The Tragedy

A Chapter by Jess

A tragedy occurs in Yelawolf's life, and it involves Eminem.

“Baby, without you, I’m nothing, I’m so lost, hug me

Then tell me how ugly I am, but that you’ll always love me

Then after that, shove me, in the aftermath of the

Destructive path that we’re on, two psychopaths but we

Know that no matter how many knives we put in each other’s backs

That we’ll have each other’s backs, ’cause we’re that lucky”

- “Love the Way You Lie (Part II)”, Rihanna featuring Eminem

I remember the first time I realized I needed glasses. I couldn’t see two feet in front of my face but I tried to pass it off as an unnecessary piece of vision. As long as I could see where I was walking, I would be okay. But that wasn’t the case. I would bang into things all the time. I couldn’t help my kids with their homework because I couldn’t see it. I had to stop denying my invincibility- but believe it or not that was easier than actually wearing the damn glasses. I thought they were ugly and dumb and always in the way, but they helped so much. In the same second that I wanted to break them I wanted to cry because I could see that Southpark was on Comedy Central at 8/7c without squinting my eyes at the television screen. I got to see things that I never knew I wanted to see. The wrinkles on an orange. The indent of my pen on a piece of paper. Crumbs of a cookie decorating my carpet. The hair on my cat standing on end. The world was so new and vivid, like I had never seen it before at all. That’s how I feel now, like I’m looking at a whole new world through a clear lens. I feel complete with Michael, like I can do anything. His reality hits me hard across the face and for a moment everything is so different and exciting. It’s like I’m addicted to the pain. But like my glasses, like my detox, everything is all better when it’s fixed.

But I’m still broken.

~*~*~

“Devastating news we bring to you live this morning, rapper actor and producer Eminem has-“

“Hello on this Sunday morning I’m Kara Yolanda here to talk about the tragic incident that occurred this morning involving rapper Eminem-“

“Good morning today we have some horrendous news. Legendary Hip Hop mogul Eminem has-“

“…unfortunately Eminem is not expected to-“

“…he’s in a reportedly fatal condition-“

“…2% chance of survival-“

“…some say that it was a circumstance of foul play but others wonder if something pushed him over the edge-“

“MacArthur Bridge is now closed off for police investigation-“

It’s everywhere. It won’t stop. It won’t cease. CNN. Fox news. Fuse T.V. MTV. E!News. MSNBC. Every daytime talk show. It’s expected when something this big happens. Everyone knows him. Almost everyone loves him. He’s idolized- immortalized by some. He can’t die. He just can’t.

Michael is an absolute wreck. His heart is racing. His eyes are swollen and clouded with tears. He’s shaking. His head is pounding. The remote is crackling in his tight grip. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. His phone is ringing off the hook and he ignores it. The sounds are rattling his mind and shocking his spine into panic. The icy tremors slide down his back like a cold splash from a sprinkler- it’s too late to move away. It’s already here. It’s already done. The warmth will come soon, but for Michael the winter splash is draining his face minute after minute. Hour after hour. Update after update.

He doesn’t know when the first tears fell, but it must’ve been when TMZ assumed his love was dead. Nothing is confirmed though. Nothing is certain. He doesn’t know when he started biting his nails, but it must’ve been when NBC confirmed his love’s heart stopped beating. He doesn’t know when he decided to pick up the phone, but it must’ve been when E!News pronounced the tragic news.

He didn’t say hello.

“W-wolf! Oh my God…he’s gone…”

He didn’t know who it was, but the news was clear. That’s it. It’s done. There’s no reversing God’s plan.

And the mysteriousness of his ways lingers like the icy chill down Michael’s spine. He feels his lungs collapsing and his chest caving in. He feels his spine finally freezing over and moving throughout his body- to his ribs and down to his toes. It’s no surprise that he falls to the ground. The phone is dead just like his love.

The last thing he sees is Marshall’s face on the television, an image from happier times.

~*~*~

I drowned in my bathtub once. I didn’t realize until about fifteen seconds after my head went under and I began to choke. I rarely take baths, but one day I was just so stressed out that I hoped the suds would alleviate the tension in my muscles. They say falling asleep in the bathtub is one of the most dangerous things a person can unwittingly do to themselves. I didn’t intend to fall asleep though, I swear. I just couldn’t believe that there was another place on this earth, other than my bed, where I could feel so comfortable and relaxed. I think that fact scared me more than the water filling my nostrils. I don’t think I’ll ever find peace like that ever again. Well, maybe if I did drown I would find something. Something much better.

That’s why I’m doing this. Not because I want to see you again. Not because I want an end to the pain. All I really want to do is float on water without the fear of sinking.

~*~*~

“I can’t find anything, Bill.”

