Love Is Ǝvil

12 Intervene Between Me and This Monster

His voice was raw, but he was still screaming into the microphone. "Say I'm a sissy faggot, record it, play it back and put it on straight loop, you haters look like you ate a grape fruit to see me climbing back on that wagon, got my swagger back. I was dragging, hopped back on it, grab the reigns on that bastard and came back on 'em without remorse man. Man, of course, I'm a one-trick pony 'cause I'll be screaming on these whores 'til I'm hoarse!" His heart was racing and his lungs hurt, but screaming his anger out, spewing savage words into the microphone was relief. Rather his anger was heard than his dejection felt.

"You're on fire today", Denaun nodded to the beat, replaying what Marshall just had recorded.

He drank from a bottle of water, not up for conversation today. His jaw hurt where Nicolas's had punched him back and rapping nonstop since early this morning didn't help. This was well deserved. For being this dumb to actually fall for this guy, to actually try to be gay, he deserved to be punished. Stupidity like this shouldn't be allowed to exist. Period.

Ryan asked: "What happened to your face?"

He just waved dismissively.

Ryan's prying eyes stayed and burned Marshall's bruise even more. He shortly stroked over his discolored jaw, as if this could make it invisible. Of course it couldn't. "Quit starin'", he grumbled.

The eyes didn't waver. A shiver ran down Marshall's spine. Those ink-black eyes always broke the truth out of him. They did so back in the day and they did so now. He bit his lip, he absolutely could not say the truth. Ryan couldn't know, that Marshall was like this. Not again. He already does, dumbass. He couldn't be disgusted with him, couldn't leave him. Not again.

"Fine, I got in a fight. Happy now?", Marshall said exasperated. You could've said, it's from boxing. That would have been the shorter conversation. Thinking his words over first wasn't his strong suit. Never had been. But how could he lie, if Ryan looked at him like this? Pussy.

"Really?", Ryan sounded genuinely surprised and exchanged a look with Denaun. "I thought you had better control over your temper now. With the therapy and all."

Marshall scowled. "Obviously, I don't."

"Yeah, I noticed."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Ryan shrugged. "You're on edge lately."

"So what? Am I not allowed to be in a bad mood?" A frown grew on Marshall's face.

"That's not what I meant", Ryan shook his head. "Is something goin' on?"

"I'm fine!", Marshall huffed irritated.

Denaun spun in his chair to face the both of them. "Oh sure, everything's peachy. That's why you're screaming your lungs out. You're totally fine."

"Just shut it", he growled. You should've said the boxing thing, stupid. "You was just all hyped about me screaming. Don't go back on that now."

"I don't. The music's great, but ..."

Marshall growled low and stared at Denaun, he put a lot of effort into that mean glare.

Denaun held the stare. "But if that's on the expense of your well-being, then, well ... You were adamant about that not happening again. Just sayin'."

"Well, don't!", Marshall snapped at him.

Ryan cocked his head. "Perhaps your therapist should give you some more homework."

"I'm done with that." Marshall put his bottle of water down on the table and left the room. He needed fresh air. And fresh friends.

His fist hit the leather. The punching bag swung through the air. He hit it again. And again. And again. Rapidly hitting the bag, sharp noises came from the tormented leather. Dull pain spread through the bones of his fingers. Sweat dripped from his nose. Breath shallow, fast.

"If you rip that, you clean it up." A gruff voice, raspy and old.

Marshall stepped to the side and looked behind the swinging bag. "Coach", he greeted in a respectful tone. Everyone called the old owner Coach, even though he wasn't coaching anyone anymore. He wiped his forehead with his wrist, but that didn't do much. It was more a gesture of restlessness.

The old man looked him over, a sharp wit to his eyes. His body might be frail due to age, but his mind clearly wasn't. "I've seen many young men like you. Does beatin' up an ol' sack of sand help ya?"

Marshall sighed. Not again. Why did everybody want to share their crappy pieces of advice with him? Did he look that dumb? You're desperate, don't deny that. He wasn't denying anything! Right, little gay looking boy, you're all open and accepting, that's why you cry yourself to sleep. If he wanted to be talking about this, he would've gone to his therapist. "I'm fine. Just needed some work out."

"Never heard that before", the old man snorted with derision.

Marshall grabbed his towel and wiped some of the sweat from his face. "Sorry, I stayed too long. I better be going."

"No hurry. An old man like me hasn't got to be anywhere." He shuffled to one of the benches and beckoned Marshall to follow.

They sat on the bench, silence spread between them. First it was just a thin string of quiet, just their breathing audible. But it disappeared into the background, as the silence widened and engulfed their whole bodies. Not for long and the silence reached every corner of the small, dark lit room.

Marshall fidgeted with the corner of his towel. His mind was racing through his head, hard at work to not pause at anything in particular. Because everything would give him away. All his thoughts were too loud, they must've been like two-hundred decibel. A clamor of voices he didn't recognize anymore. You're gay, fag! - You're sick, no pill can fix that! - Bleed, bitch, bleed! - You're a liar! - You don't deserve love! - You're just bitchy because he wouldn't let you swallow his cum! - DeShaun is disgusted with you! - You're still dreaming about his dick in your pussy! - Ronnie wanted you dead! - You're a cheater, filthy slut! - Little gay looking boy! - Your daughters hate you! - Bleed, bitch, bleed! - You're ugly! - You're useless! - Psychos like you shouldn't have kids! - You have no right to rap! - You die alone! - No one loves you! - You're gay.

"I'm not fine." His voice was just a whisper. He could barely hear it over the shouting in his ears. But every syllable liftet some of the burden that weighed heavy on his heart. It somehow felt good to tell the truth, just once, even to someone he didn't know and wouldn't be able to help. He could breathe for once without the chains of his own mind strangling his throat. It was hard to admit anything about yourself, but he was not fine and he was tired of lying about it.

The gruffy, old voice cut through the noise of his thoughts like they were gelatin. "You don't have to be."

Marshall shook his head weakly.

The old coach went on: "No one's fine. We're all just trying to do our best every day and sometimes a punch in the gut knocks us out. But we stand back up again. That's all we can really do."

"I just want it to be over", he admitted in this low voice, that sounded so much like defeat. A feeling he hated. A feeling he felt too often.

The old man was silent again. He looked across the room, the tiny gym he owned and barely anyone used. It was too small and too hidden and too old for most people these days. That was exactly why Marshall liked it.

Then the old man spoke again: "There's only one way for it all to be over ... and that's not your choice to make."