The Drink

Yelawolf is absorbed in his addictions, and Marshall is absorbed in some awful news.

“I do whatever it takes

When I'm with you I get the shakes

My body aches when I ain't

With you I have zero strength

There's no limit on how far I would go

No boundaries, no lengths…

I love you so much it hurts

Never mistreated you once

I poured my heart out to you

Let down my guard swear to God

I'll blow my brains in your lap

Lay here and die in your arms…

And I would've done anything for you

To show you how much I adored you

But it's over now

It's too late to save our love…”

-          “Space Bound”, Eminem

 

Michael most certainly did not have a drinking problem. Nope. He is completely in control of his drinking and is not currently being dragged out of a bar by his legs from his friends. He is not throwing up in the backseat of his car and he did not just get into a fight with some guy.

 

No way. He is completely fine.

 

He’s a rock-star. His album is at number twenty-seven on the Billboard charts. He did three sold-out shows this week. He owns his own mansion and his own tour bus. He’s unstoppable.

 

He’s bigger than Elvis. He’s loved more than Jim Morrison. He’s more inspirational than John Lennon. He’s deader than all three of them.

 

He hasn’t gone to bed sober in at least three weeks. He hasn’t spoken to his kids in four. He hasn’t seen Marshall in two. He hasn’t been dragged to his hotel room by his girlfriend in one.

 

But here she is, exposing his bruises to the world.

 

“C’mon Michael,” she breathes, draping his flaccid arm around her shoulders as he giggles. “…work with me.” But he just leans on her small frame, slurring and gurgling.

 

“F-fuuuu…donnn touch me…” but he surprisingly doesn’t shake her off, instead he laughs. The whole world is spinning and he’s in the center of the universe. FeFe just sighs.

 

“No more J.D. for you,” she warns. She’s lucky that Yela didn’t hear her or she would be on the floor right now, and she knows this. As sad as it may sound, she knows this all too well.

 

“Uhhh…go ‘way,” Yela groans. He doesn’t want her to leave, though. No, he just wants her to stop talking.

 

“It’s gonna take a lot of Clorox to get your puke out of that car seat…probably gonna smell for days…” she says mostly to herself. That’s when Yela’s legs give out. With a moan he falls to the concrete, hitting the right side of his head on the pavement. He doesn’t even feel the initial impact, but he does feel the wet fluid masking his skin. He also hears a gasp.

 

“Oh my f*****g God, Michael! Are you okay? S**t!” and she tries to lift him back on his feet but Yela won’t budge. He feels dizzy and confused, getting ticklish from FeFe’s hair splaying across his face. The right side of his head is pounding and more fluid seeps out of a wound he still doesn’t know he has. He feels like he’s on cloud nine and starts giggling. “S**t…” and he throws up again at the sound of her voice.

 

The bile is burning his throat and suddenly he’s not having fun anymore. He’s tired of alcohol. Tired of the bullshit. Tired of being ignored. Tired of swallowing his sadness because of someone he can’t have. Tired. He sobers up.

 

“FeFe? Make the pain stop…” and finally he feels the wound. Finally, he’s able to stand.

 

“I will,” she promises.

.  .  .  .  .

 

A long walk and three poorly applied bandages later, Yela is safe and sound in his hotel room. He’s sitting on a toilet bowl, staring at a wall, according to FeFe. Little does she know that Yela is staring at absolutely nothing.

 

He doesn’t flinch when FeFe applies the bandage. Doesn’t respond when she asks if he feels any pain. Doesn’t even reply when she offers him Ibuprofen. Doesn’t move at all when she tells him to go to bed. He just sits there, staring at nothing.

 

Because nothing is wrong. He knows nothing. Nothing bad will happen. He feels nothing. Michael and nothing have a lot in common.

 

Because Michael is wrong. He knows Michael. “Michael,” he says, “…bad will happen.” He feels Michael.

 

And nothing likes to squeeze on Michael’s throat. Kind of like how Yela is squeezing FeFe’s.

 

She’s thrashing against him, scratching the hands that are sucking the life out of her. She coughs but she can’t scream. And then Yela looks into her eyes. They are vulnerable, sad, confused; he loosens his grip. He’s no longer staring at nothing…he falls a second time.

 

But only to his knees this time. He starts bawling, unable to believe how he can hurt everything he loves. He remembers Marshall’s puffy eyes from a while ago. He remembers the bruises on FeFe’s ribs.

