Return II

Chapter 27

Blanket's POV

"Sometimes I wish I was born to someone else." I say to Paris, who searches my face desperately. She shakes her head and half smiles, sighing before speaking.

"To be honest, I sometimes wish the same thing. More than you think, actually; but I love our dad, and I wouldn't trade our relationship for the world. I understand exactly where you're coming from, though. Trust me, I know." Paris explains. I don't say a word and she continues.

"You know, Blanket, a lot of us wish the same thing, but unfortunately, we can't control that. Sometimes it takes a broken family to form something strong enough to withstand the storm life throws. Perfect families never work out. The same goes for relationships and everyday life. If it's perfect, it never works out." 

Paris's explanation did not make much sense to me at first, but enough for me to understand where she was coming from. I don't know exactly how to respond to it.

"And do you know how many kids in this world are wishing that they had a dad like ours? People would kill to touch or even catch the slightest glimpse of him, but us... we get to call him dad. We get to see him and touch him and hug him and do whatever we want because he's our dad. And we get to have his great name, too. We are very lucky kids."

"I don't feel very lucky." I admit, staring at the floor, then looking back up at Paris. She's sitting very properly in my game chair to the left of my TV. She sighs, her face slightly falling. She is probably thinking that her explanations are not working, but I understand completely what she is trying to say.

I know I'm a lucky kid. It is a one in a million chance that someone is born to an international superstar, especially one like Michael Jackson. He's different than most other celebrities. I know that, but I will never know why.

"Paris, can I ask you something?" I ask. "Something personal?" 

Paris nods and I sigh, trying to think of the best way to put this question.

"Have you ever wished that you could be unborn?"

Paris smiles, then laughs. It starts out as a giggle, then turns into a full on laugh. I can't help but join her - her amusement is contagious. When she finally calms down, she wipes her eyes, then looks down at me, nodding. 

"Yes, sometimes I do wish that, but only when things get really bad. I haven't had a situation where I feel as if I wasn't here in a very long time, like when I went to the hospital for attempted and failed suicide, but I have thought about it before. A lot actually. Sometimes, yes. Why?"

"I still can't believe you did that to us." I look up at Paris with a sad expression, and find her nodding. I look back down at my crossed legs and continue speaking.

"I mean, I know it's not always my fault, but everyone looks at me like I'm some kind of monster... and maybe I am, but I don't always feel like one. It's just that nobody seems to want to hear or see things from my perspective. I know everyone has feelings just as much as I do, and I know that sometimes I can be a little out of control with mine, but it seems like no one wants to listen to me when I'm feeling too much... I hate to feel... and that's why I never talk to people when I'm upset. I mean, other than you. You're the only one. And it seems like everyone's scared of me, like I'm gonna lash out and kill them or something, when in reality, I'm all bark-" 

"And no bite." mom's voice sounds from behind me. Paris looks up as I turn around. She is leaning against the doorway to my bedroom with her arms and feet crossed.

I swallow hard, waiting for someone to say something, because I surely do not want to be the first to do so.

"You get that from your dad," mom explains with a sigh. She walks into my room and takes a seat in my computer chair. "Your dad wrote this for you a while ago and asked me to give it to you. I held onto it for a while because I wanted you guys to talk in person." she breathes out, obviously holding back tears. "Things are really hard right now, B, and I can't say I don't understand it, but I wish you'd open up a little more with him." she then looks up at Paris. "Sweetheart, would you mind coming downstairs and helping me prepare a welcome-home dessert for Nattie?"

Paris looks between mom and me, then smiles at her. "I'd love to." she answers as she stands to her feet. Mom sniffles and stands as well. She gently hands me the note before exiting my room with Paris. I stare at the paper for a few moments, contemplating if I want to read its contents.

"PMJIII, Blanket," the intro reads. I hate my name. I always have. 

I know I've said this a million times, Blanket, but you need to hear it enough times until you finally understand. You are a piece of me. You come from me. You are me. That's why you are the way you are. I was the same way as a child. Frustrated at the world and everyone and everything in it. But you, you have so much more. I want you to be able to express yourself. I was a lone soul locked away in a box where the only purpose of my life was to entertain and make others happy. And because of that, I am the person I am today. And I don't want you to be locked away. I want you to be you, and not care what others think or say. Can you do that for me?"

My dad's speech somewhat intrigues and infuriates me. I know I need to let go of the anger toward him that I have held onto for so long - an anger that should not even be there. He had his reasons for doing what he did, and sometimes people need to be selfish. I understand that now.  

I am a piece of him, but I am not him.

I am me.

I nod and swallow again, trying to think about what to do. I pull out my phone and call my dad. He picks up immediately, sounding surprised to hear from me. 

"Blanket?"

"I just read your note. Mom gave it to me."

"I'm sorry. I couldn't think of another way to get through to you, especially at a time like th-" I interrupt him.

"Everyone knows you're here now." I say, staring at the ground. I clutch the paper hard, almost crumbling it. 

"I know." dad whispers. 

"What are you gonna do?" I ask, my heart pounding - scared for the answer. I know that he is in more danger now than he was before, and I don't know how he's going to get out of this safely; if even at all.

"I'm not quite sure yet, son, but I will figure something out." dad explains nervously. The next few words jump out of my mouth before I can process them first.

"Let me help you."