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People are considered to be many things. They’re considered kind and passionate. Courageous and open hearted. They cry for art and they laugh in the face of danger. They help and they protect and they grow. They’re complex and simple at the same time. It’s what makes them human. To be so much. To be with rapidly beating heart and glittering eyes, even when tired.
Marc spector was none of that.
Marc was the epitome of rage. Of grief. He’s the reason for such emotions and at the very core of how they’re experienced. Marc is a liar. And he cheats, at games and in life, just never in love. He could though if he wanted to, he was sure. Marc is difficult and he’s dumb. Everything he knows he’s taught himself, everything he doesn’t know he’s too lazy to learn. Marc is indolent. Marc is self-loathing and he’s evil.
Marc isn’t good.
It’s obvious to him and to everyone around. It’s obvious to Layla when she hears Marc sing in the shower.
When his voice comes from behind the door, accompanied by the sound of water and the birds singing through the open windows in their apartment.
Sometimes it bursts out for a moment before it cuts off, when he reminds himself he isn’t alone, then a few seconds later it comes back a lot more quiet. Until he looses himself in the song again and belts the lyrics out because
“I-I keep a record of the wreckage in my life, I gotta recognize the weapon in my mind - I'm glad to be a real nightmare so save me your prayers”
Or
“She's a maneater, make you work hard, make you spend hard Make you want all of her love
She's a maneater, make you buy cars, make you cut cards Wish you never ever met her at all”
Or
“Make me your Aphrodite Make me your one and only
But don't make me your enemy”
Apparently make him feel like a powerful and strong independent woman and he deserved to experience it just as much as she did. He’d told he so with a bright grin, playful voice and delighted eyes. She’s rolled her eyes at him and shook her head, unable to hide her smirk.
Other days it seemed he was specifically giving a concert for her with
“And I'd give up forever to touch you
'Cause I know that you feel me somehow
You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be
And I don't want to go home right
now
And all I can taste is this moment And all I can breathe is your life And sooner or later it's over
I just don't wanna miss you tonight”
Or
“If you dance, I'll dance
And if you don't, I'll dance anyway
Give peace a chance
Let the fear you have fall away l've got my eye on you
I've got my eye on you
Say yes to heaven
Say yes to me
Say yes to heaven
Say yes to me”
She’s never once asked about it, too scared he’d feel embarrassed and stop singing all together. She enjoyed it too much, how clear and smooth his voice sounded. How it didn’t waver or crack with uncertainty, or insecurity. How it filled her senses with him.
Sometimes he’d play guitar for her. He’d laugh and say he was serenading her. She pushed his shoulder, in mock anger, never admitting that it was true. He never sang when he played for her, too conscious of his surroundings. Sometimes, however, when he just played the guitar for himself she’d hear a silent hum from the corner of the room, sitting silent in anticipation as she waited for it to turn to his soft singing.
Marc’s viciousness is also obvious to Steven.
It’s obvious in the way that Marc loves to watch Disney movies. How his favorite movie is Rapunzel and how he declares that her and Flynn have true love and will be happy forever because everything else is unacceptable and he’ll simply ignore Jake trying to tease him about it. It’s also incredibly obvious when he chokes up watching frozen. Right around the time that Anna sacrifices herself for Elsa and turns into ice. He always hides a sniffle, then jumps up, ‘i forgot the nachos in the oven!’ Or ‘i need another drink!’
Steven thinks it’s quite sweet, Marc doesn’t know what he’s talking about. They have long conversations about Disney when Marc can’t find rest at night, silently, as to not disturb Layla, they quarrel. About how all of the princesses have apparent mental illness and trauma and about how Steven is ruining the whole magic about it because it’s about love and friendship and not about trauma. Steven says Aladdin is a good one, Marc argues that it’s a disgrace to put that movie over Rapunzel, even over the lion king.
Marc had only watched the lion king one single time in his life as a child, he claims to this day that mufasa's death traumatized him so much that he will never be able to watch it again. He sticks with that and strictly refuses as soon as it comes up.
Jake knew how horrible Marc was in the way he couldn’t properly eat a taco.
All his filling, chicken, veggies, sauce and salad would fall out of the taco onto his plate and he’d awkwardly try to scrape it back in with a fork. He’d forever refuse to order tacos in restaurants and fast food places.
Marc also could not for the life of him wrap a burrito, he was either too unskilled or just simply too stupid.
Jake had given him instructions on it about two million times already. You start with the bottom flap and push it upwards, covering your fillings, then you roll the burrito and tuck the flap firmly inwards, on the way you have to fold the sides towards the center and keep on rolling to secure the filling.
About two steps is how far Marc could follow until all of the ingredients would pour out onto the plate, jake would groan at the sight and throw his head back in defeat.
Recently Marc adapted a new way of simply folding the edge of the tortilla up all around into more of a quesadilla shape and then flip it over so everything would stay in place.
A proud grin was plastered across Marc’s face as he served.
Marc himself knows it’s obvious too. In so many things it’s obvious.
Marc holds Layla’s hand when they walk somewhere together, their fingers closely interlaced and locked together. No way of being able to lose her in a crowd. He’d have her walk on whichever side of himself was furthest away from the street, making sure he was always the one closest to the curb. His thumb would stroke small circles onto the back of her hand without him even noticing.
If she’d not like to hold hands because of the sweat in the summer or the freezing cold air on her bare skin in winter he’d put his arm around her neck or waist, taking the excuse to pull her closer into his side.
Marc would stop walking and gently guide her towards a wall or a fence of a nearby house when he notices her shoelaces coming undone. He’d be the one to re-lace them for her, especially when she wore a skirt or a dress.
Same as Marc would be the one to carry her backpack if she would let him. If she wanted him to.
