Love Is Ǝvil

45 When You Swallow It All - Drown in Your Sorrow

"Fuck! Shit! Fuck!" Marshall kicked into a heap of snow, his foot hit the fence. "Ouch! Fuck!", he cried out. The small bit of pain was absorbed by his anger. Clenching his fists meaningless, he stomped over to his car. "Fucking Shit!" He kicked against one of the tires. Nicolas was a fucking bastard! What did the guy think Marshall was, a pity fuck? "Fuck!" Another kick.

Big Eight leaned against the roof of the car. "You okay?" Eyes glued on Marshall.

"Shut up!", he snapped back. Another kick against the tire, but it didn't help with the acidic anger raging in his blood. "Fuck! Shit!" He looked up to Big Eight. His bodyguard was big and sturdy, he wouldn't feel it, right? Marshall wanted to punch someone badly. Not anyone, one specifically, but he had stormed off the cemetery too early. That guy would've kicked your ass eyes closed, faggot. Don't you remember the fight in the bar? God, your pussy really has a death wish. Except for Big Eight the parking lot was empty.

"What?" Big Eight asked, holding the stare with Marshall.

Kicking the tire of his care didn't relieve the tension from his muscles. His body taut, rupturing any minute and his insides burned, he felt like spitting fire. "Fuck this shit!" Nicolas was a selfish bastard!

Marshall moved around his car and his fist came down on the lid of the trunk. A hollow bang. At least his hands had something to do. His other fist came down even harder, a series of hard blows against the metal of the car. A white puff of air left his mouth with every swearword, just about the only thing the lonely street lamp illuminated. Of course, even the weakest bit of light had to be directed on him, letting everyone know how he hated his life right now. He wasn't a goddamn pity fuck! "Fucking shit!" He wasn't! If he wanted to, he could have a different chick on every finger. There were plenty of groupies who wanted to fuck him, because they loved him and cheered for him. But no, he had to go with the bastard who had no feelings.

He shouldn't have listened to his therapist. What did she know? There was a reason he had given up on being gay, and on having romance. He wasn't a normal person.

More blows to the trunk lid. His hands hurt from the hits against the metal and from the frigid cold of the night. But the car didn't budge, of course it didn't. "Shit! Fuck!" The weak light didn't even tell him, if he made a dent into the trunk lid or not. More frustration. Another kick, against the bumper this time.

"Ahh!", Marshall screamed into the night.

Silence was the answer.

Breathing heavy, he leaned against the car and slid down slowly. He buried his face in his hands. He wasn't a pity fuck. Hadn't their time been nice? Marshall thought so. Why wasn't he worth caring about? Nicolas could pretend care, just as he pretend liked him.

Next to him, Big Eight kneeled down. "Hey Marsh ... How about we go home?", he asked cautiously.

What good was that? Home. Only big, empty rooms to constantly remind him, he had no one. He would never have someone. All he was, was a pity fuck.

Sharp and with too much momentum, Marshall stood up again. When he opened the passenger side door, it rattled in its hinges. "Let's go", he growled and got into his car. The door slammed shut loudly.

Big Eight took his seat behind the steering wheel. "I'm assuming, we won't wait for Nicolas?"

"Fuck him!" Marshall suppressed a pained grown. "Let him walk home, fucking asshole. I don't care. Just drive!" He never wanted to see that man again or hear his name or even think of his face again. Only thing Marshall wished at this moment, was to forget this man existed and that they had ever spent time with each other. How had he been dumb enough to fall for someone like that? 'Cause he fucks your pussy real good, homo. Why had he let himself become open like this? 'Cause sluts like you are always wide open.