being the center of attention. The man frowns, disappointed.

“Well, we’re not gonna force you, Michael…” he says. He then goes on to ask if anyone would like to speak, and Yela feels anxiety building inside of him. Going once, going twice…no one says a word. Yela feels like ants are crawling in the leg hair, and he grinds his teeth. He stands up like a bottle rocket.

“Actually,” he says louder than he should. He calms himself down and continues. Everyone is staring at him again. “I would like to say something.”

A girl with sandy blonde hair and a snake bite piercing smiles quickly, and Yela wonders how he hadn’t noticed her before.

He walks steadily to the podium, the therapist smiling and royally welcoming Yela to the stand. He nods at him, straightening the mic to accustom to his height. He refuses to look at the crowd, clears his throat, and starts speaking.

~*~*~

“Marshall, the doctor says about a week…” His mother sounds hoarse and in pain, her cells destroyed by something she couldn’t afford to alleviate. Marshall is shaking as he holds the phone close to his ear, sitting on his leather couch.

“Whaddya mean ‘a week’?” he asks but he already knows. He hears his mother take a wheezy breath and it kills him to know that it’s hurting her to talk with him.

“The cancer’s spread throughout my whole system Brucie…there’s nothing else that I can really do about it.”

He thought hard about his mother. Almost ten years have gone by since she last spoke to him, and the memory of it wasn’t fond. She spewed so many lies about him, not to mention the lawsuits. Living with her was just an awful experience. Yet, three years ago, he confessed that he still loved her, still having no idea where she was. Now, on her death bed, she decides to make an effort and call him. But for what?

Suddenly he starts crying again, mad at the world and the diseases inhabiting it. Not only did he just lose the loves of his life, he’s about to lose his mother too.

“Mommy?” he asks, surprised the term could even come to his lips. In all of his life, he can’t remember ever calling her “mommy”. Well, maybe when he was young and naïve.

“Yes, hon?” she asks, sounding sadder.

“Why did you call?” He wonders if he even wants to know why. His mother takes another deep breath.

“Well, I guess I just want to make amends. I’m not asking you to forgive me for the s**t I’ve put you through, but it would make me feel better if I said I was sorry.”

Marshall processes this for a moment, by force of habit having a tough time believing her. He tries to push those thoughts aside, knowing that she would have nothing to gain by this if she would be gone in a week. It finally hits him that he’s going to lose his mother soon. He continues to cry.

“Brucie, I also want to tell you one more thing.” Marshall wipes his face with his shirt sleeve and listens closely, unable to speak. “I also did this because it’s bad to have unfinished business. I don’t want to leave this earth without making it better. I just want to let you know that if there’s something in your life that you need to fix, do it now…You never know when your final moments may arrive.”

It’s the wisest thing his mother has ever said, but also the most painful. He’s fixed most things in his life: his relationship with his ex-wife, past beefs, his drug addiction, but he knows there’s something else that he hasn’t fixed.

“And if I catchu on the street with another man and holdin’ his hand, well Imma f**k ‘im up!”

Yela.

“Mom?” he whispers.

“Yes, Marshall?” She sounds so far away, like wind after the first snowfall.

“I love you,” he says honestly, even smiling. She chuckles.

“I love you too, Marshall…whether you believe it or not, I’ve loved you since the day you were born.”

~*~*~

“Unlike all o’ you, I haven’t admitted to maself yet that I have a problem…” Yela suddenly feels very hot and uncomfortable and he wonders why he got up here in the first place. He looks through the small crowd, open and vast canvases, but his eyes land on the snake bite girl. Her eyes are full of praise and she’s smiling (without showing her teeth) from ear to ear. He clears his throat.

“But…I do know that I mus’ drink for a reason. I like alcohol,” he pauses, considering this. “Well, I love alcohol.” Everyone laughs a bit, and it makes Yela feel a bit easier. “And I know that I use it for somethin’, it’s jus’ that I thought I used it for fun. But I know thas not the case.”

