{Mature era – 2005}.

Combing my fingers through my hair, yet another wave of emotional pain surges through my body. The ordeal I'm going through right now is mentally damaging me; they're accusing me of a crime that I'm incapable of committing. It's terrible – absolutely terrible. For the past few weeks, I've woken up feeling sick to my stomach, only to be forced into court to stand up for trial. After each painful day, I've gone home weary and tired. It's far from entertaining, now.

Today, as I stand before my mirror, I take note of my appearance – my pale skin; my limp, lifeless limbs; my fatigued eyes with dark circles – this is hurting me badly. It doesn't help bearing excruciating back pain, as well as a dependency on certain medication. There's only a matter of time before it's all over, anyway. It's currently June 13, 2005, and surely the whole event will be finished soon – at least, I hope to God it is. I'm not sure how much longer I can bare this torture.

Just then, my reflection in the mirror seems to change a little. My long, straight hair morphs into an afro, whilst my pale skin darkens a little, to a rich chocolate shade. My features also change – they look less mature than my real ones.

But the person in the mirror is me ... from when I was a child.

"Hi," my younger form greets in the reflection, examining me intensely, almost confused, "Who are you?"

My brows furrow slightly, revealing my confusion as to why my younger self is here, "Michael? I'm ... you."

My younger self looks at me, subtly widening his eyes, "You're me?" Then, he seems to come to some sort of realisation, "Oh! Me! Yeah, I wanted to ask you somethin'."

"Go ahead," I usher him on.

"What's it like being a real adult? Not like a child adult or anything. I mean, a real life adult."

Sadness fills my heart at my own younger form's naïvety. Little does he know, adult life is extremely hard, extremely tough, and extremely draining.

"It's a challenge," I answer honestly, "But I'm sure ... you'll be fine." My eyes close, as I feel tears filling them, "I've gotten through it, so you can too."

When my eyes open again, I see that the reflection has changed. Now, it's me from my young adult life – around 1979. The afro is a little more slick and small, and my features are more mature than my childhood ones.

My younger self suddenly sees me, "Hey! Oh my ... who are—?"

"You're me; I'm you," I interrupt myself, simply looking at my old appearance, "What are you doing here?"

"I've come to ask you something," he answers, coming to that same realisation as my childhood self, "Um ... what's it like, being famous as an adult?"

"You'll learn all in good time, Michael," I answer him, forcing a smile, "But be prepared for anything ... because even the things you least expect will happen."

He nods in understanding, taking his lower lip into his mouth shyly. Within a few seconds, he waves, then the reflection changes once again. This time, it's my Thriller years – the early '80s. Those days were probably my best times.

"Hi there," Thriller era me says kindly.

"Hey Michael. I'm you; you're me. Any questions?" I'm not saying all of this to be rude; I just want to avoid yet another awkward starting conversation with myself.

"Woah ... we're the same person?" He squints his eyes, leaning forward to get a better look at me, "Man, that's crazy. But yeah, I got a question. Is the Moonwalk still famous in the future?"

Slowly, I nod, "Of course."

"And does that move make my life better or worse?"

"Difficult to judge," I respond quietly, "You could say, a little bit of both."

"That's neat. So what're you doing now?" He seems more polite than my other younger forms, yet we're all the same person.

"I'm getting ready for the day," I breathe.

"That's cool. Anything special happening?" His interest in his own future is quite amusing to me, but that amusement isn't really showing on my face right now.

"Special? No." My eyes move downwards, "Just a little business to attend to."

"Oh ... okay."

When I look up, I notice the reflection is changing again. This time, the man in the mirror is ... me, still, but this time, it's me from 1988 – my Bad days, when everything really started to go wrong for me.

"Holy—Hey there!" he smiles, waving a little, "Who're you?"

"How did I know you'd ask that?" I question rhetorically, "I'm you; you're me. We're one in the same."

"That's cool. Hey, I got a question to ask you. How do you cope with the media lying about you? I mean, it's nothing major, but ... it's starting to affect my life a little, now." He knits his brows together in anticipation of my answer.

"Just ignore them, Michael; they're really not worth it at all. You'll soon learn to deal with it naturally. Speak out about what you will, but don't give them anything that can be used against you. You got it?" Despite this being myself, I'm talking as if Bad era me is my child, or something.

He smiles faintly in appreciation, "Thanks. Stupid tabloids; I haven't slept in a hyperbaric chamber. Oh wait – I started that rumour." He then chuckles a little.

"Always the trouble maker, I remember," I remark to myself, "But be careful; one day the tabloids'll hit you where it hurts. Be aware of that."

He nods, "For sure." My reflection then changes once again, to me from around 1993 – it's only twelve years' difference between my reflection and I, now.

"We're the same person," I tell myself, before my younger self can even start to speak.

He laughs, "I was about to ask who you were. Anyway, now that I know ... I need to ask a question. It's kinda important ... " He draws his eyes downwards sadly.

"Go for it." A sympathetic tone seems to be more audible in my speech by this point.

