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

Fifteen

Stella

"Get out! Don't you fucking come back! I hate you! You can be god damn sure I won't come looking for you, you fucking bitch! I never want to see you again! Don't you fucking touch my family! I hope you die! Burn in hell, bitch! Have fun with that fucking asshole!"

It wasn't something you wanted to hear ringing in your ears, nor was it anything to be proud of. My life, I was certain, was going to be short as of now, and I couldn't shake the fact that I hit him.

I hit him.

I hadn't really hit anybody before. Well, that's a lie. When I was with Nathan, there were times a good fight or a bit of roughing up was thrilling. Even then, I mostly blocked and tried to make myself seem bigger than the other person, which only ever worked about half the time.

It didn't matter if I was able to get out of this position or not because the fact of the matter was that I was history to Michael. Hergé had taken everything I had in my possession except my polaroids, leaving me with the plethora of photos of him and myself. I gave in to the temptation to file through the pictures of us.

He was far from perfect; if I were to describe him from an unbiased standpoint, I'd say he was a stubborn guy that tried too hard to impress people. But, also from an unbiased standpoint, he was able to stand up for himself. No matter how much he cared about me, he was straightforward and wouldn't put up with my shit. It was an admirable quality, especially when I considered how many people fell prey to their significant other because they "cared" too much for them to say anything. Michael cared about himself, and I was afraid that was all the caring he'd ever need. At any rate, I was far less independent than he was.

It never occurred to me how infatuated I was with Nathan until now and it was undoubtedly due to the fact that he was all I'd ever known. I had nothing going for me until he pulled me into a spiraling cyclone of excitement-the type that fuelled adrenaline into your veins and made your stomach back flip several times-and showed me his view of the world.

That isn't to say I don't care about Nathan. Something inside me told me that there was another layer to his change in personality, and no matter how much I wanted to ignore it and blame him for everything, it remained a tick at the back of my mind.

The sound of Michael cursing me out continued to repeat in my head as I explored the room I was thrown into. It was magnificent, and had I been in any other position, it might've been somewhat nice, complete with everything Caesars Palace's penthouse had. The repetition of Michael's words went on for the next couple of days- I heard him when I was busy hacking the Chinese government, and then the Canadian government, just before I went to bed and right when I woke up, when I refused to eat, when I succumbed to eating, and especially in the spaces of time when I had absolutely nothing to do.

"Don't you fucking come back! I hate you!"

"I never want to see you again!"

"Burn in hell, bitch!"

After the first few days, things got worse. Not only did I hear his voice, I heard snippets of what he used to say to me.

"My favorite color is red."

"I don't believe in promises, Brooks, I told you that."

"Tell me about yourself. Your file only says so much."

"You're not doing this alone-"

"I care about you."

I hadn't seen Nathan or his female accomplice in the duration I was working; food was sent into my room through a port in the door-much like a prison-, so I had no way to leave the confines of the room. Most of my time was spent laying about, or sitting on the shower floor, or staring at the painting of a flower vase on the wall. I was sitting in the floor in the foyer of the suite in front of a mirror staring at my reflection with utter disgust and distaste on day nine at Phoenix Industries. I recognized who this was: the smell I knew too well starting to appear, my hair was getting disgustingly greasy and threatening to get longer than it already was; it was the Stella in jail. When and how did I let myself get this low? It was then I thought back to all those months ago in prison; I thought back to the only thing that could help me cope with what was going on.