If I Had (Eminem Fanfic)

Chapter 1- Fuck it, It's all free

Chapter 1

"I go hard when it comes to slamming glass to shards

Against you blockheads and leave T to K fo' da trademark

I leave no chance to have you block, I shock

Cause my momentum's faster than how much in a second you breathe

Here, take the fucking inhaler, I'll let you motherfucker have a last sniff

Then I'll sneak up behind and push you off the edge of your end, and then

 Tell police 'bout you's unfortunate suicide, accelerated by the will to yearn for a better life

That was never written down the paper or signed by His Administrator

He Who now probably dwells in the happiness that you's off the streets and in a place better

Than here, but lesser than Heaven

Cause it's Hell you're headed, make believe,

Amen."

The crowd whooped in joyous cacophony as they surrounded her in a breath-knocking embrace. The crowd mainly consisted of her close friends; the few she had and treasured. So happiness and pride were the only feelings surfacing and showing in Pristine Douglas's deep brown eyes and her frozen heart at that moment. She tried not to take into consideration the insults her opponent-in-battle hurled back at her, for beating him for the umpteenth time. Instead she looked into the overly bright, happy eyes of her friends, Tina and Jenny. Along with the few guys she knew, who were no less dope in the rapping game as her, or even better than she was as she always thought- Mark as in W-fuck-Er(double you fucker or like, he'll fuck you double) Still today Pristine wonders what sort of weed he must've been on, thinking of the name that'd rather than bringing respect would bring shame upon his fairly good rap skills. Jayden, on the other hand, was locally famously known as the technical MC J-den, which was not much of an innovative rap name (certainly not as that of Mark's), agreed. However much Pristine had pushed him for putting the tiniest portion of his whole, fully developed imagination into creating a real stage name, the asshole hadn't budge and stood firm on his ground. So Pristine had dropped the whole matter. Her two girlfriends weren't as familiar with the guys as she was, nor did they seem like they'd liked to be, so Pristine was always seen hopping from one place to another in the streets of Detroit when she didn't have to work, two-timing between the four most important people of her life.

Twenty two years old Pristine Douglas, high school dropout, worked at the Burger King's, Detroit, for a sloppy assed pay cheque. With a cliché dream to chase, she'd been saving up for years to take the first step into the ultimate-dream-come-true , that is- studio time. In between work and hangouts, she made sure to put up a fair share of time into battling other underground rappers like her. Pristine wanted to get better. Looking back at the early years of the mama drama at a place she refused to call home, when inspiration was at the lowest, since too much of the time was spent argufying with her mother, when she used to live where she was born, when her father was still alive- brought her a traumatic headache. She was moving on, and had been for the past five years when she packed her shit up and left. These past five years saw her growing potentially as a rapper and stronger as a personality. But as said above, Pristine wanted to get better till she saw the line. The line beyond which laid- nothing. She wanted to improve to the point where there was nothing left to improve. Because it wasn't as if she could rhyme and hit words together satirically, bring opponents down to knees in defeat- all so easily. It was easier said than done. It took a lot- depending on the status of her flow, rhythm, lyrics and speed. She had to master the art of rhyming; she had to learn from people around her. Music artists. People who were doing the same thing she was- but a lot better since they were up there, while she was still down here. On top of that, being a white girl wasn't helping. Rather than receiving the white hate, she received a lot of white girl rape jokes in the battles. It wasn't unanticipated. Nor did it shatter her spirit, it made her put on that mask of invisibility on her emotions physically, so she could rip it out and bring them apart in her turn at battles. Or on the paper she wrote on, for her demo. Never in her life had she felt so sure of anything else, like she did when she wrote. When she rapped. When she felt music come in contact with her body and mind, apiece.  When she related to it. Further down the years, as a little girl prone to singing sensations and apart from the rap kingdom, before withdrawing from the singing world, she could sing beautifully. Growing up, brainwashed from rock and rap, she abandoned singing as also physically, her voice took turn for a deeper, aggressive sound that wasn't appropriate for singing, but could easily pass for rapping. Pristine tried not to recall her long forgotten dream of singing like the skylark, but couldn't help adding the word to her rap name, Knight Lark. She thought of it as herself being a knight, who would save her own self by the choice of music, not necessarily singing, but rap through story telling.