The Parasite | Eminem

43

I look down at my fingers, covered in that familiar red liquid.
Flamed scarlet blood lightly painting my pale skin.
It's my tongue.
I've been biting on it.
Not that accidentally fat biting down on your tongue.
That type where you slide a bit of the tissue under your front teeth and purposefully bite, chipping away at it anxiously.
I started doing it once we got back to Detroit.
I don't know why.
I'm not a generally anxious person.

I take my bleeding tongue and lick away the fresh blood on my fingers.
When I see it, I get freaked out and stop momentarily.
I'll just end up doing it later.

"Sir, what is your name?" I hear the judge ask, prompting me to lift my head up and actually acknowledge what's going on in front of me.
I feel myself mouthing the answer as if Marshall can't do it for himself.

It's a relatively small court room, and I'm not too far away from him.
I look at him in the thin framed spectacles that he only ever wears when he's really integrated in his writing process.
He's got a suit on, the only time he ever wears one being in court.

"Marshall Mathers" he states, poised and calm in his composure.
Even his voice is relaxed and suave.
His face is bleak and uninterested.
He doesn't seem to care about being here, after all, he's done this dance plenty of times.

"and Mr. Mathers, can you read, write and understand the English language?" The judge continues on, not looking at the defendant in his court.
He keeps his strained eyes on the papers in front of him, hidden off from the rest of the court behind his bench.

"Yes I can..." Marshall mumbles before running his tongue along his bottom lip.
Everyone remains standing, given that there's not that many of us.
I straighten the tie around my neck nervously, despite it already being straight.
My father next to me, we remain in the same abstracted and estranged position we've always been in amongst each other.
He has no idea about the attempted suicide or the murder.
It's better that way, obviously.

"Sir, can you hear and understand me properly?"

"Yes I can" Marshall acknowledges, probably feeling underwhelmed.

This whole ordeal is underwhelming.
I didn't think it'd be this boring.
Well, we don't know what's going to happen yet, but as of right now, Marshall's being tried for the first unloaded weapon he threatened someone with.
This has happened twice.
Oh well, some people don't learn from their mistakes.
But, in his logic, if he's already got plenty of charges, what's some more?

About an hour of questions, logistics and fact checking later and the judge has finally made a decision.
Marshall has continued to listlessly nibble on his bottom lip throughout the entirety of the court hearing, keeping his eyes down and feigning disinterest.
That or he really doesn't care.
"The court feels that justice in a court of law would be satisfied in this case by following the probation recommendation." The judge announces in a flat and boredom developing tone.
Marshall proceeds to peer up at him through his lashes, same empty expression plastered.

"I am going to be sentencing the defendant to two years probation." Ok, two years of no threatening people with empty gun threats.

In all honesty, I find probation to probably be the stupidest concept conceived by the law, and I know about plenty of them. It makes sense in theory, but when you really pay attention, it's faulty. Probation is a prison sentence that is suspended on the condition that the offender follow certain prescribed rules and commit no further crimes.
Ok, but I thought crime was supposed to be off limits for everyone?
You get what I mean?
Simple technicalities.

"The defendant shall not own or possess a firearm under the term of probation" finalizing the sentence, the judge finishes up the ruling and sets everyone one step closer to going home.

***

"Well, a standard probation sentence, that's pretty good!" I offer, slapping him on the back as we head back out to the car.
"That's like after you attempt to commit suicide and you've gotta go to therapy sessions for a while after." I continue, back to being an idiot who can't read a room.
Marshall doesn't seem to really care though remaining relatively quiet.

"You should have a therapist then" Marshall chuckles, slipping into the front seat and shoving the key in the ignition.

"Oh, Marshall. I've had a therapist most my life." I fire back, grinning widely and feeling myself loosen up.
I put my seat belt on before bringing my hand to the car seat controls, rolling the backrest all the way down.
"I lost touch with her when we started traveling everywhere for concerts and shit."

"I don' know why you came to all of those... we hated each other." He ponders with a subtle smile painted on his lips.
Everything feels back to normal.
The tension is gone.
"Well... you hated me..."
Yes, yes, Marshall was always into me but did that classic thing guys do where they pretend they really despise you.

"Marshall, I never hated you. I thought you were an obnoxious child despite being older than me... but you're not a filthy rich capitalist who doesn't give back and also makes sketchy efforts to avoid taxes." I ramble on before letting out a fit of laughter.
"So yeah, I never hated you."

"Why'd you come? Every concert, interview, all of it..." he pulls us back to his original question, keeping his eyes on the road, composure relaxed and calm.

"To distract myself I guess... I mean- It wasn't until that one night where I got jealous of those girls... that I realized I maybe felt something for you... but it wasn't really... anything crazy. It was like- in that protective way... I think. Because I knew you..." I mumble, finding it hard to explain it to him.

"You know... when you know that if given an opportunity... you'd take it?" I propose the question, trying to find myself a conclusion in the mess.

"Yeah. Obviously." He laughs softly, having done that all his time.
Taking opportunities.
Desperately trying to make it.

"Mhm, I'm like that... but in the bad way. When I had free time, I just filled it with anything. It was all petty crime... at the start." I sigh, staring up at the roof of the car.
"So yeah... when I was with you and my dad... I was distracted... I was stuffing myself with shit to do so I wouldn't think about doing other shit"

"What made you start doin' that... black market shit?" He asks delicately, eyes still glued to the road.

"I met this woman... at- fuck I don't even remember. Destinations aren't important. But, she told me that her husband was cheating on her... and she just- she wanted something bad to happen to him. She wanted karma, the really bad and formulated kind." I run my hands over my face, feeling desperately needy for a cigarette.
I just need that death in my lungs.

"Boom, an entrepreneur was born" Marshall jokes, slapping a palm on my slack covered thigh.

"Yeah. I guess." I laugh in that sad way.
It was a short period of my life and yet it feels like it's all I can think about... all he can bring up.

"Marshall..?" I ask sheepishly, staring up at his relaxed composure.

"Mhm" he hums, thumb running along the black fabric.

"I'm- gonna go to like- those AA meetings or whatever. That stupid bullshit. Full of other people who feel guilty for the shitty stuff they've done. Sure I'll metaphorically stick out like a sore thumb cause I didn't do shit cause I had addiction problems but... I really want to move on... I don't know what grand purpose I think I'm going to fulfill next... but I'd like to stop thinking about... everything." I mutter, bringing my eyes to the road.
it's grey out.
It's always grey out.

"You know you go to those places to talk about all that right?" He laughs softly before going painfully quiet.

"I just... don't want you to worry about all my bullshit... you don't deserve to have it loaded out onto you... I'm getting help... it's... ok..." I mutter, knowing I don't deserve to forget about what I've done.
That being said, I don't want him to constantly be reminded.
I know it hurts him.

"You ain't a burden Marlow... I'm your boyfriend... but yeah, I understand..." he mumbles, breaking his eyes away from the road for the first time, giving me a reassuring smile.

He's way too good for me.
He's my goddamn saint.
All for me...