give in to me

decisions

August 29th, Neverland Ranch, 1988.

9:58 pm.

Michael's body sank into the tan suede sofa as he sat alone, pondering silently. He glanced at the telephone on the side table beside him as he thoughtfully fingered the cleft in his chin with his long, caramel colored hands and furrowed his neatly plucked brows.

A red baseball cap was placed recklessly over his messy nest of black curls, and he wore his usual clothes: black slacks, white socks, patent leather loafers, and a white tee under a dress shirt left unbuttoned.

It was getting late, and the light in the room was growing dimmer as the night grew darker outside. From where he sat, he could hear the distant jingling music coming from the carnival rides outside the house, which were always left running, even at night. He could never sleep unless the childish tunes crooning in the distance could be heard from wherever he was in the grand house. The rest of the house was silent and empty, and all of the lights were off, save for a small lamp on the side table.

Michael let out a deep sigh. He was conflicted.

He reached for a glass on the side table filled halfway with orange juice and brought the cup to his lips. He stopped short of taking a sip, and the glass quivered in his hand. He sighed again, and put the glass back down before getting up and sauntering over to a large, glass liquor cabinet. He could see his own reflection in the glass doors of the cabinet. He let out a deep breath of air, and opened up the cabinet.

Most people thought that the liquor cabinet was kept for decoration as no one saw him as the drinking type, and this was mostly true, but sometimes, on nights like these, when he felt lonely and confused, he'd totter over to it and have a few drinks. He hated alcohol, but every once in a while, it gave him a good buzz, and it helped him relax.

Michael reached into the cabinet for a brand new bottle of Absolut. He cracked it open and carried it back to the couch. The sharp scent of the vodka hit him instantly, and his mouth watered. He liked the smell more than the taste. He took a deep whiff from the open bottle of vodka and closed his eyes. Lovely. He poured a bit from the bottle into his glass of orange juice and stirred with his finger. He put the bottle down and licked his finger, getting a taste of the fresh concoction. He was salivating now.

Again, he held the glass to his lips, and gingerly took a sip. The scent wafted into his nostrils. He couldn't get enough. He chugged the drink and smacked his lips as he emptied the glass. Bottoms up, he thought, and refilled the empty glass to the brim with more vodka. He took a small sip and cringed, twisting his face into a sour scowl. Yuck. Not as good without the orange juice, but it'll do. He held his breath and gulped feverishly as he guzzled the rest of the drink. He felt dizzy as he slammed the glass down. fuck, He thought. He wished he'd had a chaser. The bitter taste stained his mouth. It was like swallowing rubbing alcohol.

He glanced again at the telephone, then at the now quarter drained bottle of vodka. He was definitely drunk now. perfect.

He began to pick at his chin again, murmuring to himself. He hummed a tune, unaware of which one. He often hummed when he was thinking.

Fuck it.

He reached for the telephone and began to dial. The dial tone buzzed into his ear. He waited. His heart pounded furiously, and he began to sweat. He gave another sigh, mostly because he couldn't breathe,

"Hello?" A woman's voice answered.

He gasped softly and held his breath. He bit his bottom lip, stifling a smile. Tears welled in his eyes. He hadn't heard her voice in so long.

"Helloooooo??" She drawled, insistently.

"I...." Michael whimpered.

"Hello? Who is this?" The woman probed.

Michael slammed the phone down into it's cradle and shivered. Why did I do that.

"Oh my god." He muttered aloud. "Shit." He whispered under his breath. He rubbed his face with both of his hands, and exhaled. He looked around the couch cushions where he sat. He reached behind a plush teddy bear that sat beside him on the couch and pulled out a tape recorder. He studied it in his hands for a while before bringing it up to his mouth. He pressed record with his thumb.

"It's a Monday night," He began softly. "It's my birthday. I'm all alone. I miss you endlessly. I called you and hung up as soon as you picked up. It's not the first time I've done that... it's been a while though. You're just as beautiful as I remember. I could hear it in your voice, how beautiful you are. You always were."

He paused. He didn't know what else to say, but he was slurring his words. "I'm a little drunk. I miss you. You'll never hear this." He turned off the tape recorder and closed his eyes.

Suddenly, the phone rang. He jumped, surprised by the suddenness of the noise.

He answered quickly. "Hello?" He whispered. His heart was racing.

"Michael?"