If I Had (Eminem Fanfic)

Chapter 2- Fuel for the meter

Chapter 2- Fuel for the meter

 

The fame I crave/an escape I make/ still hit a dead end.

Run in a circle/Fuck, I’m back where I was again.

The pointy nib of the ball point pen hit across the paper, leaving in its trail the lyrical rhymes of the mind as Pristine furiously tried to think up of a suitable hook. Her eyes cut back to the glimmering table lamp, distractedly. Only source of light in the bedroom, yet it wasn’t enough to light the whole table up. However, the faint, wavering light brought the brown out in her eyes as she squinted at the sheets of paper—her lyrics--- crawling across the paper like ants draped in black ink.

I would still spit if it didn’t mean shit

Cause it’s worth it/ Oh hell I work for a worthless cause

A woman in the D/ a white at that/ ain’t afraid to show dicks who’s the boss,

Too long in the game/shame/ that pussies still /remain /restrained

----- The lyrics peeked out from another sheet of paper under the one she was currently working on. Pristine’s eyes caught on the last line and she chuckled a bit, sadistically. It was written years ago since she noticed the date on the upper right corner of the old parchment, which said: June/1995. Tugging out the paper, she read the sloppy handwriting invading every centimeter of it. After reminiscing on the memories of the year when she left home, she put the pen down and laid back. The sudden jolt made the neck high chair creak disturbingly, cutting through the slice of silence in the room. Except for the continuous unwanted music that the crickets out the window in the bushes kept her company with, on such lonely nights. Jenna was out with her man, and Tina had to go back to her side of the town for work. Her other two emcee friends had offered her a night out to chill but she had mutely refused and stayed home. Booze and weed will be there, always for her to taste; but not the time she valued. She’d been talking to people who owned studios- minimal in amount- and making connections for a while now till Davey Mase came up and seemed quite inclined in her work and talent. The dude wore Rayban but lived in 8 mile Detroit, that is, no more well than her. On their first meeting she could’ve sworn that they were stolen but he’d answered her suspicious look by telling her about some new hit artist he’d fed off on.

Davey Mase had called her this morning at work to tell he intended to hit her up tomorrow and had invited her over at his studio just off the 16 Mile Road. So Pristine thought she could work the night on her unfinished songs so she could show him what she had.

It’s been six hours.

Pristine rubbed her eyes vigorously, trying to wake up and keep from falling asleep. The time was 3 am. Work had been tedious and too much of just-this-time-I’ll-hear-you-out-boss emotions had drained her energy meter to a close. She couldn’t concentrate, because she was both tired and unmotivated. At times, motivation provided the fuel for the meter. Pity that it wasn’t the same the other way around.

But she had none. So she got up and switched the lamp off. And then she lay on the bed, stared at the nonexistent ceiling in the darkness, till drawing her lids shut.

Pristine POV

“You was late today, Douglas.” Manny Smith, the manager of the place I worked at, and my boss, screamed on my face the next morning. I was fifteen minutes late and he noticed. If some psycho serial killer jumped me and dumped off in a dumpster in an alley someday on my way to work, I wonder if he’d still notice. On second thought, probably not, since it’d be too much work finding my body. And, did I tell you? Asshole Manny did not like to work his ass. He’d rather ride someone else’s and drive them crazy.