Marshall’s home is being ransacked. There’s clothes strewn about, there’s toiletries being examined, drawers being opened. It’s a mad house of translucent gloves and police badges. Bill walks out of Hailie’s room, sighing heavily and greeting his partner.

“Well…do you think we need to do homicide investigation?” Bill asks, furrowing his brow and placing his hands on his hips. His partner guffaws.

“Bill! The guy jumped off a bridge. I highly doubt foul play was involved. We would’ve found something at the scene.”

Bill ponders this for a moment, takes a deep breath and stares at the floor.

“My daughter loved him,” he states somberly. His partner’s mood shifts, and he places a hand on Bill’s back.

“So did his,” he reminds Bill, not as if it can change much of anything. Bill straightens his shoulders and smiles sadly.

“There’s one more place I wanna look, Ed.”

. . . . .

“What would make him so miserable that he would do this to himself?”

Bill and Ed quietly meander through Marshall’s studio, fumbling with drawers and cartridges, mail and computer files. Nothing so far.

“I don’t know, Ed. He had a lot of problems…” Just as the last shred of files is observed and the investigators start to lose hope, Bill bangs into a shelf behind him.

“S**t!”

Tumbling down is a shoebox for some ancient Nike AirMaxes, filled with everything but shoes. The content spills across the floor like a puddle of loose leaf. Bill rubs the square of his back, gazing down at the handwritten leaflets. Ed looks at his partner, curious.

“What is it, Bill?” Ed asks, moving closer to the items. Bill crouches down to the ground, feathering his hands through the carpeting and loose leaf. Lifting them up to his face and squinting his eyes, he sees black dots connecting together.

“I don’t know. I can’t read without my glasses,” Bill says grudgingly, passing them to his partner. Ed hastily straightens the imprinted sheets in his hands, desperately trying to make out the sprawled letters.

“ ‘To James, with love…’” Ed starts reading, his heart racing. “ ‘I swung on my childhood swings today…’”

~*~*~

“Suicide notes?” Michael’s heart is pounding, his eyes still swollen and his nose still stuffy from hours of crying. His voice is merely a disturbance of silence.

“Yeah, with your name all over it,” JDot sighs, still reeling from Sunday’s events. “Provoking someone to commit suicide can be constituted as homicide…whether voluntarily or involuntarily. You could be put away on third degree murder, Michael.”

The phone feels like a million pounds in Michael’s hand, barely keeping still; the plastic sticks to the oils on his face, drenching sounds in his ears.

“B-but I…” Michael starts, but he can’t finish. He’s collapsing inside, destroyed by an assumption that he prays isn’t true.

“I know, I know Wolf. All ya gotta do is answer some questions an’ you’re home free,” JDot explains, loosely believing his last words. Michael’s breath catches in his throat and he grinds his teeth in an attempt to not cry again. He needs to be strong.

“Okay…” he whispers, closing his eyes.

“Okay, Wolf,” JDot says quietly, as if a solemn secret has been passed between them. “Oh, and Wolf?”

“Yeah?” A croak. A chirp.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

. . . . .

An hour later two burly investigators pound their way through Michael’s home, looking at everything but Michael’s shaking form. It’s like their eyes are radars, catching every suspicious item and cataloging them into police memorabilia.

“Alright, Mr. Atha, shall we take this to the living room?” the taller one asks, staring Michael down. His face is a dark olive, Hispanic Michael assumes. Michael takes a second to respond, feeling small and weak.

“Uh-h, sure,” he says, leading the officers to his suede couch. They quietly sit down, the two burly men looking calm and stale. Michael wonders what they’re thinking.

“Okay,” the smaller one sighs, pulling out a notepad from his jacket pocket. “This is sergeant Edward, I’m William. We’d like you to answer some questions for us.” Michael nods, looking at his hands an gulping around a dry throat.

“Is it true that you had a romantic relationship with Marshall Mathers before the time of his death?” William asks, clicking his pen. Edward is staring carefully at Michael, whereas William is staring closely at his notepad. The word “death” hits Michael’s ears with a sting.

“Yes,” Michael says quietly.

“Were you aware of these notes before his death?”

“No…sadly.”

“Did he speak of death or depression at all? Even before the start of your relationship?”

“Not at all…well-“

“Well?” William looks up from his notepad and into Michael’s eyes, which are unsure.

“His old partner passed away before we got together…James was his name I think,” Michael explains, clearing his throat. Edward turns to his partner and whispers in his ear, followed by a nod from William. Michael is left painfully in the dark.

“Did you speak with James at any time?” William continues, staring at his notepad again. Every word from Michael has been scribbled onto that leaflet- along with God knows what else.

“Once. We got into a fight.”

“Physical?”

“Verbal.”

“Did Marshall speak of James at all during your relationship?”

“No.”

“Were you physically abusive towards Marshall, Mr. Atha?” William asks in a higher tone of voice. Michael breaks out into a cold sweat, and he grinds his teeth.

