Michael Jackson Imagines

Invincible

Author's Note: Hey!  DarkDaring here.  Sorry for the long hiatus.  This one's a little sadder than usual, but I promise it won't end that way.  Enjoy!

Dusk fell upon the world, and the glow of the sunset cast long, black shadows on the street as you drove home.  It had been an exhausting day, to say the least, and you breathed a sigh of relief as you pulled into your driveway.  Like the sun, you were ready to settle down for the night.

As soon as you got inside, you flipped off your shoes and tossed your car keys onto the kitchen table. After throwing on some more comfortable clothes – your comfiest T-shirt and sweatpants – you curled up on the couch and turned on the TV.  The news was on, and you were ready to switch the channel until . . .

You saw his face on the screen.  Michael Jackson.  The man the media loved to abuse, and your closest friend.  The love of your life.

They were reporting about him, the same bullshit they reported the day before and the day before that, running their mouths about things they knew nothing about. They spoke confidently as if they knew him, as if they had a right to his personal life, his privacy.  They trashed him for everything from his skin color, to his nose, to his lifestyle, to his home.  To the media, Michael Jackson was not a person. He was a target, a dollar sign.

But Michael Jackson was a person.  He had emotions.  He bled easily and hurt often, and his pain was your pain.  His anger was your anger.  You stood up, glaring at the TV with hatred in your eyes.  A fire of rage ignited within you, and you didn't know whether to scream or cry.  You decided to scream.

"You lying bastards!  Why can't you just leave him alone?!  Hasn't he been through enough!?"  In the heat of your fury, you hurled the remote full force at the TV screen.  Smash.  The TV went black, leaving only the image of broken glass behind.  You sat back on the couch and buried your face in your hands, kicking yourself for breaking your TV but mostly worrying about Michael.  You knew the ridicule hurt him more than he ever showed.

Talking to him would ease your worry, you knew.  You got up and hurried to the phone, but when you went to dial his number, you saw that someone had left a message in your voicemail at 5:00 P.M.  You checked the time: 8:00 P.M.  Shit.  You pressed the playback button, holding your breath, and heard Michael's voice come through the speaker:

"Hi, (Y/n)."  He sounded far less cheerful than usual.  "I'm sorry to bother you. I know you've been busy," he went on, "But I was wondering if you could come over for a visit if you get a chance.  If you can't fit it into your schedule today, don't feel bad.  If you could just call me that would be good too.  I just need to talk to you . . ."  He paused for a long while; it was a heavy kind of silence.  "I'm not doing too well at the moment, and I know seeing you would help.  Hope to hear from you soon.  Bye."

Before Michael's message had even ended, you were already hurrying to put your shoes back on and grab your car keys.  Without wasting another minute, you jogged back to your car – still in your pajamas – and headed for Neverland as fast as you could without breaking any speed regulations. Michael needed you, so the last thing you needed was to be pulled over by a cop.

As you drove, your thoughts centered around Michael.  His words, "I'm sorry to bother you," echoed in your mind and troubled you to the core.  Michael, you could never bother me. How many times do I have to tell you to make you believe me?  No matter how many times you did tell him, though, Michael always believed that he was a burden.  He couldn't be more wrong, of course.  When it came to your priorities, Michael was more important than anyone or anything, but making him understand this was more difficult than you ever thought it'd be.   I'll make him understand. Today.