He gets serious for a moment, thinking about what he’s confessing and how to go about it. What if someone’s wearing a wire? What if a reporter is here? They reiterated that this was an exclusive and private session, but who knows. So, he decides to be as vague as possible.

“And I think the reason why I’m here today, may be ‘cause I don’t wanna get better… ‘cause then those feelings will come back.” He looks at the floor, thinking about those specific feelings and the impact they’ve had on his life.

“Go on, Michael,” the therapist says encouragingly. “We won’t judge you.” Yela looks at him, wanting to believe him but still afraid to. He takes a deep breath.

“There’s this…person…that I love wit all ma heart. This person is jus’ amazin’, inspirin’, smart, brilliant, jus’ wonderful. I don’t know where I’d be without them. But,” he starts, suddenly sad again, “they don’t wanna be wit me…an’ I know it. It hurts ta see them erryday, knowin’ that someone else can make them happy, but I cain’t. So, I tried to fall out of love the easy way, by makin’ maself so drunk that I couldn’t remember I was in love wit them.” He looks up finally, and sees blank stares. Something tells him that these people are living the same nightmare he is: using synthetic mind erasers to deal with the problems they can’t admit to. The therapist steps onto the podium and places a warm hand on Michael’s back.

“Thank you for sharing with us, Michael. You said you couldn’t admit to your problems, but I think you just did.”

. . . . .

Afterword, Michael decides to grab a complimentary coffee and do some people watching. He sees some burly looking man with a ragged beard grasping a doughnut off the table. He sees an older woman with dead flowers in her hair fixing her makeup in a compact mirror. He sees a young black kid- probably no older than seventeen- lighting a cigarette and cleaning his shoes, as white as Alabama fog. He stands there, mystified by all of these characters, feeling like another art piece in the little shop of horrors.

“So who’s the guy?” Yela is startled by the wind chime voice from behind him, wondering if the person is talking to him. He chokes on the black sludge coffee, turning around to find snakebite girl. She’s smiling at him.

“Pardon?” he chokes out. She sighs.

“What’s the guy’s name?” Yela furrows his brow.

“Who?” The girl sighs again, rolling her eyes.

“The guy you’re in love with!” she points out as if Yela didn’t know. The older man is shocked, wondering how she knew.

“Howdya know it’s a guy?” She rolls her eyes again.

“If it was a girl, you would’ve said it was a girl…not a ‘person’,” she says dramatically, using air quotes and everything. Yela chuckles, shaking his head and kind of upset that she found out.

“Like y’all would treat me the same if y’all knew I was in love wit a dude,” he says, absently pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.

“Can I have one?” she asks, smiling, like she completely ignored his statement.

“Sure,” he says, a confused look on his face. She rips both the cancer stick and the lighter from his hand, blowing smoke in his face when she’s done and returning the paraphernalia with a smile. He smiles too despite his attempts to look angry at her.

“My name is Liz and I was addicted to methamphetamines,” she says like she’s done it her whole life, like a scene from a movie. She takes a drag. “I’m also a lesbian so welcome to the club.”

Yela’s eyes go wide at the admission, a question in them that Liz finds.

“I had a girlfriend who fucked me up on purpose, guess your situation is a bit different huh?” she states honestly. Yela feels extremely comfortable with this woman, offering her story selflessly to a man she doesn’t know but wants to help.

“He doesn’t know how I feel ‘bout him, but he knows what I do unfortunately,” he confesses, staring at the floor. She puts a hand on his face and guides him to look at her.

“Michael, none of your problems are gonna fix themselves. If you tell him that you love him, you’ll be getting rid of a lot of anger you have inside you,” she tells him. He knows that he should take her advice, but it’s just too hard. “Trust me, I know what you’re going through…I’ve been through the same thing. Just remember…nothing is ever simple.”

It’s like she read his mind. He thinks about all the people he’s hurt in his drunken stupor. He thinks about the fans he’s let down. He thinks about the people in this room. He thinks about Liz and Marshall, and how he’ll never be alone.

