Cold

A Story by Jess

Yelawolf says something that triggers Marshall.

He cursed at the ground, spitting and kicking up a pebble. Suddenly a knot formed in his stomach and he felt like dying; felt like he made the biggest mistake of his life. Marshall ran away with a crack in his eye.

“M-,” he tried to say, but what was the use. His chapped lips curled around his teeth and he blew air from his nose. His boss was small but he sure walked fast.

He didn’t even understand why he said it. It didn’t make much sense but in his thick skull the words seemed realistically true. The fence in front of his mouth, however, failed to block out the harsh criticism. Even with a gold grill and a scruffy beard, the words still flew out with no stopping. An “-ing” got stuck in his whiskers, but that was it.

He watched the ruffles of Marshall’s sweatshirt fly behind him against high winds. He put his glasses on his head and sat down on the curb, elbows around his knees.

“Tell me s**t…a*****e.” They were curt whispers bouncing off every corner of the street. Marshall trudged along, feeling s**t deep in his belly and hearing the mush between his ears sizzle like firecrackers. Never had he been so mad so quickly in his old age. Most things ran off his shoulders like cool water, but now he felt like a boiling tea kettle.

A rush of cool air hit his face when he finally felt the sadness arrive. The hurt. The despair. His bones felt like icicles that could crack immediately. His skin felt like soup. He stopped walking.

When he looked up he saw that he had approached the end of the sidewalk, a few cars rushing by with the sign of a bright green light. It was all blue. He felt the color drain from his face, people without troubles walking around him like specs of dust. He dived into the nearest doorway.

“It was jus’ a joke man…” he said to the air. He looked at the palms of his shaky hands, littered with blue veins. Of course he wished he could take it back, dry the cracked eyes of his boss. Although, what had he even said that was so horrific?

A homeless man walked past him, curving around his tree-like legs back to the shoulder of the street. He was swallowed in heavy clothes and a heavy face. Out of all of that man’s problems, Michael would choose the ones that didn’t involve this type of drama.

He didn’t know how badly words could kill, and apparently they hurt worse than poverty. The man took small steps, never looking back at Michael.

He sighed.

“Public enemy numbah one.”

“Sir, we’re closing in ten minutes.” She was young and cute, but the voice on her rang against Marshall’s ears like a tree branch against a car window. He looked at her with lines on his forehead.

“Okay,” he replied, very short. She grinned with her eyes pinned to the floor and walked away. Marshall watched each harsh step. Among comic books and old packs of gum he stood in silence, not caring to make a friend. He appreciated the quiet and was haunted by the lights.

Run through these doors. Now. Please. Say you’re sorry. Right now. The floor was ice and the window was concrete. The air was warm and the sunlight was fake.

Please.

“Have you seen a…short guy? Hoodie? Nike shoes on? Prolly pissed off?” Michael was desperate, staring into the eyes of a confused man about his age. He gnawed on his gum and answered, his eyes unfocused.

“Nah, man. Sorry.” Michael rolled his eyes and pursed his lips, watching the guy walk off without any strife.

“F****n’…” He looked around, wondering where Marshall could be without a ride or a close method of escape. Every store was closing besides the friendly neighborhood Taco Bell or McDonald’s. A few headlights beamed in his eyes against the twilight. With a hand over his delicate irises he looked at the Nissan license plate.

“SPDERMN”

Michael knew where to go.

“Sir, are you alright?”

Marshall felt like Jell-O, all soupy and shaky. His skin felt like it would fly off his bones in a minute, and his tummy felt like a hurricane. Although, he didn’t feel as good as the gelatin tasted. Apparently when anger wears off and turns into sadness, you lose your grip on reality.

He was sitting down on the comic book store’s contained heater, the thing setting his butt on fire and creating a bead of sweat on his brow. A middle-aged woman brought him a water bottle and he took a gulp without asking or thanking, just shaking. His eyes were tearing up.

The young girl from before approached him, her eyeliner thick. Her cheeks looked swollen.

“Do you need anything?” There was a quiver in her voice. Marshall shook his head.

“Not anything you can get me.” Even his eyes were shaking. There was the sound of a soft bell and the whoosh of air. Marshall gazed over.

“Marshall…” Michael sighed, bereft. Every slice of air cut through Michael’s lungs and poured out of him. The older man looked away with eyebrows glazing over thick lashes. Michael pressed his lips together, cutting against sharp gold grills. He closed the door behind him and looked at the cut jaw of his boss, hard and rigged. His nose curved like a Disney villain’s. It was suddenly so quiet and tense that Michael could take out a butter knife and cut the air with it if he wanted. He settled for a few mumbles.