 

FeFe’s coughing like she has the flu, swallowing and gasping for air and it feels like there’s not enough oxygen in the world to feed her. She falls to the floor in their porcelain bathroom, standing as far away from her boyfriend as possible. He’s still crying uncontrollably when he looks at her.

 

She’s clenching her teeth, seething through her nostrils and giving Michael the most ashamed look. He promised.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers but it’s not loud enough to heal the ache in her ribs and the marks on her neck.

 

Michael’s eyes are beautiful. It’s one of those things that made FeFe fall for him. They’re like glass- so shiny and unbroken. The irises are like a valley of green grass, untouched by flowers or trees or even a dying blade, brown and sandy. It was the only delicate thing about him and FeFe clung to it like a second skin.

 

“Why, Michael?” she asks so desperately that her voice cracks and breaks. She’s crying too, no longer holding a frost-bitten gaze with the man she loves.

 

“I don’t know…” he lies. More tears fall and dry in the stale air- disappearing like the honesty he once held. She forgives him- she always does.

 

Her arms drape over him like a security blanket and they cry together, Michael’s head still pounding in his ear.

 

They walk to their bed together, Michael still leaning against FeFe like a pathetic dog. He falls a third time, but luckily it’s on a soft surface.

 

“I love you, Michael,” she says softly. Every time she says it Michael feels like throwing because he just can’t say it back. His heart belongs to someone else and she doesn’t even know. “I’m gonna call your mom…”

 

He grabs her wrist as she leaves and almost cracks it in his hand.

 

“If you say anything…” and he looks her in the eyes to make sure she understands, and even when she’s crippled from the pain she always does. “I’ll f****n’ kill you…” and he lets go.

 

One day she will leave. One day she will tell his mother. One day she will spit in his face and call him a liar. One day she will fall out of love with this man. One day, but not tonight.

 

Tonight, however, it’s all empty promises.

 

And lying there on the hotel mattress, staring at the ceiling, Michael realizes that there’s only one more person deader than him.

 

But He will never forgive Michael for these unspeakable sins.

 

~*~*~

 

There’s something wrong with James and Marshall knows it. But what’s worse is that James is trying to act like everything’s okay. Even when James is coughing up blood, everything is okay.

 

Marshall knew he should’ve cleaned the house before James came over last week. Hailie got sick recently and unwittingly proceeded to contaminate the entire house. But, his house is so huge that a few sheets of Lysol weren’t going to do anybody any good. And now, James and his crippled immune system were fighting something that they couldn’t defeat. Marshall could just cry, knowing that he was the reason James couldn’t catch his breath sometimes. The reason he sneezed ten times in a row. The reason he couldn’t fall asleep even with a couple shots of Nyquil in his system. The reason why James told him that nothing was wrong.

 

But everything was wrong. James could barely stand up sometimes. His eyes looked like death, and sometimes he wheezed like a busted vacuum.

 

But he’s okay.

 

So they’re cooking pasta with tomato sauce because everything’s okay. They’re laughing and giggling because everything’s okay. They’re setting the table for two because everything’s okay. James can’t be taking cough medicine because Marshall thought everything was okay.

 

“Just a precaution,” James says with a raspy voice. He’s even trying to hide the bottle from Marshall’s sad gaze. The blue depths are swollen with fear and confusion.

 

“I love you, James. I know that you’re sick just as much as I know you put mustard on your burgers and peanut butter on your Cheerios. You don’t have to hide it from me. Imma grown a*s man,” Marshall says directly. James downs the disgusting syrupy medication with a grimace and gives his lover a sad, miserable look.

 

“I know, sweetie. I just don’t wanna worry you,” he says, swallowing a cough. Marshall starts crying.

 

“I don’t want you ta pretend that everythang’s okay,” Marshall says with a sob. “Because I know it’s not…I know that yer hurting.”

 

James runs over to Marshall, hugging the older man so tightly that he can’t breathe. He swallows another cough, quiets another wheeze.

 

“I love you too,” James sighs, still unable to breathe. Marshall sniffles.

 

James knows that he can’t stop the tears, but he can try. So, after finally taking a deep breath, he commits the cardinal sin of relationships: he starts tickling Marshall.

 

“J-James! Oh my God! S-stop! No!” Marshall chants, but his pleas go unnoticed behind a fit of giggles. He tries to run away but James is chasing him, laughing so hard that he feels as if his lungs may collapse. Marshall’s sides hurt and he screams, “Go away!”

 

It’s when Marshall actually gets out of James’ ticklish grasp that he panics. He turns around when he hears wheezing.

