tabloid junkie (Michael Jackson)

March 4ᵗʰ ─ 10:30 ᵖᵐ

Dear Diary, this was the longest day ever. Longer than the day Michael was shot by my sister. This felt like a horrible nightmare.

I couldn't bring him back.

I can't help him, just seeing the blank look on his face when we got out of the car and arrived at the Javelin Hotel in Virginia was heartbreaking.

Janet had chose room across from ours, and I chose to stay with Michael. He didn't look like the kind to be alone right now.

I shut my diary, thankful that I'd thought about it when we made a pit stop at my house and the Neverland Ranch to grab clothes.

"Right now, we can only assume that she's on the run." Richard had said that sometime in January. And I never thought I would actually be on the run, the mere thought of it was comical.

The hotel room was dimly lit with a candle, and it was tinier than the Reese, and Aplon hotel. There was a bed, it was small and I was sitting on the edge of it. I stuffed my diary into my unpacked suitcase.

Scrunching my eyebrows, I realized Michael had been in the bathroom for a long time. I'd sent him in there for him to take a shower and the water hasn't run yet. I sighed, getting to my feet, guiltily enjoying the fact that Michael and I were in a hotel room together.

The bristles of the soft brown, Pague rug tickled my toes. I'd never been comfortable in a hotel room until now, even if I was in this situation. Finally, I reached the bathroom door and prepared to knock when I presumed the door would be locked, but it wasn't.

My hand closed on the knob and I twisted it open, when I locked eyes inside, Michael was sitting on the edge of the tub. His hoodie removed so he was only wearing a short sleeved white Tee that showed off his chest.

There was still dried blood all over his face and hands, and he was staring down at them. Those shaking hands.

"Why haven't you showered yet?" I asked, stepping inside and shutting the door behind me, leant my back against it.

Michael didn't answer.

I decided to give him the answer to his problems and knelt in front of him by the tub, grabbing his blood slicked hands.

"Why did you kill Richard?" I demanded in a rough voice, making him look up in surprise, shock and anger.

"Diana-" His voice softened.

"Who told you to kill Richard?" I barked.

"James did!" He snapped. "He did."

My face softened at his response. "Now, you know whose fault it is, right? James coerced you to go to his apartment and shoot him."

And Michael nodded slowly, a tear blooming inside his eye before trickling down over his nose; smoky black mascara sifted in with the tears.

"Okay, now you look like a blonde bombshell who just got dumped."

A shrieking laugh escaped his mouth before he could contain it and it sounded so real that I felt so damn special.

I regained my composure, collecting my bearings before leaning over and taking hold of a clean white towel. I chucked it down at his lap. "Here," I told him, going for the door and observing him over my shoulder. "Wash up good, okay?" I inquired. "I'm just going to be out here."

He nodded.