“Can, uh, we get a lil privacy…please?” he asked with a tick in his throat. Everyone, from the woman with gray hair to the girl with the eyeliner, looked at him with curiosity in their eyes. They gazed at each other like they were sharing a secret code, and walked the back of the store. Marshall bit his lip, squeezed on the water bottle, and stared at the ground.

“Hi,” he spat. The corner of Michael’s mouth rose to its own will, and he scooted next to his boss, shocked by the sweltering heat on the back of his skinny jeans.

“’Ey,” he goaded. He looked at each eyelash dangling from Marshall’s eyes, a few pointing in weird directions and one holding a fuzzy little thing. Michael wanted to pick it out but decided the time wasn’t right. “I’m-,”

“Yeah okay whatever. Sure.” Michael knew where this was going and it wasn’t anywhere pretty. It was starting to get pitch black outside. Not quite that black though, for bright lights still decorated the streets.

“Come on, Marsh. The f**k did I say?” he asked, his voice cracking under the ground they pressed their feet on.

“ ‘Yer the reason I’m not as big as I should be, locked inside yer shadow. ’S all good though,’” Marshall recited, including the southern drawl and a bit of sassiness at the end. “It’s like you don’t even think I care ‘bout you.” Michael felt his stomach fall.

“I…” he croaked out, broken. He didn’t really know what to say at that point. Everything was foggy and…sad.

“I tol’ you, it’s whatever. Jus’ sayin’, that hurt.” And he looked up at Michael through swollen eyes. They were still cracked and bruised, and his lips were parted.

“I didn’ think you did care ‘bout me. I always faded inta the backgroun’ ya know?” Michael said with a boom. Marshall sat up, pressing his lips into a thin line. He pushed himself up with his hands on his knees, and walked to the cash register, a ghost town.

“I thought I cared too much about you. ‘Parently not…” He slouched his head and stiffened his shoulders, huffing a sigh. Michael felt his eyes crack too, and he stood up with ripples of fabric slipping through the air: the only noise in that whole store.

Spiderman remained expressionless as he always did, warped in another crime-fighting adventure. Superman stood proudly on a skyscraper with a hard look on his face, holding Lois Lane in his gigantic arms. Michael wrapped his arms around Marshall from behind.

“I’m sorry, Marshall. I really am. I’m jus’…bitter I guess. I’m tired o’ bein’ yer sidekick ya know? I wanna save the day for once.” Michael pressed his cheek against the top of his boss’ back, bony and frigid. He could feel Marshall’s deep breaths of anger and resentment.

“You’re so cold…holy s**t…”

Michael giggled. His leather jacket remained below 60 at all times apparently. Marshall turned around in the young man’s arms, eyes still cracked but healing.

“You’re too old to save the day. Leave that to the superheroes…stop actin’ like a b***h. You don’ wanna end up like me at your age.” Marshall raised an eyebrow and turned back around, fumbling through a few comic books on the clear desk. Michael backed away and sulked a bit, his jowls falling heavily like designer handbags.

“Oh,” he said pathetically. He pressed the tips of his toes hard into the floor, looking for a way to ease the tension in his body. He pictures Marshall lying on a ceramic floor, twitching uncontrollably and foaming at the mouth…

“Whatever…” Marshall whispered, taking his hood off. He turns around, somber in his features, his eyes glazed over with bruises. “Let’s go.” He nodded to the door. “Alright! Y’all can come back out!”

They left with another ding of a bell.

“Why haven’ I ended up like you?”

The windows were tinted, dyed with the color of affluence. No one needed to drive; Marshall almost forgot how.

“Hmm?” Marshall moaned, twisting his head sharply like a man being ripped from a nightmare. He fluttered his eyes a few times, little specs of dust flying any which way.

“Why aren’ I in a coffin righ’ now? I’m such a scumbag…” he muttered to the artificial lights. Marshall stared at the younger man, seeing ribbons of stars in his youthful eyes, and placed a tender hand on the kid’s outstretched knee. He was sunk into the seat.

“’Cause you’re not like me, Yela. You’re actually smart…” Marshall comforted. Michael broke his concentration and looked at his boss, mouth agape, and saw a hero.

“I’m sorry…” and he curled, bawling, into Marshall’s lap like a child. “So sorry…”

Marshall shushed him and petted his hair. He shushed the nightmares away.

He was the one superhero that didn’t really have a kryptonite.