 

“James?” but James just looks down at his feet and starts coughing…and he doesn’t stop. “James…”

 

The younger man waves him off, a firm sign of ‘don’t come near me’. His eyes are watering and the coughs are filled with phlegm and blood- it’s the most disturbing sound that Marshall’s ever heard.

 

He panics, but every time he goes near James the younger man moves away, avoiding him. Finally, James decides to head outside to the backyard and calm himself down. He’s not only coughing but he’s wretched, unable to stand up straight. Marshall, not knowing what to do at this point, stands there in shock. He’s looking through the glass of the backyard door, hand over his mouth and staring at the love of his life coughing up the Devil.

 

Just when he’s about to cry again, James stops coughing. The younger man is taking deep breaths, gasping for air. He feels dizzy and he’s still wheezing like a maniac, but at least the coughing stopped. The grass beneath his feet is covered in blood and mucus, and his chest aches. Closing his eyes and standing up straight, he breathes in fresh air- the only fresh air he’ll probably have for the next few days…maybe hours.

 

He walks back into the house, Marshall besides himself, wondering how a man can go from 60 to 0 in no time. It’s time for James to stop lying. The younger man leans against the island countertop, not being able to smell the delicious pasta and feeling weak…dead even.

 

“Are you-“ but Marshall stops himself because it’s a stupid thing to ask. James shakes his head anyway, closing his eyes because he’s too tired to keep them open. He remembers earlier this week, when he wasn’t sick and Marshall didn’t cry.

 

They were discussing who was better: Batman or Superman? And Marshall made a convincing argument for Batman, but James had the upper hand when they discussed Superman’s ability to fly.

 

“So what?” Marshall tried to say as if it wasn’t a big deal- but they both knew it was. So James pushed a stubborn Marshall against the fridge, rubbing his hard c**k against his boyfriend’s thigh, trapping him.

 

“Just admit that Superman is better and you get this big dick all to yourself.” Marshall moaned and fluttered his eyelashes, giving in fairly quickly.

 

“Superman over Batman any day,” Marshall sighed. James smiled and leaned in for a kiss, but Marshall hesitantly stopped him. “Cut on ma lip,” he warned. James sighed and bowed his head, pissed off.

 

“I hate this,” he began. “I hate cuts and sores and condoms and medication and everything else that prevents me from loving you with every ounce of me.” Marshall smiled with remorse and understanding. He put his palm to James’ face, coaxing the younger man to look at him.

 

“You’re still Superman ta me,” he confessed. James grinned and kissed Marshall’s cheek.

 

If only he could fly.

 

But the reality of it all is, James can’t pretend anymore. And for the first time, honesty is too hard to bear.

 

“James sweetie?” Marshall coos, approaching the defeated man with careful steps.

 

James falls for the first time.

 

“Oh my God!”

 

And Marshall’s over there in a split second, bending down on his knees to hold James close in his arms.

 

“Oh my God,” he repeats, crying. James looks up at the older man, his head laying on his lover’s thigh, though heavy lidded eyes.

 

“I think you need to take me to the hospital…” he wheezes. Marshall thinks that it’s the first time James has ever said “hospital”, and he knows that James has changed. Changed into what- he may never know; but what he does know is that he needs to get James to the car.

 

James falls the second time right before he gets in, no longer leaning on Marshall for support.

 

James falls the third time in the waiting room while Marshall is filling out forms, dropping his pen to rush over and protect him.

 

And as James puts on his itchy hospital gown and weakly climbs into bed while doctors run some painful tests, he prays.

 

He prays harder than he’s ever prayed in his life, because- for the first time- he identifies with his Lord and Savior. Jesus Christ sacrificed everything for the people He loved, and now James will do the same for Marshall.

 

“Amen.”

 

~*~*~

 

Rittz tried to take the phone away, even hide it, but Yela was taller and stronger and drunker- so he gave in. He stares disdainfully at his friend as he tries to dial a number but can barely even stand up.

 

Rittz realizes that Yelawolf is one of those “I can stop drinking whenever I want” drunks. Yela has said every day for the past four days that “this is the last time”, and yet Rittz and FeFe were still dragging the rapper out of bars like a tag team, almost prying Yela’s hands off the neck of a whiskey bottle. It’s a never-ending cycle- a battle- that FeFe had grown used to, but not Rittz.

