Forever and a Half || Michael Jackson

Chapter Nine - Always Here

Chapter nine – Always Here

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About forty-five minutes after the police arrive, Michael finally emerges from the living room, and I hear his footsteps coming up the stairs after he's let the officers out. Placing down my book, I wait for his arrival at the door of my room.

The knock eventually comes, and I call, "Come in". Michael opens the door from the outside, and when he enters the room, tears are visible in his bloodshot eyes, and his cheeks are a darker shade than before.

"Oh, Michael!" I gasp, leaping up from the bed and dashing over to him, "What's wrong, Michael?" I embrace him without even thinking, and I feel his arms coil around my waist, "What did they say?"

He doesn't reply right away; instead he sobs against me, and I feel his fingers grasp my shirt at the back, before his fingers curl and tense up. In a motherly way, I pat his back and whisper a small, "Shh, it's okay."

"No it isn't okay!" He quickly pulls away from me, tears falling down his face, "It isn't okay, Citria!"

"But why?" I question desperately, "What did they say to you?"

He squeezes his eyes tightly shut, before wincing and opening his mouth to let another sob escape. Then, he covers his face with his hands, and with muffled cries, tells me.

"They found bullet wounds in my mother and father's stomachs ... they were killed!" he explains hysterically, "Murdered!" he reiterates painfully.

At this new information, I feel my heart breaking for him more so than before. His parents were murdered by someone ... somewhere. But now of course, I wonder how the rest of his family were killed.

"Michael ... I'm so sorry," I apologise a little breathlessly, "Honestly, I-I'm really—"

"It's not your fault," he interrupts, his voice expressing his pure sadness in this moment, "Bu—I just want to find out who ... who did it!"

"And we will," I rest my hand on his lower arm, "We will find out eventually, and when we do, they'll be locked up for life, I guarantee."

Instead of answering my previous comment, he swallows, blinking rapidly to reduce the number of tears in his eyes. He then stands upright, looks behind me in a trance, and inhales deeply.

"Say ... " he begins, almost sounding mechanical. "I-I really want to hit something; let out my anger right now."

His sight is still fixated on what's happening behind me; yet so far in a trance that it's almost as if he isn't living in this world right now – like he's hypnotised.

I grab a pillow from the bed, and hold it up to my chest in front of him, "Here, Michael. You can use this. Hit it as hard as you want."

His breathing suddenly becomes louder, yet slower, as if all his built up anger is finally ready to come out, and then without giving me any kind of warning, he growls in anger and whacks the pillow with all his strength – almost sending me falling to the ground.

I topple a little, but manage to regain my balance. I avert my eyes to Michael, who looks willing to give the pillow even more abuse. So, again, I hold it up to my chest.

"May I?" he demands softly, yet his voice full of frustration.

"Go for it," I respond, and he does, once again, punching the pillow with all the energy that is built up inside of him. Knowing that he'll probably want to do it at least once or twice more, I keep the pillow up, and nod, "As many times as you like, Michael."

He punches the pillow another time, but before he can punch it again, he collapses to his knees in grief.

"My parents were murdered!" he cries out painfully, still sounding overwhelmed with shock, as well as a collection of other emotions, "They didn't even die naturally; it was murder!"