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

Thirteen

Stella

There was a definite stinging in my muscles. I wasn't even sure if I could pick my head up. I strained to move my fingers, and even that hurt to an unknown degree. I felt so weak and pathetic.

With every ounce of strength I had left, I managed to reach out and grab my cell phone. I had to let Michael know-

No. I couldn't.

I couldn't tell him anything. I couldn't lift myself out of this position. The only way I could help him was to hurt him, and I had already done enough of that.

Nathan was right in saying that I used Michael. Who was I kidding? The only reason I went to Michael at first was because he was vulnerable. I saw a weakness and I took advantage of it. I never wanted Nathan in jail-not until now, at least. Michael exerted so much energy to help me get what I want and all I did was put him in danger.

I couldn't risk anything; I wanted him safe. I wanted his family safe. There was no way I would disobey Nathan for Michael's sake. Nathan had changed so much-the only thing I could remotely recognize about him were his eyes-still a light hazel color- but even his voice had changed; colder than the north winds and unfazed by remorse.

I racked my brain for possible solutions to my predicament but could produce nothing. I couldn't be nice to him or he'd come back and look for me.

This is the problem with lying, I scolded myself, there really is no way out. Pick yourself up, you piece of shit.

I moved my arms, heaved the weight of my torso up, and then clung onto the handle of the door as if it were a life line to keep me upright. I massaged my shoulders, trying to get some circulation into my body again.

The only person I could think of was Michael.

It didn't take long for my legs to move again. I got up after picking up my things, my knees fairly weak and threatening to give way at the weight of my body, but paused to admire the photograph of Michael with his family-just as handsome, just as sweet-and the smile he could ignite in me even after everything that just happened.

I had been careless; had I not kept all of those pictures on me or kept the picture in my wallet (perhaps even taken it in the first place), neither of us would be in this position.

I had to choose between killing him under the surface or having him die for me. Frankly, I couldn't care less what happened to me.

I needed him to be okay.

******

I'm not sure what came over me but after searching the building I was in for twenty minutes, I concluded that Michael went back to the hotel. If I went back straight away, I would most likely succumb to him and probably would've let him use up the condom, as Nathan suggested.

But I couldn't. I had to stay away from him for his sake.

So, naturally, I found myself at a lonely corner of a bar, drinking at a steady pace until the clock struck twelve midnight (stupidly, I should add, for it made everything hurt that much more than it initially did).

"Nous fermons," snapped the bartender, "C'est mardi, non? Allez chez vous! N'avez-vous pas une mari?"

"Sorry, I don't speak French," I said. He nodded his head, snatched my drink up and poured the rest down the sink. So much for the city of love. I left a meager tip on the counter and left, stumbling on my steps down cobblestone paths and regretting every advancement I made towards the hotel.

You have to do this. You have to leave.

I thought back to my friends in prison-what would they think of me now?