The End

Yelawolf picks up the pieces of his life.

“Think I’ll miss you forever,

Like the stars miss the sun in the mornin’ sky…”

 

He died on a Sunday. When people were getting ready for church, when people were getting up for work, when people were planning out their day, when children were getting ready for school, he jumped to his death. I don’t think any of us really truly know why he did it, but I blame myself. I did everything wrong. I wasn’t there for him when he needed me. I was sleeping soundly in Alabama while he was walking out to a bridge and making a fateful decision. He could’ve told himself no. He could’ve asked for help. But he didn’t. He just couldn’t stand life anymore. He couldn’t stand me. I wish he was stronger. I wish he was braver. I wish he could’ve given us a sign, not just hidden all of them in a shoebox. I wish I could’ve taken away all of his pain, but that’s life. That’s death too. You can’t change the things that can’t be changed. In a way, I guess it is not synonymous with cowardice. Suicide is real. It’s powerful. Depression is a journey. You see it once in your life, and it never goes away. It always lingers in the shadows somewhere, whatever you do and wherever you go. And with each tremendously weary or dreadful situation, it gets bigger and bigger. Sometimes it gets so big that it swallows us up. It goes to sleep with us at night and wraps a suffocating arm around us. And sometimes we wake up in the morning, and we’re not there anymore. And that’s what happened to Marshall. Depression suffocated him, and it couldn’t be stopped. So when he woke up Sunday morning, he wasn’t there. He was already gone, so he finalized the deed. What pushed him over the edge? It might as well have been me. I killed Marshall. I don’t care if I go to jail for this. I don’t care if all of you hate me, because maybe, I hate myself so much that depression isn’t needed for me to suffocate. Maybe, I’m a coward. Maybe, I’m already dead. Just maybe, I deserve all of the things I just mentioned. But always remember this: Marshall was not a coward. Not in the least. He was Superman without the ability to fly.

 

~*~*~

 

Michael doesn’t look at the empty coffin. It’s f*****g stupid. Marshall is drifting in fragmented pieces all through Michigan’s great lakes and these people want to act like it matters that there’s a coffin. Like it could be any representation of Marshall’s legacy other than death or destruction. Like in there is a stunning piece of jewelry or an award.

 

He guesses there is one reward: peace of mind. It glows through the casket, smiling at the mourners like an animal and preying on the sadness. It swallows tear after tear, licking its rips ruefully at the quiet sobs and darkness filling the air. It’s like…it’s like a yellow sweater. A seemingly comforting body that absorbs the horrible tragedies of the world and wraps itself around you. And Yela felt it. He felt the fibers surround him and scratch the surface of his skin painfully as soon as he entered the cemetery. And now, he was watching that sweater be buried six feet underground where it could never harm another soul ever again, but it had already gotten to him.

 

So he stares at ground when everyone starts reciting a prayer. It’s almost like he’s lost in space, but he can’t see anything other than the leg of his plastic chair digging forcefully into the soft earth, soaking from the rain. The leg prods at the ground, mangling and intertwining blades of sharp green grass, sticking deeper and deeper downward until such a beautiful thing is destroyed. Yela stands up, disheartened completely, and the weight on the leg lessens, letting the grass breathe in a deep exhausting breath. It startles him, creating a discomfort inside. Things were allowed to get better when he was gone.

 

With that, he was gone.

.  .  .  .  .

 

Michael pulls at his poorly knotted tie, rubbing a hand over swollen eyes and cracking his neck. He didn’t go to a bar. He didn’t drive home. He didn’t do much of anything that morning, yet he was still exhausted out of his wits. It was like Marshall’s funeral was a dream and just now he was waking up, feeling fatigue cross over his eyes and darken his stature. He couldn’t stand tall for anything. Anyone. What was worse was the letter he got in the mail from the county sheriff’s office.

 

He doesn’t read it until he’s in his Detroit apartment fully, making it to the kitchen where most horrible instances occur: burnt chicken thighs, horrid fried shrimp, Bacardi 151 spill and an eventual fire, etc. So why not add one more horrible thing to the situation.

 

Michael’s vision is blurry and he insists on staring off into his kitchen window until the f*****g letter opens. Just for kicks he places it on the counter, banging on it with a meat tenderizer and smiling like a psychopath. Then he gets a butcher knife and slices the thing so there are significant cuts seeping through like lacerations on a human body. He throws both tools once meant for proper cooking methods onto the linoleum floor and sulks, finding his fun all but over.

 

He stares out the window again, not saying a word or even thinking one for that matter, with a loose face and strained eyes and sees light pouring through like a fairytale glare. He sees dust specs floating and drifting on air like little ballerinas with less choreographed movements. He can see one large one gliding over the streams of light and eventually floating down to the shiny, stainless countertop. It was one of the most peaceful and beautiful things Michael has ever seen.

