A Michael Jackson Horror Short Story By:
MJsLoveSlave
(Featuring all six of the Jacksons)
O’Brian, Indiana
November 26, 1968
Two young boys sat facing each other on opposite sides of that small, yellow kitchen table.
Legs folded up Indian-style on the matching chairs, both were staring at each other with determined, unwavering gazes.
Michael Jackson, the younger of the two, at only ten years old, was absently licking at his thin lips as he shoved both fists under his pointed chin.
Seated across from him, softly thumping the deck of playing cards in his hands, was Michael’s older brother by a scant fourteen months, Marlon.
Between the two of them, three cards laid face up on that Formica tabletop: A five of hearts, a two of diamonds and a four of spades.
And in the game of Blackjack, which the boys were playing, that added up to a cool eleven.
“Come on, Mike!” Marlon urged after a while, agitated by how long his sibling was taking to decide whether he wanted another card or to let the hand he had ride. “Whatever card you get next, you’ll just get next. It ain’t gonna change, no matter how long you stall!”
Young Michael glanced down at the cards, then up at his brother, who was quietly smacking on a wad of blue bubblegum, his full lips bouncing with ever chew he made.
Marlon was right. That boy chomping like a cow on a cud was right. Whatever card got thrown down next was beyond his control. He just had to go with whatever he got dealt.
Nodding his head and causing the short, well trimmed afro on his head to bob, Michael said the words.
“Hit me!”
Marlon immediately tossed down another card.
An Ace of Hearts.
Seeing that he had an exact twenty-one, Michael threw his skinny arms in the air.
“Hoo! Hoo! I won! I won!” The boy rejoiced brightly, leaping from the table and hopping in a circle. “Oh yeah, fool! I won! Ha! Ha!”
With the way Michael Jackson was carrying on, you’d have thought he’d won some extravagant prize, like a brand new car, or a jackpot numbering into the thousands of dollars.
No, it wasn’t anything as wondrous as all that, but something just as exciting to a little fifth-grader.
Marlon had bet up his prized playing marble, a gem made of round, smooth blue glass with a pure-white swirl inside of it, resembling a tiny tornado.
Dismayed at his loss, and not really wanting to give up the marble he coveted so much, Marlon instinctively held a hand over the front pocket of the green sweater he wore, a small bulge giving away the hiding place of his marble.
Michael had his hand outstretched, expecting to get the marble right then. Little thin, scraggly brows went up with earnest at the prospect of that little bit of blue glass. He was the victor, and he couldn’t wait to get his hands on it.
Marlon was just about to suggest they go for two out three games, to stall off the inevitable task of giving away Ol’ Blue, when a deep and authoritative voice demanded,
“Marlon, Michael! Where the hell’s the rest of your brothers?”
Michael bumped backwards into the table, as Marlon jumped to his feet, both kids startled.
Looming in the doorway and a good foot and a half over the boys was their father, Joseph.
Joseph was the kind of man you just inherently feared as his entire aura seemed to ooze of domination. He was a tough, brisk man, not the kind of person to go about handing out hugs. He ran his home with a cast iron fist and all his children usually quaked in their tube socks whenever he opened his mouth.
As the boys stood, gazing upon their father, their minds trying to figure out which one of them might have done something to upset their father--and possibly cause a whipping with a leather strap--they realized that Joseph didn’t appear ready to beat the color off their hides.
Joseph, stood, dressed sharply in a navy blue, three piece suit, complete with shining wingtip shoes. Over his arm he held a brown trench coat and his black fedora.
This man wasn’t dressed for ass-kicking. He was dressed for a formal outing.
Staring at his sons, the blue of his suit, making the queer, blue color of his eyes stand out all the more against his cinnamon complexion, he repeated,
“Where are your brothers--answer me when I’m talking to you!”
Michael, visibly quaking, as he was the most afraid of and traumatized by Joseph, merely clung to the side of the table, close to passing out from sheer terror.
Marlon though, less disturbed, but just as frightened, managed an answer.
“Th--th-they’re upstairs Daddy.”
Turning without so much as a ‘thank you’ Joseph howled,
“Jackie! Tito! Jermaine! Randy! Get yo’ asses down here! NOW!”
Overhead there was the sound of scurrying feet and almost instantaneously four young boys came rushing into the small kitchen.
