twisted ↠ slim shady (au)

001

                                                        ❝she's TWISTED, he's a REBEL

                                                         she's SICK, he's HARD TO HANDLE.❞

She shouldn't be able to smell it. Of course no one should smell such a foul smell but, due to her situation that she unwillingly put into - it wasn't an option.

Though, if she smelt it inside it was unsure to her how many other of neighbors were inhaling the stench.

Not taking another moment to pause she, almost caustically, walked over to the sliding glass doors. Moving the blinds that covered her vision she finally saw what she suspected to see. Smoke billowing out of the treetops of the woods that were in her backyard.

"You fucking asshole."

A hissed murmur that pushed heat from between her teeth. As if her hot breath resembled smoke from how much anger she felt burrowing in her gut.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."

It was a psychotics chant that beat-ed on as she paced around.

Shaky fingers able to find a grasp in the knots of her hair while she could only wonder why he would do this to her. Put her in such a position that costed her life. All for him. An asshole that didn't seem to care anymore.

A few minutes turned to twenty and the only time she took a break from her pacing was to throw up in the kitchen sick ; her stomach not able to stand the smell any further.

Another break ensued anyways when a familiar squeak of metal against rust filled the stifled air. Breaking her from her curses and like a moth to a flame she was in front of the sliding glass doors once again. Now instead of the blinds blocking her vision of the hazy atmosphere it was him.

Him in all his glory.

☠

They were a similar pair. One just seemingly bloodier than the other. Where she had disheveled hair, a wrinkly old sweater, and grey sweatpants on. Her flushed face stiff from dried tears that pooled from her irritated eyes.

The male, however, was shirtless with his baggy jeans just low enough on his hips to display his cool coloured boxers.

Marshall's outfit wasn't the substance that overwhelmed her senses.

It was the crimson liquid that looked like scattered paint blots. As if he was a white canvas that an artist found perfect enough to throw red paint on for their next project.

The redness coloured his torso, chest, clothing, face, palms, and even his hair that looked run through. Again it was an abnormal scene, to see your fiance standing in your home covered in blood.

Yet, to her, it seemed almost normal.

That fact alone scared her - just as it should.

"Marshall."

It was a soft whisper that sounded crocked because it was produced out of her throat that had once shook from her sobs.

"Marshall."

He ignored her despite her obviously desperate pleads.

Desperate for something.

Most likely for him to say something but, in his mind, there was nothing to say.