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

Nineteen

Stella

Michael and I sat in the kitchen. I was admiring him while he was looking down and staring at his cereal. The spoon made an irritating screeching as he shuffled the now soggy flakes around in the milk.

"You haven't touched your breakfast," I remarked, sipping my coffee. "You love that cereal."

His head perked up and a glimmer of hope painted on his face. "You remembered?"

"Of course I remember. It's all I've ever seen you eat."

"I don't know...it's just that you forgot the majority of last night, you forgot what happened at the house, you forgot who Sara was-"

"It's just a side effect of the serum. It'll go away eventually, I promise."

He didn't look like he believed me. Michael sighed and swirled his spoon around more, as if trying to think of something to say, but kept quiet. He hadn't told me what I had forgotten either, which didn't help my cause. For all I knew, I threw up and yesterday and went to sleep. I still had a horrible cough and a lingering pain in my chest, but at least my fever was dying down.

"I'm not hungry," he said finally, getting up and taking his bowl to the sink. He rinsed a full bowl of cereal down the drain.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" I snapped, a little on edge at the fact I was still in the dark. "Why are you so upset? It's just a side effect-"

"Do you think I'm unaware of what's going on, Stella? You cough out blood, your heartbeat isn't steady and now you're forgetting things that've only been in your memory for a couple of hours; you know, yesterday you asked me what I'd do if you died. You don't have to hide anything from me anymore because you've already done that!" he yelled.

I knew exactly what he was referring to, and my neck burned hot.

"Tell me if you're going to die," he demanded sternly.

"Michael, honestly-"

"I'm serious, Stella, I want to know-"

"I don't know-"

"Fucking hell, just tell-"

"I don't know!" I roared, getting up out of my seat and balancing myself using the edge of the table. "Do you want me to say yes and tear you apart? Or would you rather me say no and get your hopes up? I don't know what's going on with me, so how could I possibly tell you the truth?"

He stormed out of the kitchen even after I called for him to come back. I threw my spoon into the cup, sending drops of coffee onto the surface of the table. I knew he was frustrated-I certainly would've been had I known something like this was happening to him-and that he could tell I was lying.

I was possibly going to die and there was nothing he, I, or anybody could do about it right now. Tragic.

I figured I could at least explain myself to him-God only knew how miscommunication was a uniquely human characteristic that would eventually drive all of us to the brink of insanity. I picked myself up and called for him as I ventured back up the stairs, pulling my weight up using the railing.

"Michael, come on, honestly, I don't know how long this thing's gonna last and I don't want to give you false hope of any kind," I began, making my way over to the bedroom door to hear sniffling coming from the other side of the bed on the ground. I peered over the mattress and sure enough, he was sitting there wiping his nose and eyes, trying to rid himself of the evidence that he was hurt by what was going on. "Why are you crying?"

"Because you're a bitch and I hate you," he replied bitterly, turning away from the sound of my voice. I huffed and sat down beside him only to have him nudge me away.