Gangstress

April 1999 (3)

***Angel's POV***

It had been a few weeks since me and Marshall broke up, and I hadn't heard from him once. While I was thankful for that since I wouldn't have picked up anyway, it also kinda hurt. I couldn't believe he just dropped me so effortlessly, like I was nothing to him. It was the complete opposite for me. That whole first week, I spent entirely in bed. 

I think Diddy was a little pissed off that I took a whole week off, but I would be useless in a studio right now. All I did was cry, and I was not about to get on a track and cry over a dude. Don't get me wrong, I wrote a lot of sad fuckin' rhymes about him, but there was no way I was gonna record that shit.

I thought about him constantly, every where I went, everything I did, it all reminded me of him. Even being in my fucking house was hard, because we had spent so much time there. We had sex everywhere in that stupid fucking house, we had smoked weed everywhere in that stupid fucking house, we had laughed together everywhere in that stupid fucking house. The memories were endless, and I hated it. 

Not only was I torturing myself with thoughts on him, but it was also all over the tabloids. My manager kept calling me to tell me what people were saying about it, as well as to offer me different interviews. Apparently tonnes of different radio shows wanted to interview me about it, but I declined every single one. I had no interest in talking about Marshall for an extended period of time, when I couldn't even go an hour without crying.

There was a point where I genuinely thought I might never get over this. The pain just seemed way too intense for any human to ever be able to heal from, but now I felt like I was slowly getting there. I ended up rummaging through my whole house and compiling a shit ton of things that he had left.

 It was mainly his clothes, but there was also some hair bleach boxes from when he had me do his roots a few times, and there was also left over boxes of condoms that I wanted nothing to do with. I also found his deodorant, razor, and a toothbrush that he had left at my place. 

I wanted to add that stupid fucking cellphone that he had bought me to the pile, but I had actually gotten really dependent on it. I promised myself I would get rid of it as soon as I could get my hands on a new one, as well as a new phone number. He was the last person who I wanted to have my phone number, so I knew I was gonna have to change that soon. 

I took all his stuff out to the shitty fire pit I had in my backyard and chucked it in. I poured lighter fluid all over it, lit a match, and threw it in. It went up in flames and I stood there by myself just staring at the fire. I started crying as I watched it, and I probably looked insane if anyone was watching me, but it was so fuckin' empowering watching his shit burn. 

In that moment, it was like something in me had completely shifted. I felt this rage just start to build up inside me, and I was no longer wanting to sit around and cry anymore. I had never felt this angry before in my life, and I wanted to annihilate him as publicly as I could. I stormed back in the house and started furiously writing.

I stayed up all night taking my rage out on the pad, writing what would become Don't Mess With Me, but that wasn't enough. I was about to take a guillotine out to Time Square and behead him in front of a crowd.

The next morning I went into the studio strapped with what felt like the hip hop equivalent of an AK-47. I hopped in the booth and just started laying into the mic over a beat that my producer thought would fit the vibe of the song. This was the angriest I had ever been on a track, and it felt so fucking good. I finished all three of my verses in about three hours and then my producer played me some samples for a hook. 

I chose the one that sounded the angriest to me, because I felt like I was essentially screaming on the song. He added it in, and I thought the song was coming together nicely. 

"So, at the end of the song, I have a voicemail that I want played." 

He nodded. "Ya got it with ya?" 

"Absofuckinlutely." I grabbed my phone off the soundboard and stomped into the booth. I held it up to the mic and let that sweet poetic justice play. 

"Yo, Angel. It's Royce. Listen, Slim told me that ya'll broke up and I'm really sorry to hear that, but if it comes down to it, please don't go tellin' him about what happened between us just to be spiteful. I know it was before ya'll were together, but he's my boy, and it'll crush 'em. Anyway, hit me back later if ya wanna talk. Oh, and yo. If ya ever in Detroit again, hit me up. Em's a dumbass for leavin' ya. Aight that's it. Peace." 

I closed my phone and walked out of the booth. "Did it sound okay?" I asked my producer. 

He nodded. "Yeah, it sounded great. But, I- are ya sure ya wanna put that in there? That sounds pretty fuckin' personal." 

I stared at him with daggers. I did not need another fuckin' man tellin' me what and what not to do. If I was unsure about it, I wouldn't have fuckin' done it. "Yeah, I'm sure." I said coldly. 

"Aight, sorry. I was just thinkin' I would hate to have my shit aired out like that to the public." 

"Oh, have you cheated on your girlfriend too?" 

"Nope. Sorry." He backed off right away and I knew it was a fuckin' lie. Every man is the exact fuckin' same.   

I spent the rest of the day writing and recording random verses that I came up with for other songs. I quickly figured out where this record was going, and what the sound was gonna be. It was gonna be angry, and way more sexual than Hardcore. Mainly to spite Marshall. He always hated how sexual my shit was, but this one was gonna be way worse. 

I even had an idea to record my own sex noises and add it to a beat. I didn't know what song it was gonna be for, but it was gonna be on the fuckin' record if it was the last thing I did. So, I left the studio at around eight with a tape recorder in hand and I was on my way home to go and record myself. 

As I was being driven back home, my phone started ringing. 

"Hello?" I answered it. 

"Angel, it's Charmin. Listen, XXL and The Source just reached out to me for you to do a cover shoot for them." 

"No they fuckin' didn't!" I yelled into the phone shocked. 

"Yes, they did! They're for next months issues. Are you interested? They're both offering you 100,000." 

"YES I'M INTERESTED! Are you kidding?!" 

I heard her laugh. "Okay, I'll let them know. I'll call you tomorrow with the details." 

"Perfect! Thank you so much!" 

"Of course! Talk to you later. Bye!" 

I hung up the phone and I got so giddy. While my love life was an absolute fucking wreck, my career was taking off so rapidly. I was about to go on my first real tour, I was the face of the brand, I was getting cover shoots, and I established my own label that was going to release a record that solidified me as the baddest bitch to ever do it. This really was the best day I had had since me and Marshall broke up, and I felt so fucking good. Fuck Marshall. I ain't ever needed no fuckin' man, and I sure as shit didn't need one now.