25th June 2009

He fell to the floor, and just then realized he was coughing blood again. It had become something usual. He stared numbly at his forearm, full of track marks, just as he knew his shoulders looked like. Was it even worth it anymore? A few hours of sleep really didn't deserve his life being wasted that way. But he just couldn't stop, not now. He touched the skin, which was in some places red and swollen or just bruised or scarred, but overall white. He felt like a porcelain doll, always ready for whomever wanted to play with him, but if you pressed a little bit too much, it would easily break. And he was broke. Also, when you look at porcelain close enough, you can see its imperfections, cracks caused by time on its apparently unstained white. And oh he was imperfect, he knew. He had stared at his face so many times, he'd tried to change it so hard, to stop seeing his father's ghost wandering in his features. The day he discovered the first white spot on his cinnamon skin, he had shrieked in disbelief, but believed it wouldn't go further. And suddenly, he was told that he would never recover his looks again. To make things even harder, his worst enemy had started the rumours about him being a racist who didn't want to be black anymore. He had always been proud, he thought his skin was pretty once the acne cleared (the memory of it still made him shiver) and now this had had to happen.

He had been likewise a time before in his life, but he had had Lisa and Janet and his mother and overall Liz to take care of him. And it hadn't worked fully, though. So go figure now, when Lisa was gone, he hadn't heard anything from Jan and his mum in ages and Liz was far too ill and old and worn to take care of anyone.

Thanks God he still had one thing to keep him alive.

Music.

He remembered how he felt rehearsing, on the stage, the pulse of music running through his veins, the music's beat becoming his heartbeat, he and the music and the energy of the whole universe becoming one once again. For he was Michael Jackson, and now the King was back. For he had been dead, but he was alive again. He smiled imagining how would it be when he was finally onstage, facing the crowd, offering them his life with the greatest show the world would ever see.

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on his door, which didn't await an answer before entering. All in Conrad was soft, his footsteps, his voice, his hand, soft but yet firm as it held his arm.

- Is it time again yet? -he said, checking his watch.

Conrad didn't bother to answer, just took the needle out and banged it in his flesh. Michael had to scream in pain as the burning liquid ran through his veins, and then noticed the strange amount of drug that was being poured into his system.

- What... what are you doing? -he tried to scream, but he was too weak. And he suddenly knew.- No! Stop it, please... I knew they were trying to poison me, but you... you, I trusted you, please stop it! You can't do this to me! -In those last moments he got to know everything. It was not that Jan and his mother had stopped caring, he tore them away from him because they would have stopped this madness in time. His eyes widened and he fell to the ground, fighting to breathe, his vision blurred and obscured as he let out a desperate cry for help which didn't work.

Conrad stood up and left, and after a few minutes he called emergency. When he knew it would be useless.

- This is difficult to say... M-my brother, the legendary King of Pop, passed away on 25th June 2009, at 2:26 pm. We pray for him -said Jermaine, and he started havoc.

I hate Conrad Murray for if u didn't know ;) R&R