Stronger Than I Was: An Eminem Love Story

(Alright well I couldn't really wait to post this Eminem story because I have so many ideas for it. It's still possible I'll make the other short stories into real stories, but I just really wanted to do this story, haha. Hopefully you like it. Vote, comment, and follow me if you do.

Detroit, Michigan: 1993

I'm not homeless.

I prefer to be in the streets.

I don't do drugs.

I just sell them.

I'm not stupid.

I simply have more street smarts than book smarts.

Everyday I pass by men who look at me with lustful eyes, women who throw glances of disgust or pity, while turning their heads from me, and children with bright, confused eyes. They're so oblivious to the world around them that it's almost laughable . . . But they'll grow up sometime, and they'll learn what's really out there waiting for them.

That's what happened to me.

But look where I am now! I'm doing fine. I make a pretty heavy income, which is enough to feed, clothe, and shelter myself quite comfortably, I have friends . . . well, I have clients and dealers, but still, they're my friends. 

And I have a job that I love. What I do makes people happier than anything else in the world.

I provide them with a sense of escape.

Yes, I sell drugs, but I prefer to think of it as . . . giving someone an 'out of body experience', as some like to call it.

Actually, I'm on my way to give someone that 'experience' right now.

My hands are stuffed deeply into the pockets of my jackets as I struggle to trudge through the frigid wind of downtown Detroit.

Chills run through my body as I round the corner, exposing my face to the dirty air in front of a bar.

I quickly pass the raunchy men and women hanging out in front of the joint, especially making sure to avoid the couple of guys who had their eyes on me. I shake off the feeling as I round another corner into a dark, narrow alley.

I walk almost to the end of the alley and slump onto the wall. I close my eyes for a couple seconds, slowly breathing into the chilly air. When I re-open them, I see a shadow in the distance coming towards me. I hop off of the wall and walk part of the way to close the distance between the shadow-figure and I.

"Do you have them?" The shadow called out the me, just as the person's face became visible. It was one of my clients, Marshall. I didn't know much about him other than that his name was Marshall, he lived in 8 Mile, and he enjoyed painkillers.

"Yeah," I responded, pulling a bag out of my pocket, which contained seventy-five Valiums. That'd last him about a week before I'd have to meet up with him again for another supply. This guy was hooked.

"Do you have my money?" I asked him as I handed him the medication. He pull a wad of bills secured with a rubber band out of his jean pockets and handed it to me, "I always do, don't I?" He replied jokingly, but with no smile to show it.

I nodded my head and placed the money inside of my jacket, then watched as he opened the bag and examined his product.

After a few seconds, his face scrunched together, almost in disgust.

"This isn't seventy-five." He stated blandly.

"What the hell are you talking about? I counted them myself. It's always seventy-five."