 

“Rit…Rittz? Whas, whas Marsh’s number?” he asks with a slurred dialect. What’s funny about Yelawolf is that his southern accent is very hidden. Sometimes it comes out in his rhymes, rarely does it come out in his regular speech, but when he’s drunk Yela is a regular ol’ country hick. Rittz tries not to laugh but his friend has a goofy, confused look on his face and he’s swaying from side to side like the Titanic. The urge to giggle fades when he realizes that the analogy is not that far from the truth.

 

“F**k you if you think I’m gonna give you his number,” he says defiantly. FeFe might’ve been afraid of a violent retaliation, but Rittz was always prepared. But instead, Yela smiles like it was the funniest thing in the world.

 

“C’mon man, I gotta talk to ma boss,” he slurs. However, he doesn’t want to talk to his boss, he wants to talk to Marshall. He needs to hear his beautiful voice. And now, since FeFe wasn’t here, it was the perfect opportunity to call him.

 

“No,” Rittz says adamantly. His eyes are dark and his intentions are austere when he attempts to snatch the mobile device from the rapper’s hand, but for a drunkard Yela seems to still possess good reflexes. He gives Rittz a cruel gaze, pissed off.

 

“Get the f**k out ma face,” he commands. Rittz backs off, finally reaching the end of his wits. Yela wins.

 

He’s still staring at Rittz when he finally dials the correct number, sobering up a bit. The phone rings twice when Yela pushes past Rittz towards the door. Another ring and he’s speeding towards the main lobby. One more and his face hits the cool night air, dousing himself in the noise of crickets and the wonders of constellations. A groggy voice answers, sniffling.

 

“Hello?” Yela is too drunk to care about the sadness in his boss’ voice, and more so self-centered in his conversational approach. It’s one ‘o’ clock in the morning and he’s hung over James’ limp body drowned in unconsciousness. He’s waiting for a diagnosis and refuses to sleep until James is better again, but then Yelawolf calls and makes it all about him.

 

“Um…hey,” Marshall says with little interest.

 

“Whassup?” Yela asks stupidly, still unaware of his boss’ trauma. Marshall is too tired to answer. “So, uh, whatcha doin’ right now?” Marshall sighs.

 

“Catering to ma dyin’ boyfriend…you?” It’s as if Yela didn’t even hear because he doesn’t miss a beat.

 

“I jus’ came back from a show, dude! F****n’ killt that s**t!” he says excitedly. He smells cigarette smoke and gasoline, quite comfortable with the familiar scents.

 

“Listen, I’m done wit your bullshit you f****n’ drunk b*****d. I’m in the middle of a crisis, retard. Go f**k yourself,” he spits lethally. But, he doesn’t hang up just yet and instead waits for a response. The words violently hit Yela’s ears like his fist on his girlfriend, and it seems like he’s drunker than ever.

 

“But…I…why do ya hate me, boss?” he asks, crying, a destroyed and battered puppy. Marshall is shocked.

 

“I…I don’t hatecha, Yela. I jus’…” And Yela goes ballistic.

 

“Whydon’tchu care ‘bout me? Every single day I think ‘bout you! I wanna be witchu all the time! If I wanna call ya, it’s ‘cause I wanna talk ta ya!”

 

“Yela, relax!” Marshall interrupts, startled by the kid’s comments.

 

“No! I’m not gonna relax!” Several people outside were turning their heads to the rage, but Yela didn’t even notice. “I won’t relax til you tell me why I’m not good enough. Why aren’t I good enough, Marshall?”

 

“What? Why do ya even care? Yer not makin’ any sense.”

 

“You wanna know why I care so bad? You wanna know why I want ya ta care ‘bout me? I’ll f****n’ tell ya.”

 

“Then f****n’ tell me already!”

 

“I LOVE YOU!”

 

Time stops for a moment and silence passes over them like a fresh rain. Yela doesn’t even acknowledge the trauma of his statement, and as he calms down Marshall is left stunned and his heartbeat quickens.

 

“And if I catch you on the street with another man and holdin’ his hand, well Imma f**k ‘im up!” and Yela hangs up furiously, seething. Marshall hangs up, unable to even think. And James just lies there, sleeping soundly and unaware.

 

Yela storms back into the hotel room, the right side of his head pounding where both his scar and FeFe’s name are sprawled across. 

 

For the first time he considers a tattoo removal.

.  .  .  .  .

 

When Yela’s head hits the scratchy hotel pillow, he intends to fall asleep, but Rittz has different plans. He grabs Yela’s arm and tears him out of bed.

 

“Ey, man!”