 

So he gives up on the abuse towards the letter. Whatever’s inside won’t change just because he wants it to. He gets a simple butter knife from a drawer, leisurely opening it like a rag doll, and slices into the government issued notice. He reads with squinted eyes.

 

As ordered by the state of Michigan versus Michael Wayne Atha, you have been indicted on one count of murder in the third degree. Please contact a lawyer and be present in court on the morning of September 29^th, 2012.

 

Michael huffs out a sigh through pursed lips and takes it all in. “Third degree murder”. It’s not as bad as first degree, of course, but it’s still pretty horrible. What’s even worse is that he doesn’t even know what he did wrong. A few punches couldn’t have pushed Marshall over the edge, could it?

 

And now he’s contradicting himself. He wrote, in sprawled and even handwriting, all of the reasons why he should be blamed for Marshall’s death and championed it by speaking it aloud at the man’s funeral. In just a matter of hours he’s gone from insane to a rude piece of s**t.

 

It was his fault.

 

Nothing could change the fact that Marshall did this because of him in some way. That’s just the way it is. It couldn’t be a coincidence that the older man commits suicide when Michael starts dating him and beating him to a bloody pulp almost every night. He’s horrible. He’s evil. A monster. Most likely, he’s even the world’s most hated man. He laughs.

 

Now he sounds like a self-entitled a*****e. It’s all his fault and no one else’s. He’s the reason for all of this. He doesn’t deserve to live.

 

Michael stops laughing.

 

A thought clicks with him in a second, like a spark of electrons paralyzing his mind, and like a robot he dashes up the stairs to his bedroom. Not a thing is touched. The wallpaper is old and decrepit, a pattern from the ‘90s no doubt. His bed has one of those strange and uncomfortable sheets that you see in the hotel rooms from way-back-when. Not a thing has changed.

 

And, lying on the bed, cold and wrinkled, is Marshall’s gray sweatshirt.

 

It’s very plain and uninteresting, but so soft and delicious on the inside, like wrapping yourself in the fur of a chinchilla. He remembers Marshall wearing it while he was here, when Michael treated him well.

 

“God, I love this thing,” Marshall said, smiling sweetly and hugging the fabric closer to his skin.

 

“Oh yeah?” Michael asked, folding clothes and keeping a grin locked on his face. He felt dust and dander hit his nostrils and he sneezed a couple of times. Marshall was one of the last people on earth to say, ‘God bless you!’ in full. “What’s so special ‘bout it?”

 

Marshall paused for a moment, looking off into the air of dust and thinking quietly. He seemed puzzled by Michael’s pressing question.

 

“I guess when I wear it I feel…” he started, pursing his lips the right of his face. “I guess when I wear it I feel like I’m home.”

 

Michael lost his smile and looked at his lover, who was still staring at nothing. When Marshall started tearing up and he ran to the bathroom, that’s when Michael realized that this wasn’t a home for him.

 

This was a nightmare.

 

Michael puts the sweater on, smelling Marshall on it and feeling home. He zips the thing up to the neck, feeling his body warm the thing to a crisp, and for a moment he feels Marshall surround the core of him. This sweater isn’t home, but perhaps it is the immortalization of the man he loved. The man he still loves.

 

He bounds down the stairs again with a purpose, swinging open the door and exiting his home like he’s on a mission. He ignores any stares and looks to the parking lot, finding his grandfather’s old car. He could cry, seeing something from his past still so beautiful and lovely.

 

Car keys in hand he enters the old Chevy, strapping himself in with an old seatbelt and smelling some old mint gum. He feels home now. So he closes his eyes and absorbs the scents: his grandfather’s spearmint gum and Marshall’s cologne.

 

With a deep breath he starts the vehicle and aims for the bridge. The bridge that changed everything.

.  .  .  .  .

 

When the car comes to a complete and rusted stop, he feels lightheaded. He wishes he knew the exact place where Marshall jumped, but he’s left to his own devices. He’s on the shoulder of the road, he thinks, but no one’s on here anyway, so his halt couldn’t matter much regardless. He whispers a prayer that is paraphrased, it’s been so long since he’s said the Act of Contrition but he knows the basic parts.

 

“My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart…?”

 

But it doesn’t mean much of anything, since he’s about to commit the worst crime in religion. But it’s the only way. It’s the only act of redemption. It’s his only way to feel home.

 

“In choosing to do wrong, and failing to do good…?”

 

He stares at the cool mist of the sea through his window, feeling like God is there with him in that car, and maybe his grandfather too.

 

Maybe even Marshall. Maybe he’s crying. Maybe he’s smiling. Maybe he’s doing a mixture of both.

 

All that Michael really knows is that in this car smelling of gum and Marshall, he’s ready to be forgiven. And to be forgiven, he’s going to drive. He’s going to drive as far away from this place as he can.

 

~*~*~

 

“Late is better than never

Even if you’re gone I’m gonna drive…”

Author's Note

song: "Summertime Sadness" by Lana Del Rey. Next week is the epilogue.