The Con Artist (A Michael Jackson fanfiction) (Completed)

One

Stella

California Institution for Women

March 1987

I looked horrifying.

My hair was unruly with dandruff and smelled like dirty gym socks and moldy ham. Long hair had practically become part of the prison's dress code with lack of grooming any of us did behind bars. I stared at myself in the mirror in utter disgust at what I had become within the last three years-my face was sallow even for its caramel color, my limbs were bony, and I almost sure my body smelled of processed foods and mashed potatoes regardless of the times I scrubbed myself of the smell in the shower.

I'd be lying to myself if I said I hated prison. Of course, they stuck me in a building with people who performed petty crimes- arson, theft, tax fraud- so the people I came in contact with weren't the stereotypical felons you meet in prison (and therefore nothing remotely entertaining ever went on), the food tasted like the equivalent of dog shit and the inmate down the hall named Candice, a big, fat woman with a double chin, constantly called me "cutie" even though I haven't seen an ounce of makeup or shampoo in a while. Still, I couldn't hate it if I tried.

A roof over my head, food in my stomach and a set routine (mostly), anything is better than a disgusting seedy motel, I suppose. Still, I'd much prefer being in a place that I knew I could actually leave. With a certain someone. No matter how hard I tried, I constantly found myself in a constant loop in my head, about Nathan, about how I got here. I could only theorize what Nathan was up to, and so far, none of my theories seemed plausible. Not without a partner, at least.

I sat with the same group of ladies every day during mealtime-Lisa, the woman who set fire to her ex-husband's home while he was out purchasing groceries because she didn't like the color of the curtains that his new wife picked out; Brooke, who got so far gone on alcohol that she pissed on somebody's car ("Who even gets a white car nowadays? It was a hideous thing; I did it a favor by taking a piss on it," she told the corrections officer); Stephanie, by far the youngest of us at the age of eighteen, went butt naked to her senior prom after smoking a little too much pot; Whitney stalked some male supermodel that was in town promoting his new line of shoes (apparently she managed to get into his bed with him before he woke up seven minutes later and punched her in the face); and Kylie, the prostitute.

Even though they were my friends (or as friendly as inmates in prison could get), I never told them about my breakout plan. It was going to be sad to leave them, so I guessed one last lunch together couldn't hurt.

Looking across the cafeteria, I find the girls at our usual table. I take my time to get there (not like I had anything but that in this place), listening to snippets of conversations along the way. One in particular catches my interest and the person speaking also catches my eye. Her hair was just as unruly and unkempt as mine, barely being held together by the elastic hair tie she wore.

Her skin looked like it was lathered in sweat and oil (not the good kind) and her eyes always seemed as if she were about to fall asleep mid-sentence. But she's the opposite as her eyes practically pop out her skull she animatedly speaks to her tablemates, who hang onto her every word. Well, with as much interest as they could seem to muster.

"We could've been together! Really, he told me he'd marry me back in 85!"

"Girl, you're dreaming! That's why him and the police chief got you in here! Michael Jackson has connections and those connections got you right in here with the rest of us," one of her tablemates brings her back to reality, something she probably hasn't known for quite a while. In fact, they don't sound too excited about the supposed connection, the crazy one probably tries not to take it too personal.