“Okay…” He hopes this won’t be another empty promise.

~*~*~

Yela has been sober for fifteen days and he isn’t too thrilled about it. Every day and night he is bombarded with thoughts of Marshall and they don’t stop. He’s been pushed to the edge several times, almost giving in and buying that fifth of J.D. and throwing his promises away. Marshall is just so prevalent in his head to clear away quickly. He was trying to fall out of love the hard way, but it seems instead he is falling more and more in love with him every day.

When he has a craving, Yela would go online and watch some videos. No matter what he did, every time he went to the search bar something Eminem-related would pop up.

“eminem funny moments”

“eminem rare freestyle”

“eminem superman official music video”

What’s really bizarre is that he never remembers even typing in an “e”. But, he would always watch a good clip of Marshall goofing off or joking around.

“I don’t know what to do with my hands!”

“Things that I am afraid of? Eye-legged insects…GIRAFFES!”

Yela always laughs at that one. It was one of those little quirks his boss had that made him smile. Marshall has a lot of quirks, so it seems, and that made Yela feel so much more comfortable with the older man- knowing that he wasn’t perfect.

But it also didn’t help his feelings. He misses him. He wants to talk to him, hold him, love him. Yet, he’s extremely afraid that he will be denied.

Marshall has been working on Slaughterhouse’s new album like a mad man, so Yela thinks it’s a perfect opportunity for him to go to New York and help him with it. He knows almost nothing about mixing and producing, but maybe he can get his boss a water, some food, maybe some kisses if he’s interested. One might say that he’s crazy, and one would be right.

He walks into the building, happy beyond belief that his boss is just a couple floors away and not an ounce of alcohol is in his system. He’s grinning madly, little butterflies dancing in his stomach as he approaches the reception desk. A cute brunette with a vibrant red dress and horn-rimmed glasses sits typing away on her keyboard. Yela clears his throat and she looks up, surprise evident on her face.

“May I help you?” she asks with a surprisingly deep voice.

“Yeah, um, what room is Marshall Mathers in?” he asks, hoping that she won’t try and interrogate him. She raises an eyebrow skeptically.

“And may I ask who wants to see him?” she responds. Yela takes a deep breath, trying to stay positive.

“His client Yelawolf,” he says sarcastically. She considers this for a moment, then gives him an uninterested look.

“Room 315, third floor. He’s busy.”

“Thank you,” he says, smiling again.

There are surprisingly a lot of people in the building, everyone working to make Marshall Mathers happy, and he is no different. There’s no one in the elevator when he climbs on, and it gives him a chance to think. He wonders for the first time what he’s going to say and how he might say it. Suddenly, he’s very nervous.

The elevator comes to a quiet halt, and he starts panicking. He regrets coming here and doing all of this and all he really wants right now is a drink.

He steps out despite his internal struggle and looks for room 315. He feels like a snail, slowly passing each number. 311, 313, and then…

Yela hears the familiar thump of a bass beat pounding through the walls, and he isn’t sure if he should knock or just wait until the song stops. At this point he just wants to leave, but after another inner battle he finally knocks on the door loudly. The beat stops, he hears shuffling, and then the door swings open.

“Who the f**k- Oh, hey Yela,” Marshall says, shocked to see him here. Yela feels like his heart may explode. His boss looks so…old.

“Ugh, hey,” he greets awkwardly. “I was in town an’ I was wonderin’ if ya needed any help on the album.” Yela tries not to look in his boss’ dead eyes, but he does. Marshall squints.

“Seriously?” he asks, annoyed. “Go the f**k away, man…” Marshall is ready to close the door but all of a sudden Yela gets a good grip on the edge. Marshall is just too weak and Yela is just too pissed.

“Yeah, seriously,” Yela mocks. He pushes the door wide open and Marshall feels so vulnerable, backing away from the tall maniac throwing a fit in front of him.

