𝗧𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗼𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗕𝗮𝗰𝗸

𝗙𝗶𝘃𝗲 | 𝗔 𝗣𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗼𝘀𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻

𝙈𝙞𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙚𝙡 𝙬𝙖𝙞𝙩𝙚𝙙 for the electronic sound of violins to cue his start of the first verse to Rock With You but it didn't come. Instead, the rhythmic guitar led the way and the band continued without him. He bit down on his molars and folded his arms across his chest, trying to keep his annoyance from bubbling to the surface. One by one, the band noticed that he wasn't singing then halted altogether once the drums and guitar faded out.

"What's the problem now, Michael?" the director called from the front pit of the stage.

"Brad? The violins. Where are the violins?" Michael's eyes jumped around the obscure shapes of the empty arena to pick out the member of his crew.

He spotted the man some 200 feet away in the soundbox giving him a thumbs up, the gesture insulting considering the gravity of mistake that was made.

"Okay," Michael sighed into the microphone. "Let's take it from the top then." The snare of the Rock With You intro sounded again before he interjected. "No, no, no! I mean from the top top."

Indistinctive murmurs broke out between his band and back up singers, and he turned around to give them a look. Hesitation was conveyed in their expressions, some even irritation. But he wanted to promise them that no one was as irritated as him.

The stage director flagged Michael's attention downwards toward the pit again by waving his hands, his features distorted by worry. "Michael, are you sure? We were halfway through the show already. We can just run it again tomorrow when the audio box is fixed."

"Everything needs to flow together, Gerry. We can't put things off until the next day then all the way 'til tour starts. It's my very first one and people are expecting more than late violins. So run it back," he said, not hiding the edge in his tone. "On time, please."

There were only a couple of weeks before the tour officially started. Although the album had finally been released and was deemed a success among his fans, he was already facing criticism from every angle. Pathetic journalists made it their personal mission to investigate and make up stories about his skin, people were clutching their pearls at the outfit he wore in his video even though the message he sought to make was completely wholesome—hell, even Jermaine decided it would be a good time to start wishing ill on the fate of his younger brother's solo touring career. Michael couldn't control what people thought of him, but he could control what they ultimately saw, and he would do so until every detail was exactly what he wanted them to see.

Microphone stands scraped against the stage floor as his back up singers dragged them to line up beside him. Once they were in formation, the drums counted off the introduction of the opening song. Dread instantly filled his chest, and he immediately recognized what was happening.

His body was starting to fight back against him.

Michael tried to suppress the feeling; he noticed over time that the more he acknowledged it, the worse off the incident would be. Still, his mind and body felt as though they were operating separately from each other. His limbs seemed to be moving in slow motion while his heart was beating frantically to support him as if he'd run a mile.

Twelve counts until the first verse, he thought. You can make it. That was what he always told himself. There had been many times where he thought he'd collapse if he had to go on stage only for the rush of adrenaline to kick in and the spirit of music to possess him. He had survived then.

This time, there was a difference. He felt numb and hypersensitive all at once. When rehearsals had started twelve hours prior, his stomach was twisted in knots and far too upset for him to consume food, so he drank an abundance of orange juice and water instead. The decision was coming back to punish him. The stage lights felt like the eye of a heated stove working against the chill of LA's autumn air, squeezing out every last droplet of sweat from his pores. He shouted numbers in his head to keep time since every sound around him had faded into muted obscurity. His hands trembled as he raised the microphone to his lips, the device suddenly weighing a hundred pounds.