Forever and a Half || Michael Jackson

Chapter Fifty-three - I'm Next

Chapter fifty-three — I'm Next

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December 17, 1987

We're both home now. The journey back was completely silent. There were numerous times where I wanted to speak; to ask Michael if he wanted a hug, or if he wanted to vent his feelings ... but I thought it would be wiser to just keep quiet. He probably wanted time to think everything over. That's how I was when dad died.

I'm unsure as to whether I should talk to him, even now. It's a little risky basing my decisions off of how I felt with dad's death, but ... I'd say that I'm probably the best company for Michael, right now. After all, the one person I needed most was him, when dad passed away.

Michael has walked straight upstairs, to his room. I'm still in the kitchen, where we first entered the house. It's dead silent; it's cold. No warmth radiating like normal. It's almost as if my home ... isn't home. But the temperature isn't the most important thing right now. Perhaps I should check on Michael.

After removing my jacket, I slip slowly out of the kitchen, and into the hallway. Gently, I rest the jacket on the banister, as I make my way up the stairs. Once I've arrived at the next floor, the sound of Michael's faint breathing can be heard from our bedroom. It's rather shaky; brittle. Almost like he's short of breath.

"Michael?" I murmur, using the tips of my fingers to tap the ajar door open. "Am I okay to come in?"

"Free country," he answers dejectedly. Once I've opened the door wide enough to see him, I notice that he's lying across the bed, his head leant up against the headboard. His eyes are drawn down to his hands, which are fiddling with one another at his stomach. He doesn't even look up when I come into his field of vision.

"I can't apologise enough for everything that's happened," I tell him, walking over to the bed, and joining him. With no hesitation, I pull his head to my chest, messing with his tangled curls as I speak. "I mean ... it's insane. We aren't safe here any more. We really need to think about moving. Some place further away. Some place where nobody knows us. Some place where Marco can't reach us."

"I'm next," is all he responds with.

His answer leaves me confused, made evident with the raise of one eyebrow. "You're next? Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because I am next." He swallows, closing his eyes for a brief moment. "He's—He's doing the weakest first. One ... by one. Your father. Uncle Reiss. He isn't going to do Clover next. He isn't going to do you next. He's going to do me. I'm next."

"What would the point in that be?" I frown, leaning down to kiss his forehead.

"I'm ... the only Jackson left. I'm the only Jackson that's still alive. He took Reiss out. He wants the inheritance ... so he's got to get through me."

"You mean, because you're going to own everything?" I question in clarification.

Now I'm thinking about it, Michael is soon going to own maybe even millions of dollars in possessions and assets. Everyone in his family has died, and all his friends have. They all would have had wills with valuables left in them. Michael will receive everything.

"Exactly," he murmurs, nodding his head. "You see now, why I need to tread carefully? Why the three of us need to tread carefully? We're down to our final three. You, me, and Clover. We're all each other has, now. We need to protect each other, and be there for each other. Because one more murder will make us even weaker. And with all the stuff I'm owed, it's going to be me." He sighs through his nose, almost accepting what he's saying as if it's inevitable. "It's going to be me."