There was Jackie, at seventeen, the oldest of the bunch, and he never let you forget it.
Then, there was fifteen year old Tito, a quiet and serious boy, who looked so much like Joseph in the right lights, he would often make Michael woozy. And at times he behaved just like him too.
Fourteen year old Jermaine was a sporty sort whose mind was else on one of two subjects--baseball or which girl he’d chase after next. Right then he had a bandage above his left eye from slipping on a polished basketball court --playing indoor baseball-- and wrapping his face around a brick wall.
And then there was little Randy, only seven and the youngest of all the Jackson boys. As the baby of the group, Randy was always trying to be a little man--instead of a boy--and was forever being ragged about it by the older five.
With that much testosterone rampaging through the house on Chestnut Avenue, it was a wonder there were any strains of estrogen in that house at all.
Yet there was.
Ambling into the room in her kind and slow-paced way, was the matriarch of the family, Katherine.
Widely respected by the boys, Katherine was a pretty and petite woman, a bit stocky in figure, but still attractive even after having, and dealing with six children.
That night, just like her husband, she was dressed in her finest, a lovely silver fox fur cape draped around her shoulders looking bright against the dark grey cocktail dress she wore.
Michael didn’t fear his mother, so much as he adored her. To him, she was perfection, walking, breathing and talking. She was lovely to him--she could do no wrong.
And when she spoke, it was more like she was singing than just talking.
“Now boys, Sweethearts, I want you to listen to me.” She announced and clapped her hands, all six of the young boys paying her attention as Joseph was slipping his coat on.
“Your father and I are going out tonight for a bingo game and ice cream social at the church. We’ll be out till about one in the morning. But I promise, if you boys behave like little gentleman, I’ll bring you each back a slice of cake. Understood?”
Katherine’s lips, painted a bright red, parted in a warm smile as she gazed upon her sons.
“Yes Ma’am!” The boys all chorused, several mouths watering at the mention of sweet cake.
“Jackie, you, Tito, and Jermaine are in charge. You know the rules. No lollygagging. No girls. And you have to put the younger three to bed by nine-thirty since it’s only Tuesday.” Katherine instructed sweetly, before holding her arms out. “Now give me some sugar!”
“Bye Mama!”
“Have a good time!”
“We love you!”
“Bring chocolate cake!”
The boys all rushed forward and were kissing at their mother’s cheeks, allowing her to kiss thiers, before she turned, took Joseph’s arm and was escorted out the door into the night, where snow was just starting to fall.
Katherine and Joseph were leaving their six boys, with no idea that it was going to be the very last time they would see some of them.
A Few Hours Later.
“No!”
“Boy, get your little scrawny ass in the bed!”
“I ain’t sleepy!”
“If I knock you the hell out, you’ll sleep--trust me!”
“You hit me, and I’ll tell Mama!”
Randy Jackson, dressed in flannel Batman pajamas, stood at the foot of his bed, arms crossed over his tiny chest and chin poked out in outright defiance as he glared up at Tito Jackson.
Exasperated, Tito looked around the room for help.
Marlon laid in his own bed, wearing blue jammies and reading an Archie comic book, while in the next bed over, Michael was in matching sleep clothes, quietly writing poems as he stared at a poster of Diana Ross, his favorite singer in the world.
Michael and Marlon were quite used to the nightly theatrics that went into putting Randy to bed and barely noticed it when the boy threw a tantrum.
“Get in the bed before I drop kick your ass!”
Tito warned and was shaking a fist at him.
“Don’t make me get Jackie for you!”
Seven going on thirty, Randy bucked up and puffed out his chest, before he simpered,
“Jackie ain’t Daddy!”
Tito regarded Randy a moment, before tossing his head back and wailing.
“Yo! Jackie! C’mere!”
At the idea that something juicy was about to go on, both Michael and Marlon put down their distractions and focused on the commotion across the room at Randy’s bed.
Almost immediately, Jackie Jackson came strolling in the room cool as usual. And he already knew what the problem was.
“He won‘t go to bed?”
Pointing at Randy, Tito explained, “Hell nah, he won’t go to bed! And I’m about to kill him!”
Hovering just inside the room, Jackie reached into the back pocket of his jeans and came up with two objects.