"Does this pain get easier?" he pleads, "Because all this ... with Evan and Jordie ... is too much. They're making me do a strip search. I can't do it, Michael ... I can't do it!" He's already tearing up by now.

"Hey," I call softly, earning his attention, "Calm down Michael; it'll be okay. Let me tell you: you manage to do the strip search, and you're okay. I've been there myself." Emotional pain strikes my heart as I tell him this, because telling him it's okay is a lie, "Just keep your head up, and it'll all be ... fine ... "

"I hope to God it is. I'm not sure if I can bear this ... "

"You'll be just fine," I assure him, "Just believe in yourself."

With no other words, the reflection transforms into my HIStory era self – from about 1996, perhaps 1997.

"Hi, me," I greet, without him even saying a word.

"Me?" he repeats, "We're the same person?"

"Yep."

"That's neat." He flashes a smile, "But, um ... I'm about to have my first child. What's it like? It's so exciting to me; I'm looking forward to it so much. But ... what's it like being a real life parent?"

"It's the best feeling in this entire world," I answer in a heart beat, "There's literally no other happiness like it on this Earth."

"Really? Oh boy; I'm so excited. It's not long now until he's due."

"That's wonderful, Michael." I nod sweetly in approval, "Is there any other questions you wanna ask?"

"Yeah. Why am I getting bashed so much for the Vitiligo? It's getting to be a nuisance, hearing about it all the time." He scowls a little, heaving a small sigh.

"It's just something not a lot of people have seen. It's okay," I assure him, "Just ignore everyone. I learned that the hard way."

"Okay. Thanks, Michael."

With that, the reflection changes once more, to a more recent form of myself. This one is only from a couple years back.

"Me?" he gasps, "My God."

This form of myself is the only version that recognises me, simply because we look so similar; I've not really changed in the past couple years.

"Sure is," I murmur, "What do you want to ask? I know there's something."

"Actually, there is." He heaves a small sigh of sadness, "They're here again. The accusations. Why does it keep happening? When will it all end?" His voice is a mix of pain, and hopefulness at the notion I could have an idea.

"Honestly?" I start guiltily, "Not for a little while yet. I'm still going through it now."

At this news, a single tear rolls down his cheek. "Oh," he mutters, "Okay ... "

"It'll be okay in the end." My attempt at cheering him up isn't great, but it's worth a shot, "And besides, you have Prince, Paris and Blanket. They'll help you through ... "

He nods, agreeing at least with my latter words, "Yeah, I know."

The reflection then changes again, but rather than stopping at my current age and appearance, it seems to stop at a completely new face – one I've never seen before. It reminds me of my younger self though, in that the hair is wavy like in my younger years. However, this face's appearance is more mature; it's more aged.

"Are you me, and me you?" I ask the reflection, and he nods.

"We're one in the same, Michael."

"But what year are you?" I find myself questioning.

"I'm 2009 Michael. You're 2005, if I'm not mistaken." He seems to take in my appearance, as if he's reminiscing about the time when he looked like I do now.

"Yes, I'm 2005." Now it's my turn to do the question-asking, "Tell me ... does it get any easier?"

"Does what get any easier?" His eyes meet mine as he voices this question.

"Life." My eyes move downwards, not wanting to keep intense eye contact on myself for any longer.

"Well ... in some ways, yes. It's difficult to judge."

"In what ways?" Desperation is clearly audible in my tone now; I need to know the answers.

"You'll see – all in good time," he tells me, before the reflection grows smaller.

I watch in confusion as all the reflections I've just seen start to gather in the mirror, and they all look at one another and chat briefly. Before too long, they all avert their gazes to me.

"Good luck today," they all say in turn.

"Thank you," I smile a little, wondering how they all suddenly know what's going on, "But I just want it to end."

"What's the date?" my future self asks me.

"June 13, 2005. Why?" I press.

"Things look good for you, Michael." With these words, he grins warmly, making me feel a little less uneasy than I did previously.

My hand then moves forward, allowing my fingers to touch upon the mirror's surface. Within an instant, all the reflections are gone, and are replaced with my current appearance.

"Well, here goes another day of torture," I frown, fighting the urge to cry for my own misfortune. My eyes then catch a newspaper in the mirror, but because of the reflection showing it backwards, the writing of the headline is hard to read. Because of this, I turn my head, spotting that same newspaper in real life.

Grabbing a hold of it, I read the large-print heading.

NOT GUILTY

There's a photo of me on there, for some reason. And when I read the article, it suddenly becomes clear.

"Singer Michael Jackson is acquitted of all charges against him: June 13, 2005," I read aloud.

June 13, 2005.

And what date is it?

June 13, 2005.

I'm really going to be alright after all.

The Man in the Mirror has really helped me believe everything will be okay ...

~~

Sorry if this sucked; I was literally falling asleep as I typed it yesterday. xD My mind wasn't fully in it. xD Sorry in advance for any spelling errors. :P
Hope you liked it anyway. x)