2009

The loud, alarming sound of my iPhone awoke me and left me in a throbbing headache, that hot summer-morning in June. A miserable sigh escaped my lips, because I knew the constant, loud yanging of the small device had also awoken other costumers in this grand hotel that was located in the always busy New York City. The iPhone's alarm wasn't necessary, since the city was an alarm itself, and always kept me awake in the middle of the night. I looked around for a second, the white curtains in front of the windows reminded me of our new house in Las Vegas. I quickly checked my phone to look if I had received any important messages during my light slumber, but luckily, only my husband Michael had send a text:

24-06-09, 10:30 PM;
Good luck at ur work tomorrow. C you soon. Love, Michael

I smiled at the heart-warming message, but couldn't help but feel worried about him. He was going to do his This Is It tour in less then a month, but I knew he wasn't capable of doing so, due to his health. A few months back, he was perfectly fine. He was thin, yes, but it was because he always danced - whenever and wherever he could. He wasn't on pain-medication anymore, and he was looking forward to the (then 10) shows he was about to do in London. I painfully smiled when I thought about the day he proudly told me about our new house in L.A. I sighed and stood up, realizing this thinking would keep me from my work, the very reason I was here in New York, and not with my children, nor my husband. It was work, right? The people needed me here.

"It's better if you just leave, mrs. Jackson."
"Michael will be fine, mrs. Jackson."
"Your work in New York is calling for you, mrs. Jackson."

Didn't it all seem a little suspicious? I had never worked in New York, and now, at this chaotic and hectic time for myself and Michael, they needed me? Right before the This Is It tour, right before Michael told me the people he worked with treated him like dirt, right before the contract suddenly said 50 shows instead of 10?

"Mommy?" Paris' sweet voice asked me. "Why is daddy always cold?"

I shook my head and realised there was something terribly wrong with me. Why the hell did I listen to everyone I never trusted? The weird feeling in the pit of my stomach grew when I tried to puzzle the pieces together. Doctor Murray's face when I asked him if Michael was okay, Tohme Tohme who constantly told me that "my work in NYC was calling for me" with a disgusting grin on his face, the secret meetings that, for me unknown, people had with Michael, it all seemed so wrong now. It seemed wrong then, but I ignored it anyways and now I wondered, why I was so naïve. I grabbed my suitcase and threw it atop of my bed. "Why did I listen? What's wrong with me?" Pieces of clothes were thrown across the room, into the suitcase. I couldn't take it anymore and I dialed Michael's number, only to be answered with a voicemail. Of course, just like always when I called him early in the morning or evening. The fact that he didn't answer, caused me to call my manager. "Hello, Y/N. How are you doing?"
"Fine. I need you to make my jet ready. We're going back to Las Vegas."

A satisfied grin plastered my face when I tasted my cappuccino on the tip of my tongue. It was exactly what I needed. I clutched my purse a little more tight against my waist and sank deeper in the passengerseat. Sunglasses shielded my eyes for the flashing lights of the paparazzi's cameras, but it was painful nevertheless. The paparazzi had become an unwanted friend in my life, never leaving my side in the darkest of times or brightest of days. Marc, my driver, pushed the gas-pedal and the camera lights now only came from my right-side, but they soon faded away when we left the parking-spot. Biting the inside of my cheek, I cursed them all. They had never done anything then to spread bad publicity.
"Can I ask you something, ma'am?" Marc asked, his blonde hair still in a mess. I almost felt bad for waking him up before 9. "Sure. This cappuccino is amazing by the way. Where did you buy it?"
"I don't remember the name of the café, ma'am. But why are you leaving so soon? I thought you were staying in New York for awhile." I pulled down my sunglasses 'til they touched the tip of my nose and looked at my driver. Then I sighed and concentrated my gaze back to the road. "I guess you can say...it's a big mess at home. Just because you're getting old doesn't mean things get easier." I sighed. "On the contrary." Marc uncomfortably shifted in his chair. "I'm sorry 'bout that ma'am. How are your children doing?"
I smiled. He was probably the most awkward driver I ever had.
"They're doing fine, Marc."

"On a scale of 1 to 10, how much was I needed at the office in New York?" I asked through my cell-phone, well aware that it was 8 in the morning and no-one was in the mood for such questions. A tired sigh was heard through the speaker. "Y/N...do we really have to this now?" Logan, my co-worker, complained. "Just answer the damn question!" I raised my voice a little and he groaned. "I don't know, okay. 3, maybe. I don't know. I'm gonna go now." I closed my eyes for a second while I listened to the beep that was caused by Logan hanging up the phone. "Of course," I mumbled. "A 3." I gritted my teeth and focused my gaze and thoughts on the airplanes in front of me. I just then noticed how cold it was. It was supposed to be warm, and sunny, but now the cold, howling wind creeped between my clothes and caused shivers down my spine. It almost seemed impossible that just the other day I needed 10 handkerchiefs to wipe my forehead that was stained with sweat. It felt good that I had decided to go back home. When I raised my gaze from the ground, I saw the private jet in front of me. Even though it stood about 200 metres away from the other vehicles, the sound of planes taking off was loud and alarming. I had always thought it was the most unpleasing sound ever. When I stepped in the plane, I was kindly greeted by the captain and flight-attendant, but I knew it was going to be an awful flight. Everyone was shocked that I had wanted to leave so early, but they couldn't protest because I was their boss. I pondered if I had to apologize to them or not. I decided not to, they worked for me and I didn't know what to say anyways. "Sorry for leaving so sudden, I think my husband is in trouble but I'm not sure." It would've sounded silly.