A long thin cigarette, and beautiful, gleaming, mother-of-pearl inlaid lighter--a gift from his steady girlfriend of two years, Enid.
He took his own sweet time placing the cancer stick in his mouth and lighting it, before he spoke.
“Steven Randall Jackson, I’m only gonna tell you once. You put your little self under those covers, close your eyes, and go to sleep. I ain’t in the mood for your bullshit tonight. Right now Jermaine is on the horn calling Enid, Dee-Dee, and Hazel to come watch a movie. I can’t have you up and getting into mess. I wanna be with my woman! You see Marlon and Michael already in bed, being good. You be good too. Oh I’m gonna put my hands on you and tear it down for you. . You understand me?”
Michael and Marlon both leaned forward, both wondering if Randy would back down and go to bed.
Not so.
Chest still puffing, Randy must have taken himself for Jackie’s equal because he bucked up to Jackie and set his mouth to argue.
The following fifteen minutes were comprised of Jackie picking the little boy up, sitting on the end of his bed with Randy on his lap and using the large open palm of his hand to spank Randy to the point where he couldn’t sit back down.
In the midst of it all, while Randy was flailing, bursting into tears, and using words much too coarse for a boy his age. Michael and Marlon looked on silently and remorsefully, while Tito stood off to the side trying to stifle his giggles.
Jermaine Jackson, downstairs and chatting up Hazel, his girlfriend, was completely oblivious of the beating occurring.
As Randy was sniffling, Jackie tossed the boy into his bed.
Blowing a puff of smoke into the air casually, Jackie cautioned,
“Now you go to sleep. You get up, I’ll give you some more of what you just got. Now sleep!” He glared over at Marlon and Michael.
“Same goes for you two. You move, I’ll knock the black off your butts. Good night.”
As he exited the room, he made a purpose of turning out the light, shrouding the room in darkness and shadows.
The room was still and silent, except for the sounds of Randy crying intermittently.
Michael, lying there and hugging his pillow, being the sweet boy he was, just couldn’t bear the sound of his baby brother crying.
“I’m sorry Randy…” He offered softly in the darkness. “Do you want to come sleep with me?
“No!’ Randy replied sternly. “Just leave me alone!”
Feeling sad, Michael was starting to slowly drift to sleep. And when he awoke, his entire world would have changed.
Beep…Beep….Beep
At the sound of the strange, monotone chiming, Michael Jackson slowly began to open his eyes.
And it became swiftly apparent he was not at home.
Gone were the plaid walls of his room, and that poster of a beautiful Diana Ross.
Instead, Michael was in an austere, all white room, an odd, squarish tent of plastic surrounding his head and upper body.
So scared was he, Michael did the only natural thing a ten-year-old boy could do.
“Mama! Mama! I want my Mama! Mama--Help!”
Crying out, Michael was hollering for his salvation in a world that suddenly was foreign to him.
After a few moments, a familiar face appeared over him.
Joseph.
As his father pushed the plastic tent back, Michael could tell something was truly wrong.
His father’s cheeks were damp and his eyes were bloodshot.
Had…had Joseph Jackson been crying? Big, strong, unmoved Joseph?
“Daddy…where am I?” Michael asked weakly and noticed that his left forearm was wrapped in gauze.
Gripping the boy’s slim shoulders, Joseph swallowed hard before replying tightly,
“You’re in the hospital, Son…something happened…”
Michael went to speak, but stopped when his father mashed a long finger to his little mouth.
“Mike, listen to me…” Joseph held his face close to his son’s, light eyes searching it seriously.
“Something happened, during the night while your mother and I were at the church. Somehow, the house caught on fire and burned down. The house burned, Son--”
At the idea that the house was a pile of matchsticks, Michael instantly began inquiring about his brothers.
“Is everyone okay? Where’s Jackie? And Tito? Jermaine? Marlon and Randy?” He whimpered, tears filling his eyes with worry.
“Randy’s okay, Son…look there he is.” Michael looked where his father was pointing and saw he was not alone in the hospital room.
In the bed beside him, Michael could make out his little brother, sleeping, a similar plastic tent constructed over him, oxygen hissing lightly.
(Author’s Note: I know about these sorts of tents because when my grandfather had a heart attack in 1983, he was in a similar tent the last few days of his life.)