“Yela, calm down,” Marshall says to no avail. The younger rapper, despite all previous ideals, forages on and grabs the collar of his boss’ shirt- as grey as a tombstone.

“I’m not gonna calm down!” Yela screams vaguely, shaking his boss who has complete terror in his blue eyes. He remembers FeFe.

Yela’s face is so familiar to Marshall, but so twisted. In those green depths he sees a man from his past. Yela throws him onto the sound mixers, and Marshall yelps in pain, putting a name to the face.

Blake. His abuser from the past. A man with uncontrollable rage and maximizing love. Marshall starts crying.

“Yela, stop!” he begs, and the tatted man does. He’s seething, stepping away and examining the damage he’s done. Marshall’s eyes are red and traumatized, prepared for a punch or a kick. What has he done.

“Oh my God…Marshall, I,” he takes a step forward but the older man backs away further onto the sound mixers, wishing there was another place he could go.

“Whadyou want, Michael?” he asks in a whisper, wondering what he did to deserve this.

“I…I jus’ wanted ta talk ta you, Marshall,” he confesses more so to himself. So far he hasn’t proven himself worthy of the gesture.

“So…talk,” Marshall says. He doesn’t dare go near the man or let his guard down. Michael starts crying himself, unable to believe what he’s done, or what he almost did.

“I…I’m clean,” he says quietly. He doesn’t even think it means much at this point; Marshall then looks at him up and down.

“Doesn’t seem like it,” he says. Michael knows that it’s true, but it doesn’t ease the pain of those words.

“I…I thought you’d be happy fer me.”

“How can I be?” Marshall asks, dumbfounded and angered. “You could’ve broke me in half just now!”

“Marshall…I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Michael feels about an inch tall now, disgraced by his actions and longing for Marshall’s respect.

“Well, ya did! And if ya didn’t mean that then God knows what you meant.” Marshall is fuming, looking away from the man.

“I meant to make a peace offerin’ but I guess I fucked that up,” Michael says with a chuckle, hoping to lighten the mood. “I mean, do ya know what it’s like ta see you wit that guy an’ get completely ignored?” Marshall glances up at Michael. He doesn’t know.

“You don’t know s**t,” the older man spits, looking at Michael with fury in his eyes. Michael isn’t too happy about the reaction.

“Oh really?” he seethes. “Well do ya know what it’s like ta see someone you’re in love wit think that you’re a piece of s**t and mack on some dude and not take yer calls? I don’t think ya do, Marsh.” Marshall, shocked but unbitten, takes a deep breath.

“Well how ‘bout this? Do ya know what it’s like ta see someone you care about throwin’ his life away ‘cause he can’t be honest wit himself? Do ya know what it’s like ta lose three people that you love and see another one fallin’ in step?” The room goes quiet for a moment; Michael is focusing closely on his boss- no- his love, pouring out his heart. Marshall starts to cry again, seeing Michael a bit differently. “’Cause I don’t think ya do…” he finishes.

Before Michael can even think, he rushes to Marshall, the older man oddly not flinching at the close proximity. He puts his hands quickly on either side of Marshall’s face, astounded by the softness of his cheeks.

“I think I do,” he whispers, and Michael closes the space between them, sealing his lips with Marshall’s.

Michael feels his bones shivering, shocked by the sweetness of the older man’s kiss. Marshall is shocked, feeling himself crumbling by the electricity between them. And something else…

When Michael breaks the kiss, he realizes what he’s done and what it will do to them. Marshall leans back, disgusted and scared.

“I think you should leave,” he says. And Michael goes without another word, upset.

Marshall closes his eyes, and breaks down. His tongue glides over his lips, tasting the familiar burn of Jim Beam. He’s disappointed.

He’s disappointed because Michael Wayne Atha is a f*****g liar.

“I lit my cigarette

Feeling half dead, whisky on my mind

Then came the dead

Sherrif in the yard, here comes the rest

I sat like a ghost, they all passed by

My girl cried baby this’ll be my last bye

Baby in her arms

She took a cab home