My Father Is Who?!: An E.P. Fan Fiction.

Prologue: Help Me Lord..

"Thank you!" The crowd broke out into cheers before the black haired male could finish. Sweat poured from every inch of his thick body. The lights were getting to him again. "You guys have been great but now I gotta go! Until we meet again may god bless you. Adios".... The man dropped the mic on stage and gave the crowd one last glance, taking a mental picture like he always did before stumbling forward.

The band played louder over the screaming fans, a mixture of cheers yelling "ELVIS! ELVIS WE LOVE YOU."

Although the man pretended to eat the attention up, deep inside the he longed for a normal life. He often found himself questioning why he had been brought into this life style. He never asked for this, never expected to be anyone important. He wanted a normal life, he always dreamed of farming the land but he'd never confess that to anyone. Not even his ex wife.

The hands of time had swept the young mans figure away. He missed what his life once was. He missed when the lights didn't make him uncomfortable, when he could talk to the crowd and not run out of breath. He missed being able to hold the notes.

"You did great, son."  his father Vern, called to him. "Real good show. You've finally got it back."

The man lifted his head, blue eyes glaring into his father's, with an angered look, "I didn't do any better than the night before. And it'll be the same thing the next night." He hissed dryly. He had never liked who he was and his father knew it.

He found something about every show he wished could be changed. Today, he was repulsed with the performance as a whole. Too disgusted to stop and look himself over in the mirror. He huffed loudly and picked up the jump suit from the hotel room bed, tossed it into an open suitcase and slammed the lid shut, shuttering at the loud noise that came after it.

He had a headache again. Another pill would kill the pain but how long would it be until those pills killed him? Who could say? Who cared? Just another reason for the tabloids to go nuts.

With shaky hands, he found the small orange pill bottle and worked quickly to push the lid away. He tipped his head back and let the contents slide down his throat. A bottle full of Demerol. One more to kill the pain. One more to forget the outside world which craved him but how many more until the man they all knew and loved was no more?

He let the pill bottle roll from his finger tips as he fell against the headboard of the bed. His body felt numb. Sometimes, life was better that way. Unable to feel. He wished he was unable to feel. Maybe it would have saved him some heartache when Priscilla left and took his baby girl with her.

It wasn't that bad though, he still got to see her. Every other weekend or whenever he could have her and she loved him. He would be greeted in the kitchen by the tiny silhouette sitting at the bar with a spoon in hand, mouth full of cereal and look up, "I LOVE YOU DADDY!" She would call with a mouth full. The tiny voice was muffled. This triggered his laughter. "I LOVE YOU TOO YISA!" He would call back pretending to have a mouth full himself.

"KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!" The man was brought back to reality, a reminder of what he really was. "Mr. Presley we need to go! The jet is ready!" Red, his long time friend and body guard yelled through the door. He sounded angry.

"Yeah, alright man, I'm coming." He called back and raised to his feet. The room seemed to spin. Elvis was used to this. It happened every time he overdosed. Lately there had been rumors about him being a drug addict but he had no interest in hearing them. He knew what he was and what he wasn't.

He plucked the suitcase from the bed and headed to the door. "Hey are you okay? You look a little sick." Red said aloud, almost as if he was taking in a mental note.

"Fine.." The male replied dryly and pushed past the man which he had called his best friend since they were teenagers. They were both in there forties now. He longed for the friend he had in high school.

"E.." The redhead called after him. The male stopped mid step and turned to look over his shoulder, "I'm worried about you man."

"Me too, Red." He left it at that and started down the hallway into the darkness. The night was so quiet but he knew that no matter how much he would love to sleep, he couldn't. He would sit in the corner of the Lisa Marie and watch as the world outside morphed from hills and valleys to cities with sky scrapers standing proudly against the sky.

And he would go home to an empty house aside from the Memphis Mafia and girlfriend Ginger. They were always there. Always checking on him. Sometimes he wished they would go home and leave him be. Just leave him to die.

Out on the strip, fans stood behind a guard rail, just trying to catch a glimpse of their beloved king. He walked past them quickly and got half way up the steps before turning and speaking softly to them as he always had,

"Thank you guys.." The oxygen hitched in his chest and he found himself choking back the tears, "For everything.."

With that, he turned and crawled onto the plane. The mafia and band members followed him. He walked to the back of the plane and slumped down into a chair. He would stay with his body pressed into a chair for the next two hours. He had no interest in moving. Not at all.

His body was numb. He just stared out the window. Tears streamed down his face but he would never allow anyone else to see him cry. No one.

The plane landed on the grounds of Graceland and Elvis picked up the suitcase, falling into line as the rest of the men left the plane.

Good nights were exchanged to one another before everyone went there separate ways. No one ever thought that something like what was going to happen this evening would go on.

Elvis walked into the house and sat the suitcase down, looking around. Graceland was his home and no one would ever take that away from him. No one could take his home, his daughter.. No one in the world.. except him. He was, in every essence, his own worst enemy.

He headed up the stairway toward his room and stumbled into the rest room. This was a good spot for it to happen. But he had to call in a few favors. Without thinking, he picked up the phone and made a few calls. The date was set: August 16th. Until then, he would lay low and not let anyone know anything. No one was going to know any better either.

When the date came, after three months of pretending to be okay, the male was almost bubbling with anticipation. Today was the day he would be wisked away to freedom. Today was the day he would become a normal person.

The male slammed his ball against the wall. The time?... 3 a.m. He had called the mafia together to play a game of Racquetball . Once again, there was no sleep in sight and Elvis was bored with sitting alone in his bed. So why not play a game of Racquetball?

"Guys, I'm gonna go in. I have to use the bathroom." He said gingerly and set his racquet down against the wall. The guys mocked his motion and followed him into the house.

Elvis knew he was going to hurt them, but that was the cost of his freedom. The ball and chain he wore called fame was suffocating him. He needed out.

He scooted groggily up the stairs, into his room, past his girlfriend who sat on the bed and into the bathroom. The body was in the bathtub, on ice. Elvis picked him up with something of a struggle and laid him face down on the floor then swung around to the window and pushed it open, escaping out onto the lawn.

He hadn't went completely over the details but he knew enough. He wondered how long it would be before they found that man. It didn't matter because soon he would be Jesse Garon, the man who only had a famous brother that died.

He stumbled across the lawn toward the horse stable where he would hide out until the next day. Then the helicopter would wisk him away to Mexico.

Within the next few hours, the yard filled with people. The coffin was carried out of the house and everyone left the property. Elvis swallowed his tears. How could something so right for him hurt so many people? He knew what had to be done and he was willing to do it. He had to do it. For himself. For his brother.