“What about the others?” Michael pushed further, and before his father could answer him, a loud shriek out in the hall caught both their attention.
The door to the room flung open, and Katherine, still wearing her church dress and cape came flying in, sobbing hysterically.
Michael’s chest tightened as he watched his mother go racing into Joseph’s arms.
No…no…it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.
And yet it was.
“Joe! Joe! My babies! My sons! They’re gone! They’re GONE!” The woman screamed at the top of her lungs before burying her face in her husband’s chest.
“Who? Who Kate? Which ones? Kate, who?” Joseph was frantically, pulling at his wife, holding her back and trying to get an answer out of her.
What she said next was the worst possible thing any father could have heard.
“All of them! All four! Jackie! Tito! Jermaine! Marlon! My babies! They’re just babies! Their lives hadn’t even started. LORD WHY?”
As Katherine sank to the floor, clutching Joseph as he began to weep, Michael just sat there.
Mouth agape, eyes widened in utter and complete shock.
It wasn’t true.
It couldn’t be true.
There was no way his four older brothers were all gone. Just like that. It couldn’t be true.
Not when he’d just seen them a few hours before.
No. Marlon still owed him that blue marble.
Jackie had to be somewhere sucking on those cigarettes his parents disapproved of for a boy his age.
Jermaine had so many girls to chase and another indoor game that weekend.
And Tito…Tito was supposed to be stealing his cake from the social somewhere.
They couldn’t be gone.
They couldn’t be…dead.
Falling back into the mattress of his bed, Michael screamed in agony.
Agony for his deceased brothers.
Looking over at the other bed, Michael realized that he and Randy were the only Jackson brothers left.
Just the two of them.
Fifteen Years Later
Indianapolis, Indiana
“Do I want ‘Coconut Paradise’ or ‘Cucumber Coolness?”
Michael Jackson wondered quietly to himself as he stood before the large mirror over the washbasin of his bathroom, carefully shaving his face with a small, golden straight razor.
Michael was no longer a little boy, but now a man of twenty-five.
Standing before the mirror, trying to avoid slicing into his jugular vein, anyone could see he was quite an attractive young man.
Tall and remarkably slim, and boasting an angular, lean taut body, it was clear that Michael had the build of a dancer.
Indeed for the last four years, Michael had been running the Starlight Academy, an exclusive dance academy. Before his work as an instructor, Michael had danced for seven years on Broadway as such productions as “Black Heat”, “Sophisticated Gentlemen” and “Nefari, the Jungle Man”.
But at the ripe “old” age of twenty-one, Michael retired from the world of stage--with the three Tony’s to credit no less--and decided his expertise would have been better used teaching a new generation the art of dance.
So there Michael was, living out his days in a high-rise apartment complex, where his biggest decision was should he teach his students how to time-step, or moonwalk?
“I really wish you would use a normal razor to shave and not that sorry excuse for a machete, Darling.” A voice, soft and heavily accented chuckled from somewhere nearby.
Leaning over the washbasin and starting to rinse away shaving cream residue, Michael grinned at the figure being reflected behind him in the mirror.
Standing just inside the open door to the bathroom was Fabienne Comteste, Michael’s fiancée.
A year Michael’s junior and standing even taller than him, Fabienne was a former ballet dancer, whom Michael had met six years earlier while performing in the Nefari show.
Fabienne was a stunning girl, of French heritage, who had been raised in Martinique before coming to the United States as a teen to pursue ballet. Statuesque and slender, with long, silky black hair and slanted grey eyes that popped off her café au lait complexion, she seemed the only natural woman that would get to Michael‘s heart.
“You know I like my golden razor. I won’t give it up for anyone. One day, I’ll pass it on to my son.” Michael chuckled as his lover came closer, her body barely covered in a thin beige satin gown.
“Our son…?” Fabienne chuckled, wiggling her brows at her soon to be husband as he was splashing on the cucumber aftershave and picking at his head of thick glossy, Jherri Kurls.
“Yes. Our son. Who will be a woolly mammoth if he doesn’t shave like I do.” Michael insisted as Fabienne came behind him, wrapping her arms around his slim waist and pecking at the flesh just behind Michael’s ear--an action Michael treasured each time she did it.
“And what will our son be named? Since you’re so sure of yourself?” Fabienne giggled and continued delivering those little spine chilling smacks to Michael.