Layla would often complain half heartedly, only for Marc to brush off the topic. It’s something he never wanted to speak about because he’d never be convinced he was treating her truly good. Truly how she deserved. Especially not after every bad thing he’s done to her already.
Marc would often be a bit too dramatic for his own good. Layla might hit him with a pillow in one of their play fights when she turns too annoyed at his tickling, and he’d end up laying on the floor for the next thirty minutes, whining about how she didn’t love him anymore. Sometimes he’d extend his play by a whole while until Layla got the hint and gave him as many kisses as he wanted.
Marc likes to research a lot. Maybe not on ancient Egypt. Maybe not on medieval times or the 70s but he’d adapt different interests over time. Lately he was in his Ancient Greek era, 150£ worth of books went into this new found interest of his from Olympians to titan gods and heroes. Names like Achilles, Odysseus and Heracles. He’d sit in bed at night, reading the Iliad and the odyssey with a little blue reading light clipped to his book. Layla had bought it for him so he wouldn’t have to keep in the big ceiling light. He’d turn a page, adjust the light a bit and read and adjust the light again on the next page so everything was illuminated evenly before he kept reading.
His focused face looked a little bit like he was grumpy, Jake often teased him about it, saying he looked like he was constipated. Other times, when he just took simple joy in reading he’d have a content smile play on his lips. Steven would often watch him read, wondering. Learning.
Sometimes Marc would cry.
That’s when he was the most horrific and horrible. Everybody would ask him things and he would hate them for it. He’d hate them for not leaving him alone, for making him realize that he was still around, that he wasn’t gone like he wanted to be. He would use his voice and he’d be so fucking rude. He’d call them names. And he’d yell and shout and insult and he’d hate them. It rips his heart from his chest every single time and he wished they’d learn.
That they’d stop asking him if he needed help or if they could do something for him, stop asking if he was alright.
Those times didn’t occur too often. They were the worst of all occasions. He’d cry until all of his tears were used up. Until he’s dried himself out from the inside and there was nothing left to spill. Then he’d sit. Silent. Starring at the wall.
And that’s when he was truly himself. Not bent or broken into any other shape to please other people. That’s what he told himself. That when he’s overcome with rage and grief he’s at the very core of himself and his being. It doesn’t get much more honest than this.
It didn’t matter what he mourns for, if it was plausible or pathetic. He didn’t speak of it. Ever.
When he calms down enough everybody would come back around, ask him more questions.
If he feels better or if he needs more time alone. Steven would ask if he should take over. Layla would ask if he wanted tea. Maybe it should be too much for him. The swarming of it all. It wasn’t.
It was more hate. More hate toward himself for hurting them as he always does, for not being grateful enough. Not even now he says ‘thank you’ right after they’ve all returned to him after how horrible he’s been to them.
He’s no good for anyone. Not for them, not for his father.
He called a long time still. Marc isn’t sure if he deserved to be ignored. Overall none of them knew how to deal with the situation did they?
Marc would lay awake many nights, thinking about it all.
He didn’t have a child but if he did, would he ever understand? If the situation would be exactly the same would he be able to forgive because he could relate? Would he accept it or would he protect them?
Layla would often tell him he was someone who helps people. Someone who protects and rescues. Someone who makes people feel safe.
Marc doesn’t agree with her at all, not ever.
Except for when he thinks about this. When he thinks about this it’s like an internal battle. Because he would want to be someone safe. He would want to be someone who protects and who helps.
Had his own father not felt that way?
Marc texts him back on Facebook messenger. He tells Elias that he is healthy and doing alright and that he will try to stay in contact.
Jake says he’s too good for the world. That it isn’t obvious to do so and that he personally wouldn’t do it.
Marc disagrees. He says it’s the least he could do.
Marc often has phases in which he generally struggles. Mostly with his emotions. They come all at once and they knock him over. In those times he doesn’t know if he wants to cry or to laugh or worse.
When he does decide to take a step back and take a break in the inner world he’ll fool around with Jake and Steven. It would calm him down, the simple foolishness of it all. He didn’t even need to disappear completely.
At least not as often as he used to.
When Marc gets tired he’ll be like a little child. Hed refuse to acknowledge it, like he’d have to try to extend his bedtime. His eyes would become heavy and his words slurred but no! He was definitely not tired. Layla would chuckle about it and pull him over to her closer. She’d wrap her arms around his shoulders and get him into a more comfortable position.
Marc’s arms would fund their way around her waist tightly and his head would instinctively snuggle against her shoulder, into the crook of her neck. She’d never tell him how adorable she found it.
He’d mumble something to her. “Don’t forget to put sand on the door.” He’d slur. She’d simply nod, “mhm”, while running her nails through his hair, playing with his curls. He’d be out of it within the next 3 minutes.
Marc would put their favorite blankets into the drier for ten minutes to make sure it was warm and cozy right before they needed it before bed or movie night.
He was condescending, mothering them like children.
He’d gotten “golden retriever” on some type of buzz feed quiz and complained about it to them for an entire week.
He was so ungrateful and arrogant.
He listened to Jake’s Spotify playlist aloud in the car and at home without asking for permission.
He was so self-centered and greedy.
Marc would forget to water the plants for a while and then overwater them all at once.
He was so irresponsible.
Marc was a burden. A struggle.
Marc was the epitome of rage. Of grief.
Marc is a liar. And he cheats, at games and in life, just never in love. He could though if he wanted to, he was sure.
Marc is difficult and he’s dumb. Everything he knows he’s taught himself, everything he doesn’t know he’s too lazy to learn.
Marc is indolent.
Marc is self-loathing and he’s evil.
Marc isn’t good.
But is it always true?
The parts of ourselves that we've hated?
When we can’t tell which ones are ours, and which are created?
Is Marc shining and polite or is he like war? Is he both or is he none?