𝘓𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯.
• • •
Amidst the 1993 allegations, King of Pop Michael Jackson grew weary upon the media's fabricatio...
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"Mr. Jackson, this way please,"
"Mr. Jackson we should go this way,"
"Mr. Jackson it's safer to take this route,"
These are just some commentaries from Bill, his head of security, and his other bodyguards say when they are to navigate across towns and cities. In other words, he doesn't really get a say on whether a street would be the best route just to get a glimpse of the friendly neighborhood near the stadium he would be performing.
Throughout his life, he was living his life on the road, traveling how many hours to perform, resting a few minutes or less, and then back on touring tirelessly. That is why navigating his way toward Celestine without any form of guidance, security, and safety from sheriffs and his own set of human defense is an experience he doesn't get every day.
And that includes the night he snuck out of Neverland— the one place he never thought he'd leave.
As he weaved through dark alleyways and passed through decades-old houses, apartments, and a series of trees, he was welcomed by a parking lot that was half full with cars scattered around the perimeter. His eyes scan the vast space only to lose sight of the person he has been following.
Fortunately, he saw a puff of smoke disappearing in thin air, rising above the cars and dispersing in a matter of seconds. With no other breathing human visible to his naked eye, he walked towards the smoke, carefully trudging as he looked at his surroundings with caution.
The lot was quiet, but he could feel the vibrations of the music from the nearby establishment. That same vibration gave him life and adrenaline while concocting a song for his next album. The beats are those addictive drugs that run through his veins as he taps his foot on the floor, fully immersed in the musical heaven he created.
The addictive feeling had soon become too real, as he vaguely remembers passing out onto wherever he was because of the feeling of pure tranquility and euphoria— the kind where he never gets to tap his foot or write down his lyrics on a scrap piece of paper. Instead, he found that kind of comfort in white pills inside orange bottles.
As he reminisces his recklessness, he dug his hands deep inside his pockets and walked toward the sign of life behind the red-painted car. When he got a peer from afar, a person was busy puffing out clouds of nicotine-fused smoke rings as she leaned against the wall near the backdoor unbothered.
Her face was something he had caught a glimpse of, but he couldn't quite decipher well given the heavily painted colors of blue and violet around her eyes paired with the same shade for her lips, staining the rim of her vice.
Nonetheless, he approached the mysterious lady in hopes of finding the lady he had been following. Although there were still a few steps between them as he approached the person with good intentions, the lady spoke.
