A Crumbling Hotel Room – Detroit, 2004

The hallway outside smelled like stale smoke and cheap cologne. The kind of place where the carpets were stained with secrets, where the walls were too thin, and where no one asked questions. The buzzing neon VACANCY sign outside the window cast the room in an eerie red glow, mixing with the dim yellow of the flickering bedside lamp.

And there he was.

Slim Shady was slouched on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers tangled in his messy platinum hair. His hoodie was wrinkled, his jeans stained, his white sneakers scuffed like he’d been walking through hell. The nightstand was a disaster—empty pill bottles, an overflowing ashtray, and a bottle of Hennessy knocked on its side, dark liquid pooling onto the cheap wooden surface. The TV was on, playing some late-night infomercial that no one was watching, the static hum filling the silence between deep, uneven breaths.

You took a cautious step forward.

“Yo, Em?”

Nothing!

He barely moved, just a slow exhale through his nose. His fingers twitched against his knee, like he was drumming to a song only he could hear. The air in the room was thick, suffocating—smoke, booze, something chemical clinging to the walls.

“Shady, man. Talk to me.”

Finally, he looked up. Bloodshot eyes, dark circles beneath them. He blinked slow, as if trying to figure out if you were real or just another hallucination. Then, a smirk—crooked, empty.

“You ever feel like you’re watching yourself?” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Like… you’re not even you no more?”

His fingers reached for the bottle, but his grip was weak, and it slipped from his grasp, hitting the floor with a dull thud. He didn’t even react. Just sat there, staring at nothing, lost in a world that was swallowing him whole.