“Prince Michael Joe Jackson, Junior.” Michael replied matter-of-factly, reaching and grabbing a towel monogrammed with his initials to start dabbing at his face.
“Prince?” Fabienne drew back in horror. “You mean like that little dude in the high heels that sings those unbearable, obscene songs?”
“Calm yourself, Bè
be. Prince is my grandfather’s name!” Michael was alarmed that his wife to be was thinking he’d actually have the nerve to name their child after that tiny terror of the music community. “Jesus Christ. I’d never name my child after that freak.”
Replacing the towel, Michael pulled Fabienne around and was kissing at her little pouty mouth.
“Now what’s for breakfast, Love-Bug?”
“Your favorite…scrambled eggs, ham steaks and fried pommes de terre.” (Potatoes)
“Yum!” Michael kissed her again, holding her close. He loved her so much.
“Michael, before you get too carried away, Darling, will you please go check the mail? Remember, we did this yesterday and you never did get the mail!” Fabienne was all smiles as Michael guffawed loudly, patting her backside.
“Alright.” Michael was tucking his white tank top into the baggy red sweatpants he was wearing that morning.
As he jogged from the bathroom, leaving Fabienne to start on her own make up routine, he teased,
“When I come back, I may pick up where we left off yesterday, Bè
be!”
* * *
“Water bill…light bill…gas bill--why do I get a gas bill? My entire home is electric!” Michael lamented to himself as he leaned against the large wall of mailboxes, just inside the front doors of the complex, sorting letters.
“You may have already won a million dollars. I’ve got seventeen…take a hike, Ed McMahon!” Michael snorted shaking his head.
Michael was in a pretty good mood.
At least he was, until he heard that familiar, ear-grating voice.
“Hoo! Hey, Mike! What’s happening my Brother?”
Shaking his head, Michael shuddered, before reluctantly looking up.
Staggering in through the front doors was Michael’s younger sibling, Randy.
In the last fifteen years, from 1968 to 1983 while Michael’s life was going upwards, as he was becoming world known for his dancing, Randy’s life had been slowly spiraling further and further out of control.
Starting at about the age of ten, Randy had had various minor scrapes with the law, everything from truancy from school to being busted for a possessing a small amount of marijuana at the age of nineteen.
Randy, a heavy drinker since his teens, was most often found under the influence of some liquor and had even wrapped his car around a light post when he was twenty. Now twenty-three, Randy was still Jack Daniels’ best friend and known all over the state for chasing anything pretty in a skirt.
Randy’s way with women disgusted Michael almost more than his drinking like he had an aluminum liver. It wasn’t anything strange to see Randy with no less than five different women in a week, spending his nights out on the town or in his own apartment--two floors above Michael’s--pretending he was a porn star.
There was even one time--Michael never did figure how he managed it--but Randy saw twenty-four different women in the span of seven days. But he never attempted it again once he came down with crab lice and literally had to be in the hospital for his genital woes.
Randy made more than enough money giving private drumming and bongo lessons downtown, only a few blocks away from the Starlight Agency and once rent was paid, he was all about the ladies.
Right then, as he was bumping against the wall towards Michael, Randy was dressed for attention in a pair of spandex, black and white striped trousers that highlighted his thick, toned legs and a black fringed tank top that showed off his tight, muscular torso. A diamond stud glittered in his earlobe as he neared his brother, the smell of alcohol on him plain as day.
“Hey Randy. Another wild night out?” Michael questioned tightly, vainly wondering if Randy would ever settle down with just ONE woman. Before some STD made his junk fall off!
“Hell yeah man!” Randy laughed happily as he was opening his mailbox and extracting letters. “I tell ya’ this chick I’m seeing…Heather…Hailey….Hannah…some shit with an “H”, is a damn alley cat. Girl scratched me to ribbons. But she makes love like you wouldn’t believe. Damn!” Randy cackled as he was eyeing his mail. “That body of hers…”
Trying to shift the conversation from who Randy was screwing with this particular fifteen minutes, Michael touched on a more sensitive topic.
“I…I went to see mother the other day. She looked so lonely in that place. I’m sure she’d be happy to see you. It’s been so long since you’ve gone to look in on her…” Michael commented, almost timidly and the chuckling coming from Randy abruptly stopped.
