Resentment

Hotel d'Angleterre

20th August, 1997, Copenhagen, Hotel d'Angleterre

It was mid August, but the sun had long left, and even though the icy cold of Copenhagen winter hadn't befallen yet, a slight chill managed to slip under the heavy polished white doors of this luxury hotel room.

As far as Afia knew as well, it was the early hours of the morning. The last time she was awake, the night was a menacing black, and if not for the street lights and constant sea of torches shining from fans in the street below, would have been eery.

Speaking of fans, she'd come accustomed to hearing Michael's name pronounced in every way phonetically possible.

They'd chant it outside faithfully every night, and every day whether he was inside the various hotels or not. They sang songs, almost in a vigil-like way, swaying as if moved by the similar spiritual ingredients that hooks people on religion.

Idol worship.

She'd always had conflicting feelings about seeing women and men alike fall at her and her husbands feet, shamelessly crying, unable to control themselves.
She also knew the three step reaction by heart.

The three step reaction was how she described an ordinary person catching sight of Michael for the first time.

It would start with shock. They may pause. Unable to move, they remain gridlocked in their shoes, wherever they stand. Eyes widen, pupils dilate, and in the atmosphere there's brief silence.

Then there's the surge. The surge was the emotion relapse from shock taking over and kicking into gear. Once their feet started moving, the tears came, knees became weak, arms flailed out helplessly, as the need to wrap Michael Jackson in their arms becomes almost too much.

Then, there's the break. This is when typical cognitive function fails. After making a frantic grab for him, and screaming his name, their bodies become exhausted. They slump to their feet. It's impossible to move, so they sob on the floor.

It was tragic to watch. Especially since Afia knew the man. She slept by his side most nights. She watched him do all the disgusting things every human does.

His shit stank something rancid.
He picked his nose with his pinky finger.
He liked to line up cotton buds on their bed after he'd collected enough earwax on them.

Of course she understood it at first.

He was so gorgeous, outwardly charming, mysterious, brown eyed, childlike, and playful. It drew people in, the "purity"- that is.

Afia knew from the second her body came unto, that Michael wasn't beside her.
He was somewhere in the hotel suite,
but he wasn't in bed.

That chill came back again, as she squinted, trying to make out distinct shapes, or even movement.
Her hearing came back to her, and she shook herself awake.

The huge white sheets of the king size bed crunched and rustled as she turned herself off of her front, and sat up right against the quilted headboard. She smoothed her hands over the duvet, and breathed deep.

It was definitely the early hours of the morning.
If she could smell shit, Michael was up and around.

Her husband's favourite time to relieve himself was the early morning.
It was as if his bowles didn't work any other time.
She could notice now, the glow of the bathroom light, creeping along the dark wood floor, from the bathroom of their suit.

The hotel suite was huge.
There was a dining room, a living space, two ensuits, a corridor, and three grand bedrooms.
The bathroom Michael was occupying, was to the right of a small corridor, that led to the bedroom they'd been sleeping in for the past week.