 

But Rittz slams him onto the ground, and Yela assumes that it’s a sign of good luck since the floor is covered in an ugly carpet, softening the fall.

 

“F****n’ idiot!” Rittz insults. Yela can barely see him in both his drunken haze and the darkness of the room. But soon his view is cleared by the yellow illumination of a lamp. Yela squints his eyes at the man, suddenly feeling vulnerable.

 

“Can’t believe you said tha’ s**t…f****n’ drunk.”

 

“Hey f**k you! I can-“

 

“Quit whenever I want. Yeah I know. I’ve heard it 10 million times mothafucka,” Rittz says, shaking his head. Yela’s still fuming.

 

“Whadyou care?” Yela spits. He refuses to look at the man.

 

“Same reason you care ‘bout yo boss. I wanna help you,” Rittz says sincerely. Yela guffaws. That’s when Rittz is done being the good cop and he grabs the font of Yela’s sweater, forcing the rapper to look into the man’s eyes- frightened.

 

“I am done puttin’ up wit yer s**t, okay? Everyone is. All you do is b***h and drink til J.D. is comin’ out yer eyes. We can’t take it no more. I saw the marks on FeFe’s neck, Yela. I heard tha’ conversation wit Marshall. You gotta stop draggin’ FeFe ‘round like a rag doll. You jus’ f****n’ tol’ Marshall tha’ you loved him an’ sooner or later she gon’ find out. You’d feel a hell of a lot better if you was jus’ honest wit yo’self. You’ve already done the easy part.” Rittz loosens his grip on Yela’s shirt, shakes his head again, and quietly leaves the room.

 

“But I can’t…” Yela whispers into the quiet air. He feels a tear roll down his cheek and takes a stuttered breath.

 

Maybe if the walls truly did have ears, they could recite those painful words. Yela wonders if he apologizes and no one is around to hear him, does he make a sound?

 

~*~*~

 

“No…” Marshall whispers. James doesn’t even have enough strength to cry, but his heart drops at the words coming from his doctor.

 

“I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do.” Dr. Ramirez bows his head in remorse and quietly walks away. Surprisingly, Marshall doesn’t break down, yet the tears continue flowing.

 

AIDS. It’s every person’s nightmare, and now James is living it. He has sores all over his body, is being fed through an IV tube, and can’t breathe deeply without coughing or wheezing. This was the part where James would make a funny joke to make Marshall smile. This was the part where James thinks everything is going to be okay. This was the part where James would take some cough medicine and get some sleep. But he did none of these things, and Marshall even wonders if James is already gone.

 

His heart clenches at that thought, but it’s true. AIDS is a modern death sentence. But, it’s the thought of James actually living healthily with HIV for a while and then developing a medical record when he started dating Marshall that makes the older man cringe. This was the part where James tells him it’s not his fault.

 

“James?” he asks, his voice like a feather dropping from the atmosphere.

 

“Yes, darling?” and still James’ voice is sweet and tender- but it’s different too. It’s weak and strained- broken.

 

“I love you.” Marshall won’t look at James, and instead bites his lip and cries softly as his chest aches.

 

“Don’t you f*****g dare,” James warns. The whisper is still quite frightening, and Marshall quickly looks at his lover. “Don’t you dare say goodbye yet. You say goodbye when my heart stops beating.” That’s when Marshall breaks down finally, putting his face in his hands.

 

“It’s all my fault!” he confesses. Once again James wants to cry but he just can’t. He can’t even f*****g get up and console his boyfriend. Everything is absolutely horrible and he wonders how he was ever an optimist.

 

“Marshall, get over here,” he says quietly. And Marshall sniffles but obeys, climbing over his boyfriend and resting his head on James’ chest. It almost feels as if his head will cave into the younger man’s sternum- his bones so weak and fragile from the disease. Some tears fall onto the hospital gown. “I want you to listen to me, okay? Nothing is your fault. You hear me? Nothing. It’s my immune system. My illness. My problem. Okay?”

 

Marshall is bawling at this point, hearing the faint murmurs that is supposed to be James’ heartbeat and wondering why everything good in his life has to be taken away from him.

 

“Okay,” he whispers reluctantly. But it doesn’t change anything. He still feels horrible and James is still going to die.

 

“Promise me that you’ll never let me go…that I’ll never leave your heart, and you’ll never forget me?” James says, one single tear falling like a lone soldier on a battlefield.

 

“I promise,” Marshall says through clenched teeth. It’s late and they start to drift off to sleep, absorbed in the thoughts of their day- so long and ridiculous.