“You know we’re all she has left since Daddy died.”
Never looking up from his mail, Randy replied so coldly, ice chips flew from his puckered lips.
“Like she would have known who Daddy was anyway. You know she’s been out her mind for years. And you saw her five years ago when we went and told her Daddy drank himself to death. She didn’t even react. That’s why the hell we got her in a home in the first place.”
Michael trembled at the way his brother was so comfortable relaying the truth. As awful as it was, Randy was speaking the alcohol stained truth.
Ever since that tragic night that changed their lives forever, Katherine Jackson had been unstable, and in and out of different institutions over the years for varying degrees of severity of malaise and depression. Sometimes she was conscious of the real world, but most days it was still the 1960s for her and she could be found talking to air, but in her mind, she would be addressing one of her four dead boys. At the same time, still not fully coming to grips with the idea of his sons being gone, and the idea his wife was losing her mind, Joseph Jackson began hitting the bottle harder and harder, before succumbing to complications of cirrhosis of the liver shortly before Thanksgiving in 1977.
“Sometimes…” Michael trailed off and swallowed, trying to control himself and keep from bursting into to tears at the sudden pain he felt in his chest. “Sometimes, Mama knows who I am.”
“Yeah, forever a ten-year-old to her.” Randy, disgruntled was ripping open a red envelope and perusing the letter inside. “As long as I can keep up with my half of the payments to keep her in the home, that’s all I want to do with it. I ain’t seven no more. I’m a man. I’m twenty-three. But she don’t see that. Mama don’t see that…” Randy paused and squinted at the letter.
“I gotta go man. I just got a note from Tiffani, she wants to come over later. I gotta get ready for her. Now that’s a sexy woman! Later my man!” With that, Randy was streaking over to the elevators.
Angered by the lack of care that Randy seemed to have for their mother, their last relative in the world, Michael shouted after his sibling.
“Mama’s more important than some stupid ‘physical conquest’, Man!”
As he stepped onto the elevator, Randy calmly shouted back.
“Kiss my ass!”
Unable to control himself, Michael pounded a fist against the wall, causing all the mailboxes to jiggle, he was so angered by Randy’s being void of compassion.
Leaning his head against the cool boxes, Michael sneered,
“I hope to God you get crabs again and they put a new hole in you!”
Turning on his heel, Michael head lowered, went to join Fabienne for breakfast.
“Darling,
I went down to the market to get some lettuce to go with dinner. Keep an eye on the casserole in the oven. I’ll be back soon.
Love you, Fabienne.”
Michael silently read the little Post-it that had been attached to the front door of their apartment.
He never quite understood how Fabienne did it. Everyday, he and his fiancée went to work at the Starlight Academy, Michael teaching jazz, tap and break dancing, while Fabienne taught ballet. Both worked the same hours from about nine in the morning until six in the afternoon.
But always, whenever Michael finally dragged himself home, dinner was almost finished cooking and Fabienne would be just as alert as she had been leaving the house that morning.
Michael had no clue how that willowy creature pulled it off, but he was glad she did.
Letting himself into the apartment, Michael started to throw his keys onto the little marble table that was a catchall for everything from keys to loose change.
A small white envelope, addressed to Michael, sat on the table. Sucking on his teeth, the young man rolled his eyes as he recognized the writing scrawled on it.
It was the five hundred dollars he received every month from Randy to help pay to keep their mother in the home.
Unzipping his red sweatshirt and hanging it on a peg, Michael, hand to his chin, made his way into the living room, which smelled brightly of the tuna noodle casserole cooking away in the next room.
Taking a seat in his favorite tufted arm chair, Michael propped his feet up on the low wooden coffee table, his mind troubled.
He had been quite distracted the entire day after his heated exchange with Randy in regards to their mother. He just couldn’t get over how his brother truly did not seem to care to see their mother. She was all they had left. Their only relation in the world besides each other.
It never bothered Michael that his mother had been disturbed since the fire. He always understood how hurt his mother was to have lost her children. How traumatic it was to her. Michael figured if he’d been through the loss of a child, he’d be unhinged himself.
Relaxing in that chair, Michael tried to recall that night, so long ago that caused his mother to go loony and his father to drown his sorrows in gin.
