Wait, what? Me and Eminem?! (An Eminem Fan-Fiction) *Completed*

Chapter Twenty Nine

Hello, my fellow Eminem lovers. c; Sorry for the wait, but this chapter does have some plot-changing events, so get on it, my little hornballs, heh. c: Make sure to check out the author's note at the end as well!

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Friday finished as best as such an intense day could, but Saturday was a whole other scenario. My phone history was a jumbled mess of a few scattered calls from Dev, a few texts from Luna, a text from Marshall, and only about forty six calls from Evelyn when I opened my eyes. I couldn't call her my mother sometimes. The pain of reminiscing was too great to bear.

I then did what I did every Saturday: just kinda lie around. I debated talking to Dev, and finally gave it, sending him a swift text. I responded to Luna and replied to Marshall, going over work statistics manually and with a computer's guidance once I was done being social.

But I couldn't concentrate. It was too difficult to be thinking of Chrysler's sales so far in the month of October compared to previous Octobers when my phone was ruthlessly buzzing and vibrating. Fed up, I adjusted the settings to silent. And yet, whenever I happened to glance over, the screen was lit, signaling mutely that I was receiving a call.

I eventually came to the conclusion that if my phone wasn't in eye-shot, I could maybe relax and focus more attentively. As I raised my phone to chuck it over the couch and behind where I was seated, my finger slipped clumsily and hit the talk button accidentally.

I drew in sharp breath, too surprised to hang up or complain to her about her irritating harassment. She chimed up before I could get anything out.

"Before you hang up, like you always do, I just wanted to tell you something." Her tone was unusually smug, and I could make her out loud and clear despite the distance between my ear and the speaker.

"What?" She had caught me by complete astonishment, and I suspiciously moved the phone, pressing it to my cheek and ear.

"You're just like your dead-beat father," she insulted coolly, and I was stunned at how disrespectful she was to the only man in my life up until recently and the only parent I'd had for most of my life as I matured.

"Watch your mouth," I demanded sharply, suddenly trembling. "Don't talk about my father like that."

"It's true. You might not see it because you loved him so much. But I was his wife."

"Was. And you're not anymore. You weren't his wife for the biggest years of my life and the last years of his."

"I left him because he couldn't keep me happy. He was always at work. And I was always stuck with bratty little you."

"He was at work because he was trying to provide for your lazy ass. It's not his fault you sat around all day and didn't do shit and he was the source of income."

I could faintly recall a time when I didn't despise my mother. It was when I was young, although the age I can't remember. Even though she was never the best mother, she would seat the two of us around a cramped table, and I would color on my near grimy coloring pad while she drew. Cigarette in one hand, calligraphy pen in the other, she would brush out long strokes on the simple white paper, and gaze at her work. Displeased, she would tilt the sheet every which way, then crumple it up without another word, disposing of it and replacing it with a fresh piece. I would watch her fascinated, and as an innocent little girl, I would even impersonate her. When she caught me in the act, as she sometimes did, she would smile, a tragic sort of grin almost.

"The world is cruel, Adrienne," she would sigh exhaustedly and I stared at her with wide eyes, unsure exactly what she was saying. Sometimes my mother would even doze into a longing day-dream, and I would clasp my small hand against her pinkie. The gesture would bring her back to reality, and my expression must've been horrified, because she would tweak my cheeks and brighten up the dismal mood.