whatever happens » michael jackson

104

[Dangerous era]

Michael began to frown as he sat in the library, rocking his black slack-clad knee up and down so bad that the velvety sofa was shaking a bit from his vibrations. His hair cascaded down to his shoulders in voluminous jet black waves that looked so soft, that, had he not been looking so angry and disturbed, I would've run my hand through.

His eyes were stormy and deeper than an ocean of words, words I didn't understand nor could I possibly try to comprehend. Dark mahogany irises contrasted with the golden shimmers in his eyes, flickering black and forth just like lights in a haunted house, making him seem all the more intimidating.

Whether subconcsious or not, Michael was lifting his head up with a grunt every few seconds, glaring out intensely in all directions but mine. His make up was dramatic--a little too dramatic if you ask me (but I'm biased, since I always urged him not to apply make up at all)--and it did not help to make him look any less threatening. Especially with his sharp-looking bright pink CTE shirt, his loafers knocking against the hardwood floor, biting his rosy lips and faintly touching his bottom lip every while, he looked close to murdering someone--and I had a feeling it would be me.

"Michael?" I tentatively asked, reaching out to touch his arm, which was flexed to no end.

Before my fingers could touch the fabric of his ironed shirt, he dodged my hand and dropped his arm away from me, causing disappointment to fill me as he returned to looking at the TV which showed Oprah displaying clips of his childhood, awaiting the signal for him to come out and sit with her.

"C'mon, Michael, I promise--"

"Don't," he firmly interrupted with gritted teeth, his voice still soft but harsh, "It's enough that I have a feeling that things are going to go downhill after this interview."

My face fell as he so openly expressed his distate for what I had convinced him to do. But why was I the one to blame?! He knew damn well the public wanted to hear him speak, and he knew damn well that he could easily dispel the rumors circling him after tonight. So why was he making me seem like a villain for simply telling him that it was a good idea to accept Oprah's offer of a live interview?!

"What could possibly happen Michael?" I asked exasperatedly, "Stop giving me the cold attitude for not doing anything," he continued to stare at the screen, completely ignoring my pleads as clips of him singing on shows as a little kid kept playing.

"A lot could happen, and I'll be blaming you for every last bit of it," he finally said in a gruelling tone, getting up to his feet, managing to look both furious and yet poised to an almost unbelievable extent, walking away and signalling the end of this conversation and the beginning of Oprah Talks To Michael Jackson.

Feeling wounded by his unusually sharp behavior towards me, I shrunk a little in my seat and watched from in front of the bookcase as he smiled so sweetly as though nothing had happened beforehand. Sighing, I wondered how he could possibly keep up the happy façade with such coldness between us, and resumed to watch the interview as it began.

***

The fire alarm was going off, and the cameras were now shut down for a few minutes while him, Oprah, and Liz began to find the room where it had went off.

Quickly making my way up the stairs with them, I hurried to talk to Michael, my rose flats almost slipping off my feet from how fast I was running.

"Michael," I called as I caught up with him, wheezing a little as he strode to the guest room door where the alarm was sounding from, "Michael, I--"

He turned to glare at me, lightly shoving me away from him by my shoulder, "Go away," he hissed under his breath, ensuring that neither Oprah nor Liz could hear him, even though they were already politely looking away because they felt that it was none of their business, "I don't want to talk to you today, alright?"