Disclaimer: This is in no way a representation of Eminem’s past life. The Rap God’s tragic past has merely inspired the story. The events that unfold are completely fictional, only the names are used for a better reader experience.
“I Threw a Punch” — Eminem Fan Fiction
“Wake Up” Her rushed voice buzzed in my ears like an alarm. My cue to leave her bed.
As I walked away, out of her room, with my dizzy head and blurry vision, I wondered if he had already arrived? A chill went down my back and I wished it wasn’t true.
I ran to the door and when I realized it was locked, I heaved a sigh. I hurried to my room and closed the makeshift cardboard door behind me. Since my room had no windows nor did we install any lights, I poked a little hole in the door. Even at 6 in the morning, my room was illuminated only at one single spot. I then spread out yesterday’s newspaper on the floor and crashed over it.
I looked around to get hold of something to use as a cushion but I settled with the sweaty T-shirt I wore since past couple of days.
This had been going on every night he left to work down the diner, for more than 4 years now. She would call me, only after making sure he isn’t returning, in her room to sleep on the cozy bed. Right next to her. She’d hold on to me, tight. Only then she’d doze off in the deeper part of her sleep, slowly and gradually. Sometimes, I heard her cry, assuming she had a bad dream I’d pat her head. She’s always been strong, she never let me see those tears, instead, she pulled me closer and kissed my head.
We always slept peacefully in his absence. Especially because I didn’t have a proper bed nor a cushion in my room. I even adapted to being disturbed at 6 in the morning to return in my room. It was all his doing, though. He didn’t like my “stink” in his room. That fucki-.
It’s not like I didn’t love her, you know? I even appreciated the efforts she took for me. Although I never asked her to be with that drunkard to get us a roof to live under. I’m yet to comprehend why would she still bear all of this for me. He hates me and I know she hates him, too. I know because I have seen her scars.
Once, when he caught me in his bed, he screamed at her and hit me in the face. He kept hitting until she stood in between us and took all the blows. That happened a year ago. We’ve been extra careful ever since.
Over the course of time, as I grew up, I realized that she never had bad dreams. Her reality was scary enough. She cried not out of despair but out of happiness that it was me next to her and not him. The despair he caused to her was much more than those bodily scars, he broke her soul. That’s the reason why he wouldn’t go on night shifts, she would develop dark circles under her eyes.
There was never a night when he let her sleep peacefully.
I never spoke with him, not even a word. He disgusted me. I was afraid of him, afraid that if I said anything wrong he would hurt her even more than what he already did.
But today, I don’t feel an iota of fear. I’ve been glaring through the hole in my door ever since I heard him open the door. I’m waiting. Waiting for him to do anything wrong to her.
Silence. He’s arguing with her.
Bang! The door smashes the brick wall.
Whip! He took off his belt.
Scream! Adrenaline overwhelms me, my feet spring into action.
He knows I was there, yet, I’m dauntless. I rush to his room and smash my shoulder in his abdomen. His drunk feet don’t understand what hit him and he tumbles down his back. I jump on his chest and clinch my fist. Fear. Hatred. Scars. Broken Hearts. With all the emotions packed in me, I land the punch straight on his nose.
I turn to my mother. She stares at me with eyes wide with bewilderment.
I walk towards her, hold her shaky shoulders and wipe her tears. ‘We don’t need this man’s favor. I met this, this man— Dr. Dre. He likes my work and we’re starting this— this— thing where he says I’ll be good at. I’ll work hard to get better, please. Come with me, mom.’
This is it. This is all she ever wanted. To be rescued, from this monster and this home. To live freely. She just needed me to say it to her and make her realize we can do it on our own. We can survive.
I tilt my head and look at her as she walks to her wardrobe and fetches something hidden underneath all the clothes.
Indeed, there’s only one thing that truly belongs to her in this house. A photograph of 3 smiling faces— herself, my worthless father and me, as an infant.