The flight was indeed horrible. Usually I liked to look out of the window and watch the clouds drift by, but this time, the only thing on my worried mind was Michael. My leg was constantly moving up and down, faster and faster. At one point the tension was killing me and I wanted to crack open a window to get some fresh air. "Are you alright, mrs. Jackson?" A stewardess asked me. I looked up to meet her gaze and smiled, but couldn't help but to let out a small sigh. "I'm fine," I checked the name tag that was spelled onto her left shoulder, "Sally."

It was around 11:30 when I had to buckle my seatbelt, and when I reached my hand to do so, I realized it was already buckled. I must've been really stressed. Suddenly I felt the buzzing of my iPhone against my right-thigh, so I got it out of the pocket of my jeans. It was an unknown phone-number. I pressed the green-button and held the phone against my ear.

"Hello?"

"Y/N! Michael's been rushed to the hospital!" I didn't even realize who spoke to me, but these few words made my body clench up and a naeseous feeling formed in my stomach. I swallowed, trying to get away the lump in my throat. There was a long silence. "W-what..?" I finally managed to ask, but it came out weak. The sound of the plane landing felt as if a sledgehammer pressed against my eardrum.

"It was an ermergency, y/n... I'm at the hospital now. God, don't let him die." The last few words were obviously not directed to me.

"What happened?" My voice sounded thick and emotionless. I felt a wet spot on my knee and my eyes switched to it. My water bottle had spilled due to my shaking. I quickly shove the shell atop of the lit. "We don't know. Please pray for him." I rapidly blinked and pressed my nails into my knee, where the wet spot was. "I will, Katherine. How are you doing?" I asked her, I didn't know why. She didn't answer. "Please come as soon as you can. Are you still in New York?" My thoughts drifted away and I closed my eyes, refusing to let my tears fall. "I - no. I'll be there in 10 minutes. I just landed." "Okay. Please be quick."

I ended the phone-call and the naeseous feeling got worse. I rushed to the toilet of the plane, fell to my knees in front of the toilet, and vomitted. Usually, when I was sick, I always felt a little better after vomitting. But this time not. It only made me feel worse. I got up and looked in the tiny mirror. My skin was paler then a white sheet. I cleaned my mouth and when I opened the toilet, the stewardess, whom I remembered was Sally, looked at me with a worried expression on her face. "I just feel a little sick," I said and walked away before she could say something.

I walked out of the plane, and saw that Marc awaited me at the end of the stairs. Luckily, there weren't any fans or paparazzi, since my arriving was sudden. "Marc!" I called him. He looked a little off guard and quickly stepped on his cigarette so it would die down. "Yes, ma'am?" I reached the final steps of the stairs and looked him in the eye. "You gotta bring me to the hospital! Now!"

The ride to the hospital was filled with dead air and dead air only. I didn't know what to think or where to look. I just folded my hands and held them to my chest, whispering these words over and over again: "Please don't let him die." I had never been so terrified in my life. Marc's knuckles around the steering wheele where white, showing that he was holding onto it as if his life depended on it. He was constantly chewing on his bottom lip, terrified like a deer in the headlights.

And then the phone rang. The repeated, cheerful sound filled the car and left us in an even colder and thicker tension. I let out a shaky breath, slowly reaching for the small device. I pushed the green button and placed it next to my ear.

"Yes?"

"HE'S DEAD! He's dead!"

My heart fell. It shattered into a million pieces and every little piece was sharp so that it left my whole body in an aching pain. The two words echoed through my entire being, pulsating through my veins and slamming against my brains. He's dead.

"Stop the car," I said, stronger than I thought it would've been. Marc did so, and before I realized what I was doing, I got out, trying to run away from the devastating scene that had happened just seconds ago. But with every step I took, the words only got louder, almost mockingly, as if someone screamed it in my face. Cars drove by, the drivers pressing their claxon when they saw me running across the street. I didn't care. I was pinching myself, for I knew, this couldn't be reality. It was a nightmare. Michael Jackson couldn't die. Wouldn't die. Thick droplets of tears fell down my cheeks, and I didn't mind trying to wipe them away.

"It can't be true!" I shouted to no-one in particular. I had crossed the street and slammed my fist against a random wall. "Mrs. Jackson!"
I turned and saw Marc. He stood there, his eyes widening at the sight. He ran towards me, wrapped his arms around my trembling embodiment. I bursted out in tears. "He's dead, Marc! And it's my fault!"

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woah, thx for 1k + reads ! & then I come back again after 49394 years with a sad imagine. Have fun crying:')