He didn’t remember much, just going to sleep with Marlon and Randy in the room and waking up in the hospital, his life wrecked. He had no idea what started the fire, but had heard talk that in the room shared by the older three brothers, the curtain had gone up in flames, possibly from hanging near a faulty outlet.
While it provided an explanation, it didn’t provide much comfort.
As Michael began to doze off in that armchair he never knew that already, the catalyst for one of the most terrifying times in his life was already in motion.
As he appeared to be slumbering peacefully in his chair, Michael really was feeling anything but peace. He was haunted by quite a peculiar dream.
Michael could see himself. It wasn’t quite an out-of-body experience because Michael Jackson was not seeing himself as he appeared, as a twenty-five-year old man.
Michael saw himself as a child. As the ten year old, he’d once been.
Child Michael was lying in the thick snow, flakes falling all around him, appearing asleep. His little face, body and pajamas were blackened with soot.
Looking from himself, Adult Michael could see his childhood home, being consumed by flames, the top floor pretty much charred beyond recognition.
On the front porch, Michael could see a team of firemen, axes and water hoses in hand, rushing in through the door.
Red lights flashed on the street as more fire trucks pulled up to the door.
Eerily, in all the chaos and disorder, there was absolutely no sound.
It was completely silent, as more firefighters were trying to battle the blaze from the outside, neighbors crowding around on the sidewalks, looking on.
Out the front door, another fighter came out, clutching Randy, a child again to his chest before coming and laying the boy beside Michael and starting to perform CPR on his tiny chest.
As Randy’s chest was being pounded upon.
Looking back to the fire, Michael saw it.
Just barely.
In the upstairs window, he could see all four of his older brothers, frantically beating against a window. Their mouths open, begging for help in silent screams. Eventually, one of the panes of glass was shattered and he could see one of his brothers waving their arms out in the cold night.
Then, right before his eyes, Michael watched as the roof caved in, sending the firefighters inside scattering away wildly.
One firefighter, a ladder in hand, just stood there. That piece of wood no longer of any use.
The four elder Jackson boys were no more.
“Aaaah! My brothers!”
Michael screamed shrilly as he fell forward onto the plush carpet, hand placed to his wet and heaving chest.
Disoriented, Michael looked about him.
He wasn’t at that burning house on Chestnut Avenue. He wasn’t there.
He was at home. In his apartment. Safe at home!
“Bè
be?”
At the mention of his pet name, Michael looked up startled, as Fabienne, still in her leotard and toe shoes was kneeling at his side, a look of fright on her gorgeous face.
“Darling, what’s wrong? I heard you screaming!” She questioned and was wiping at Michael’s damp and feverish brow. “Michael! You’re soaking wet! Are you ill?”
“No…no…” Michael gulped and was leaning against the chair as Fabienne was now hugging him tenderly. “It was a bad dream.”
“Oh, my poor Darling…you should come eat. Dinner is ready--you’ll feel better.” The woman was standing and helping to pull Michael to his feet.
As he followed his fiancée into the kitchen to eat, Michael chose not to tell Fabienne about just what he had dreamt. He didn’t want to worry her any further.
But Michael’s worries were just beginning.
For the next several weeks, Michael Jackson was walking around as a shell of the man he once was.
Every single night, without any provocation, Michael was constantly dreaming about the fire that claimed the lives of his older brothers.
In every nightmare, Michael could see himself and Randy as children being rescued to safety, while the others had the roof collapse on them.
And every time, Michael would awaken, drenched in perspiration, breathing heavily, sometimes even weeping.
It was almost enough to drive him out of his mind. He found himself drinking more and more coffee to remain alert and it was becoming a struggle to not tell Fabienne what was bothering him so badly.
Often, Michael went to try to talk to Randy, but knowing his brother, Michael was sure Randy was sleeping his way around the city with various women. He could have been gone for months at a time, depending upon who he was keeping company with. He would work, but just occupy various homes until he and his girlfriend of the moment called it quits.
Michael had never been so alone.
Then one crisp day in April, Michael’s troubles, once confined to the nighttime, made a sudden emergence in broad daylight.
It was early one Sunday morning, and as usual, Michael and Fabienne were going about grooming and dressing, preparing to go out for breakfast as they did every Sunday, before spending the day shopping at the local mall.
