Saving Michael Jackson

The Jacksons

I enter my bedroom and immediately shut the door behind me. The click of the lock sends a tiny wave of relief through my body. I already feel uncomfortable around this guy, and sleeping in the room next to his has to be one of the worst ideas Michael has ever had. Seriously. Out of all the terrible ideas in history— This ranks high.

I wrap myself tightly in the blanket, almost like it can protect me, and stare at the door. Don't fall asleep, Allison. Don't fall asleep. What if he comes in? What if— But after hours of Monopoly and barely any sleep, exhaustion wins. My eyelids grow heavier. And heavier. Until finally Darkness.
No dreams. No sounds. No nightmares. Just peace. The kind of sleep where everything disappears for a while. Maybe— For once—
I'll finally have a night without nightmares.
-----

"Hey, can you show me where the bathroom is?" a man asks, holding his phone to his ear.

"Yes," I say automatically, smiling politely. "On the left side of Walter Street."

"Thank you."
He rushes off.

Something about him feels familiar. Dark skin. A raspy voice. I turn slowly. People surround me, walking in every direction, conversations blending into noise—
Until suddenly— Everything stops. Frozen. Like statues. Every single person.
My stomach drops. Because standing in front of me— Smirking— Is Conrad Murray.
"Stop entering my dreams!" I shout. "It's enough!"

"Maybe," he says calmly, "you're entering mine."
He smiles.

Then grabs my hand. Suddenly— Images flash violently in front of me. Michael lying motionless in bed. Propofol bottles. Paris crying. Prince. Blanket.

Michael's weak voice:
"Give me some milk..."

Pain crashes into me so hard it almost steals my breath. Why is this happening to me?

"Go away!" I scream.

And suddenly—
My eyes fly open.

"Hey, hey, it's alright."
A hand strokes my hair.

I freeze. Alfred.

I jerk upright, panic still crawling through me.
The nightmare fades, but my heart is still racing.

"What are you doing?!" I shout, slapping his hand away.

He immediately steps back.
Then—
Michael walks in.
His eyes flick between me and Alfred.

"What's going on?" he asks.

"I—I heard her scream," Alfred says quickly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Yeah," Michael says softly, looking at me, "she has nightmares sometimes..." Then his expression changes. "But what are you doing in her room?"

He walks over to me and places his hand against my forehead. Checking if I'm sick? Do I look sick?

"She was screaming, man," Alfred says. "I thought I'd help."

Michael turns to him. His voice stays calm. But firmer. "Don't ever come into her room again, Alfred."

The room goes strangely quiet.

"If you hear her scream," he continues, "come get me."

I blink. Okay. Why is Michael suddenly being so protective? That's his friend. Why does he sound... serious?

"Cindy?" Michael crouches slightly to meet my eyes. "Do you want some water?"

Again. That soft voice. That careful look in his eyes.

"No," I say quietly. "I'm okay. Thanks."

"What on Madonna is going on here?"
Wanda walks in, looking half asleep.