Have you ever wondered what would Michael Jackson's life look like if some events didn't happen to him? If he had someone he trusted by his side through everything? Someone that had the power to save him from his tormented life?
Hayley "Brit" Thame...
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19th January, 1991
Dear Diary,
It's been a while I didn't write in here. Lately, I don't have much time to pour my heart out, but today is not a regular day. It's this day. This day I wish I could erase from my memory as years go by. Every year since it happened, I would like to sink into a deep sleep and avoid this day that keeps on reminding me things I wish I could erase completely from my memory.
I can already figure what's going to happen all day long. People will ask me how I'm doing, and I'll answer the old same famous lie: "I'm fine, thank you," and go on with my work like I mean it, while we both know that today is not a day to feel okay for me.
My life seems all over the place. It's like I can't even handle it anymore. Everything keeps on falling appart around me. I feel so alone today. It's like everybody I ever cared about is gone.
I don't think the pain will ever go away; this burning pain in my chest everytime those events play on repeat in my mind. Tell me, Diary, am I strong enough to live with that all my life? Do I have to suffer every single day that God makes?
I don't know how much time I'll be able to fake it, and show people that I'm not okay. It may sound pathetic after seven years to feel like this, but I can't erase the guilt nor this pain.
Grams says that time is the key to my pain, but what if time keeps playing tricks on me?
A loud knock on my appartment's door was heard, and I lifted my head from my journal. I wiped away the tears that I didn't realize were falling from my eyes with the back of my hand, and put my journal down on the edge of the window where I was seated. I wasn't quite fazed by the presence of someone knocking on my door at seven in the morning, because I knew who it was, and it didn't quite improve my mood.
I wriggled by the boxes that were scattered all across the floor, and lazily opened the front door.
"Hey, um, did I wake you?"
"Forget about the courtesy. I have a job, John. Be fast," I snapped, taking a step aside to let him come into my appartment.
John didn't say a word, but gave me a sorrowful look instead, nodding his head. He came in my appartement, careful to close the door behind him with his head hanging low.
"Are those all mine?" he asked after a short silence, pointing at the boxes on the floor with his index finger.
"Yes. I added another box with all the gifts you gave me in it. I don't want anything coming from you."
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