“N-no.” Both William and Edward look up at Michael simultaneously, curious looks on their faces.

“Mr. Atha, it’s important for you to be completely honest with us,” Edward says gruffly. It was that exact moment where Michael realized that these men knew all of the answers to their own questions. He digs his nails into the palm of his hand, feeling like a kid again who just told a lie in front of his parents.

“I-I know,” he stutters. William looks back down at his notepad slowly, frighteningly.

“Mr. Mathers’ letters tell a different story Mr. Atha,” William states in a monotone voice. Michael feels his heart rate increase and sweat collecting on his brow.

“He…he said I hit him?” Michael asks, dumbfounded. Will looks up from his notepad and he and his partner share an intellectual gaze. William confidently starts packing away his pen and pad, digging in his jacket for something else.

“Tell you what, Mr. Atha,” he begins, looking at the floor. “Why don’t you read these and we’ll see you in about another hour.” He passes Michael several folded and strained pieces of loose leaf, to which Michael picks up carefully.

“Are these his-“

“Good luck.”

William and Edward stand up in unison, exiting Michael’s home without another compassionate glance.

Michael unfolds the pages and dissects his lover’s last words.

____________

The wind was strong that morning. His clothes flapped in the breeze and soaked in the cold- freezing the man into a comfortable icy chill. Only three cars passed by since he got there, all unsuspicious of his intentions. These were some of his favorite pieces of clothing- a leather jacket, gray turtleneck, baggy jeans from some designer that he couldn’t pronounce, and his favorite shoes. He smiled, thinking about his letters resting in their box back at home. He took one letter with him- the last and final one.

He stepped closer to the turquoise guardrails- once black but heavily chemically warped into the beautiful color. Another cool breeze hit his body, slamming into him with so much force that his eyes started tearing. He closed them, taking a deep breath filled with the salt of the sea- the temperature of a tundra. He felt weightless in that moment, like a fire dancing across his skin tingling his nerves and giving them life. He opened his eyes again and greeted the sunrise.

A pale pink faded into the sky from the sea, transitioning into a lap of crispy orange and kissing a faint blue- all wrapped around the blinding semi-orb of yellow. He had never watched a sunrise before, and now, in his final moments, he had witnessed one that couldn’t be more perfect. That, in itself, made everything worthwhile. It made everything okay. It made everything finite.

The clouds of doubt in his mind parted and drew a rainbow, fading off into the glorious sunset of Detroit. A tear fell, one of happiness, one he didn’t intend. He pretended that it was the fault of the wind. It was no longer summer.

He climbed over the protective gate awkwardly, praying that he wouldn’t get caught and his plan wouldn’t be ruined. He sat still on the bar, perching himself upright and hanging on. There was about a foot of space between the cement of the street and the tides of the water- embroidered with hard rocks of jagged sizes. He gulped. He gulped thinking about the pain, thinking about what Jack said to Rose, thinking about how his Jack isn’t there to stop him. But he stared longingly at the currents, dreaming about the dark blues stretching over his skin and drenching his clothes- making love to his body and soul like he imagined the water would. He wanted to be a mermaid. So he smiled and climbed off the bar carefully, placing the soles of his feet on the concrete. There was two inches between him and the water, spraying into a delicious white foam that curled around the rocks like melted silver. He closed his eyes again, gripping tightly on the bar with his withered and calloused hands, and whispered a prayer through chapped lips. He prayed that God would forgive him. He prayed for life after death.

He opened his eyes one last time, coming face to face with another gust of wind, the sunrise, the salt of his resting place. Letting go with one hand he dug in his pocket for his letter, crumpled in his jacket and warm from his body. He brought it up to his lips and kissed it. He softly let it go, feeling it struggle through his fingertips and bend with the weight of the wind, falling into the sea without so much as a splash. It lightly rolled over the waves, sticking to a rock momentarily but then drifting through the current. Another tear fell from his right eye- one of undiscovered emotions, and his heart started racing. He let go with his other hand.

He closed his with another oncoming breeze, opened his mouth and stretched out his arms. His feet crawled over the concrete- up to the heel- and he balanced himself for a moment. A third tear.

He leaned forward…and he fell. The air surrounding him speedily flew through him as he turned in mid-air, resting on his back on the wings of the earth. He didn’t open his eyes. He fell.

He fell but for a moment. And, for a moment, he was Superman.

~*~*~

To Hailie,

I’m sorry I wasn’t a better father. You deserve the world. You’ll be stronger without me.

To Alaina,

You’re a big girl and I know you’ll make it through. Never doubt yourself like I doubted myself.

To Whitney,

I love you. Grow and never stop growing. I can’t wait to see you be a star.

To Dre,

Thank you. Thank you so much for believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself.

To my friends,

This is not the end, this is a new beginning.