Fabienne was applying her make up as Michael was shaving with that confounded golden razor again. Fabienne had been asking Michael what color lipstick she should wear, matte red or frosted pink, when Michael looked down as he rinsed his razor.
When glanced back up at the mirror to shave some more, he nearly severed his own throat.
“Bè
be…I’m liking the red, but the pink looks so good on me…” Fabienne’s voice seemed to fade and was replaced by the wildly erratic beating of Michael’s own heart.
That’s because what was staring back at Michael was so utterly frightening.
Huddled together, just behind Michael, were his four brothers.
His four deceased brothers.
All four of them looking as how they must have appeared when they died. Their clothing--all four wore pajamas--were tattered and singed, patches of clothing completely missing in some places.
And their faces…lord their faces. Looking upon them threatened to make Michael vomit things he hadn’t eaten.
Burned.
That’s what the boys were. Burned. Hair gone, skin blistered, welted and peeling. Bloody.
Disfigured. Noses missing, lips gone. Bone peeking out under the charred flesh.
Staring at him from their hollow sockets, their eyes seeing nothing but death.
Jackie was smoking. But it wasn’t a cigarette jammed in his mouth. It was his body that was smoking!
Michael wanted to scream. Wanted to wail for help, jump in circles, cry. Anything.
And he did nothing at all.
Except collapse to the floor in a clammy heap.
He awoke sometime later, sprawled on the floor of the bathroom, with a worried Fabienne slapping at his face.
When asked what has caused him to suddenly faint like that, Michael once more neglected to tell Fabienne the truth, afraid that she would think he was crazy. Perhaps even have him committed like his mother.
Instead, he made light of the situation, chuckling and saying he must have passed out from hunger and suggested they hurry up so they could go eat.
It took a bit of prodding, but Michael managed to talk Fabienne into putting the rest of her face on, and he finished shaving--avoiding any sight of the mirror.
“Are you sure you’re alright, Darling? You gave me such a fright!” Fabienne was still fretting a short time later as she and Michael came strolling arm in arm off the elevator and into the front lobby.
“Bè
be, don’t worry about it. I’m fine…I’m fine.” Michael assured his lover and pinched her cheek softly.
As she smiled up at him, Michael began to suggest,
“Why don’t you go ahead and get the car--oh shit….”
Ahead of the happy couple was an all too familiar sight.
Leaning against the mailboxes, trying to maintain his balance, was Randy Jackson.
His hair, arranged in curls like Michael’s was all over his head and a muzzle of a beard had begun to sprout from his chin. What was visible of his face was covered in different colored lipsticks marks, from different women, for sure.
The blue silk shirt and matching slacks he wore were rumpled and wrinkled and Michael wondered when the last time was he’d changed clothes.
Or how many times he’d slept in those clothes--if he’d slept at all.
As Michael and Fabienne neared Randy, he reached into his pocket and came up with a small flask taking a drink from it.
“God, I can’t believe he drinks like a damn fish when he knows liquor is what killed our Daddy.” Michael commented mutedly as the two of them stared at Randy, who was now shaking his flask, trying to get the last drops to fall into his open mouth.
“Mon Dieu! Perhaps he will have to hit ‘rock-bottom’ in order to see the error of his ways. You only worry for your brother because you love him. You’re a good brother.” Fabienne was giving Michael one of those little ear smacks, before taking her arm from his, and heading towards the door to get their car.
“Check the mail, ma petit.” She called as she went by Randy.
“Hey there…Fab…Fabi….you know what your name is!”
Randy snorted as she went by and she acknowledged him with a scant nod before disappearing outside.
“Hey Brother…looking sharp. I like that green leather jacket you‘re sporting. That‘s hot…” Randy chuckled as he went stumbling by Michael, destined for the elevators, to else crash or entertain more girls.
Sickened by the reckless behavior, Michael didn’t even watch him go, instead opening his mailbox to see what bills awaited him that day.
Opening the box, Michael was a bit surprised to see a lone letter in the box.
Lifting it out, he noticed it smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. Curious, he saw only his name written on the envelope. And it wasn’t from Randy. No, Randy always wrote with big, sloppy script that looked as though the letters themselves were fully lit and drunk.
The writing on this envelope was even and small. Elegant.
Interest piqued, Michael opened the letter revealing a note with one cryptic sentence.
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