𝗧𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗼𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗕𝗮𝗰𝗸

𝗘𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗻 | 𝗔 𝗖𝗼𝗻𝗱𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙡 𝙧𝙤𝙤𝙢 that was intended for Michael Jackson was nothing different from the others. It was grand and spacious. A king-sized bed was comfortably arranged behind a small living area and religiously made each day by eager hotel staff. The living area was actually only small in a relative sense, especially considering that most standard hotel rooms only consisted of a sleeping and bathing area. The suite was equipped with a full conference setting, a master bathroom decorated with stunning ivory and marble, and a balcony that came with hoards of screaming and chanting fans down below. Dolefully throughout the week, Mallorie would remember that Michael willfully abandoned it.

Since they had begun sharing a bedroom only a couple weeks prior and Michael was often hours late to his arrival to bed, she hadn't expected to miss him so. But being without him, despite his compliance to leave her, she felt out of place. All hotel beds were eerily uncomfortable, strangely disconnected from the feeling of home—the strange sensation was now exacerbated. Each time she roamed the excessive capacity of the suite, she envisioned him in one of its spaces. In the bathroom, frantically signing photos or napkins or whatever he could throw off the balcony to his fans. Pacing the length of the bedroom and humming indiscriminate melodies. Even his messes, his clothes and drawings being strewn about.

The worst place she envisioned him was at night, in bed. It wasn't beside her. It wasn't in her constant imaginations of being wrapped in his arms and lulled to sleep by the suction-like sounds of the valves in his heart. It was when she tried to sleep.

A raucous chorus of various monitors and pagers would fill the room while she watched Michael's thin body adopt a pallor, the consciousness fading from his large eyes. The outcome of her nightmares was relentless; he'd die every time, and she couldn't do anything about it. From a disjointed corner of the hospital room, she'd scream and sob, but she couldn't rise from the sofa positioned there. All she could do was watch. Through tears, she'd watch a flurry of white coats bustle around the bed, the doctors and nurses muttering to each other underneath the horrific sounds of an asystole. But they wouldn't touch him. Why, she'd scream. Why won't you do something? He's dying!

He did this to himself.

A frustrated nurse mumbled as much to her in passing, both during her father's overdose and in her dreams, unaware that his words violently possessed a spot in her mind and that she could never forget them. Not when her teenage self had reverted to infant-like bawling as her father seized on the bed, and not now, in the dark of an expensive hotel room in Brisbane.

As soon as the words painfully stroked her consciousness for the third time within the past week, Mallorie shot up in bed. A sheen of sweat made a few strands of her curls adhere to the nape of her neck and caused the sheets underneath her to wrinkle while the rest of the bed space was cool to the touch, a glaring reminder that she was alone and had suffered the nightmare again as a result.

She did nothing and listened to her heartbeat pound away beside her eardrums, sleepily gazing into the expanse of the room that she couldn't see. Knowing she wouldn't be going back to sleep, she slowly raised her limp knees to her chest and scooted to rest more comfortably with her back against the headboard.

The frequency of the haunting dream forced her to neglect studying for the past few days, her mental state in the aftermath rendering her unable to absorb information any better than she could rise to wake in the morning. Drowsy was only the beginning of it. She felt terribly exhausted down to the marrow of her bones. Then the lump that was already present in her dry throat grew when she thought of Michael. This was nearly the quality of life he had subscribed to throughout the tour.

When would it end? The question nagged her since Michael had left it unanswered during their fight. She knew he was determined to go on like this, in a hapless cycle of fatigue and restlessness, but no matter how much her heart yearned to, she couldn't stand beside him and do the same.