The Parasite | Eminem

34

"How do you feel?" I ask him, grabbing the paper package from his hand.
Sitting myself down on the cheap patio furniture, I stare at the view from the hotel balcony.
Castles of glass corporations and people living out their lives elevated far above the ground.
Toronto city at it's warmest, which isn't all that hot, but when you're from Detroit, it's all very similar.

"The shower helped... but I still feel a little scattered... you know what I'm sayin?" He admits, taking the plastic chair next to mine, opening the wrapping around his taco.
"I feel like everythin' in my life is suddenly... completely different... even though ain't nothing really changed..." he continues on before taking a loud bite out of the hard shell.
I'm more of a soft pita bread gal, but oh well.

"That's how I've been feeling these past few months... now... it feels a little better." I utter softly, honestly feeling like an entire ocean has formed and crashed apart in the span of the past couple of hours.
I thought tonight would be the worst night of my life, turns out it become my salvation.

"I don't get why you ain't told me sooner..." turning to give me a saddened look, he nibbles on his bottom lip.
He always does it when he's feeling unsure or flustered.

"I was protecting you..." I tell him, knowing I'd have to explain my reasoning behind it.

"Protecting me from what?" The question I absolutely expected.
He pauses from eating, desperate to know what he can before his mind can be put to ease.
Precious blue eyes full of confusion, he doesn't take his eyes from me.
I feel forced to look back at him

"Because, I knew the way it made me feel... making me literally go into a frenzy back there... and I didn't want to inflict that on you... it would just... spread the suffering" I mumble, hoping he'd understand where I was coming from.

He remains quiet for a few moments, seconds stretching and elongating to feel like long minutes.
Soon he lets out a soft laugh under his breath, staring down at his lap.
"I don't get how you can be both the most carin' person I've met an' also the cruelest." He scoffs softly before taking another bite.
I suppose he found something conclusive about what I said.

"I'm a living, breathing oxymoron." I smirk at him, hoping to get a laugh out of him, something, anything.
He cracks a subtle smile, shifting his eyes from mine to his food, seemingly shy in this moment.
"Besides... I don't think it was that cruel... he deserved it..." I admit honestly, shrugging before I take another bite from my burrito.

"It wasn't what you did... it's how you did it." He mumbles in quiet protest, tonging the inside of his cheek. "It was... very Marlow." He begins to smile again, bringing his eyes to mine again.
This time, his gaze is confident.
It tells me that he's not mad, that there's no tension.

"If I did it any other way... I'd probably have been caught." I tell him, wanting him to know it.
Sure, I could have laid off the taunting words, but if I didn't shoot him the way I did, they would have probably opened it up as a murder investigation.

"Yeah... I know... you only do things if you know you'll absolutely succeed." He practically mirrors my words, looking out at the city in front of us.

"You're learning" I joke, laughing openly, following his eyes to the view of large glass buildings.

"How- How did ya expect me to react when I found out...? The way you planned?" He ponders out loud, asking the question in a soft, unsure tone.

"I wanted you to disappear and never see me again... because that's what I felt I deserved." I admit, retuning my gaze down to the food in my hand, trying not to look at him.

"I know it's like- probably real inappropriate given everything... but..." he tries to get something out... an opinion, a though, a desire.
I don't know.

He wraps up the paper that previously contained his food, putting it back in the Taco Bell bag before he places it on the tile balcony floor.
"I'll throw that out later" he tells me, as if I care.
Cleaning ladies have picked up far, far worse.

"Come wit' me." he simply requests, heading back into the hotel room.
I raise an eyebrow, not sure if this is heading where I expect.
It feels too crazy.

I crumple up my own wrappers, stuffing them into the bag as my contribution before getting back inside.
I watch him pull his shirt off over his head, leaving his chest bare, except for the single dog tag around his neck.
"Marshall, were you ever in the military?" I ask, staring at his beautifully toned stomach.
I obviously know the answer is a no.

"Naw, why ya ask?" He raises an eyebrow, watching me as I sway towards him.
I grab at the metal tag, reading the text.
'Polkingharn Ronnie'
An interesting thing about dog tags is that they contained very limited information on them, but one of the pieces they did contain was what their religious preference was.
Dog tags always contained a name, Social Security number, blood type and religious preference.
I know instantly that it's a legitimate dog tag, but it's not Marshall's.

As religious preference, it states 'Protestant'.

"Because dog tags are for military use, and it's legitimate but not yours." I tell him, running my thumb across the font's indentations.
It's warm from having been against Marshall's chest.
He wears it every once in a while but I haven't really taken a proper look until now.

"Naw... it's my uncle Ronnie's... gave it to me before he died." He tells me, radiating a prideful energy, that or something resembling a fond nostalgia.

"Protestant..." I mumble out loud, continuing to look at it.
I feel Marshall wrap his arms around my waist, bringing me closer.

"I ain't get why they put that of all things on there." he admits, looking down at it with me.

"Different religions have different burial preferences... so if you died in battle, they'd know how to bury you or.. burn you I guess... like- Jewish people are very against cremation, you get it." I explain, placing it back down against his chest like it's something I already cherish and want to be kept in perfect condition.

"You're full of useful information" he chuckles, smirking at me.
His eyes are full of this adoration I can't understand.
I don't know how he can love me so much.

"More like fun facts..." I debate, smiling softly before the question of how he died pops in my head.
"Did he die in battle?" I ask cautiously, looking at him with a delicate expression, facial features soft as I notice his harden subtly.

"No, he uh- he shot himself after the girl he was in love with dumped him..." he mumbles before tucking his bottom lip under his teeth again.
Eyes falling dull, they fixate on my lips.
I reach out to touch his face, getting a light groan out of him as my fingers slip into his hair.

"On the bed." He whispers to me.
Pushing me down onto the bed behind me, he pauses on top of me for a moment, looking down at me.

Next, his lips are on mine.
It feels like heaven, like the perfect ending to an overly emotional movie.
It feels like visiting France and tasting the most incredible food of your life. 
His hands travel all over me.
In my hair, on my neck, cupping my breasts, running along my curves.

Soon his warm hands are sliding up my shirt, he slips his knee in between my thighs, grinding it against my pussy.
I let out a choked moan, arms wrapped around his neck.
I slip my lips to the side on partially, his mouth still on mine, "you're right, this does feel inappropriate considering everything..." I tell him, letting out a soft laugh, feeling a grin form on my lips.

"I'm not going to fuck you, I'm gonna make love to ya, if that makes any difference." He tells me before sliding his tongue back in my mouth, covering my mouth with his.

Yes, it does make a difference.