 

“I love you too.”

.  .  .  .  .

 

Proof didn’t usually play poker. Maybe billiards from time to time, but never poker. Yet for some reason Proof was shuffling cards with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

 

“I think they’re shuffled enough, D,” said a familiar voice. Marshall looks and sees his uncle Ron, smiling and chugging on a beer. “Hey, Marsh! Pull up a chair!”

 

Marshall smirks and does just that, feeling the leather of the chair and the green felt of the table. Proof gives him his signature grin with the famous gap in his teeth and passes Marshall five cards. Marshall isn’t much of a poker player himself, but he takes the cards without any protest. To the right of his uncle, James sits, fumbling with his poker chips and rubbing his foot against Marshall’s leg. Marshall blushes and hides his face behind his cards. He has a full house.

 

“Well?” Proof asks. Marshall considers for a moment.

 

“Imma fold,” he says. They show their cards and James wins. They deal again. Marshall gets another full house. He folds again.

 

“Okay, hon. What’s the deal?” James asks. Marshall blushes again.

 

“I wanted you ta win,” he says honestly. Proof and Ronnie laugh, a sound so harmonic and beautiful that Marshall gasps.

 

“That’s just it witchu livin’ people,” Ron says. His hair is a glowing mane and his eyes are crystals. Proof’s skin, once showered with acne and shaving cuts, was flawless and shining. “You always feel sorry for the dead.” They all fall in a fit of laughter again, and Marshall finally realizes where he is. The sky is white, the wind sounds like faint wind chimes, his old friends are flawless in physical appearance. Oh.

 

Oh. He’s in heaven.

 

“Sweetie, we’re okay. The hard part’s over. You don’t have to let me beat you in poker,” James says sweetly. Marshall is just stunned. Was this a dream? Was this real?

 

“Ya see,” Proof starts, taking a drag on his cigarette. “The funny thang ‘bout death is, we’re all ‘fraid of it. We spend our whole lives tryin’ ta fight it. But, it’s one of the best things.”

 

“How so?” Marshall asks, cocking his head. Ronnie takes the reins and continues.

 

“No more pain, no more fears, no more problems, and in your boy’s case, no more STI’s.” They laugh once again and Ron pats James on the back. Sadly enough, Marshall identifies. He’s had enough of all of those things in his life- well maybe not the STI, but everything else. What would it be like to never have any of these things intruding on him anymore?

 

“Don’t get any ideas, Marsh,” Proof warns, giving his best friend a serious look. Marshall feels his eyes swell up and he wishes for one second that Proof didn’t read his thoughts.

 

“Your time will come, love,” James says, wrapping his hand around Marshall’s. It’s stronger than he ever remembered. “We have a nice little home for you when you’re ready.”

 

“When exactly will that be?” Marshall wonders, tightening his very alive hand around James’ ghost of one.

 

“Well, we’re not really allowed to say,” James says disappointedly. Marshall looks down at the felt sadly, thinking about how much of a strange “Dogs Playing Poker” thing this turned out to be. “I love you.”

 

And suddenly the fog clears and Marshall feels like he’s falling, losing air, and completely sinking. It’s a never-ending drop and he can’t see in front of his face, smelling dust and ash and wondering when it will end and just where he’s falling to. Then he crashes down to earth.

 

He gasps and opens his eyes, finding himself back in the hospital, unharmed and a heart monitor still beeping but faintly. He’s sweating and breathing hard, lying against James who feels colder than before.

 

He clings to the hospital gown so scratchy and damp now, and prays. He hasn’t prayed much since he got over his drug addiction, but this sudden run-in with the deceased paralyzes his nerves and makes him feel too vulnerable not to.

 

“I promise…” he says softly, closing his eyes.

 

He thinks hard about when his time will be, thinking about how it may be close considering why the hell he was sitting at that table in the first place. Why else would he have been there?

 

“I promise.” He falls asleep for the second time.

 

“Feel like I’m 50 years old, look like I’m restin’ in peace

I’m a ghost, I’m a zombie, my brain is grilled as salami…

I’m ‘bout to be sick

From all this stress and anxiety of celebrity s**t

I’m suicidal as f**k, I’m dyin’ slow in my cup

I hear this s**t way too much; “Michael you’ve had enough”

My baby’s tryin’ to save me but I just scream and I cuss

I’m usin’ her like a crutch, baby sobriety sucks”

-          “Sobriety Sucks”, Yelawolf

Author's Note

I just...fuck you.