Michael Jackson Imagines

• The Arrangement (Bad Era); Pt. 1 •

A/N: Hey guys! This is a really quick author's note as I just want to provide a brief disclaimer.

This imagine contains some tricky material, including unhappiness in marriage, family hardships and loss, to an extent. If any of these issues are going to be difficult for you, please put your mental health first and don't read. I completely understand if you choose to do this and would always prefer that you prioritise your feelings!

If you do want to read on, though, I really hope you like this first instalment and enjoy The Arrangement!

1986

The large, intimidating mahogany doors to the historic Church loom before you as you carefully tread up the last step to the entrance. The midday Californian sun relentlessly burns down upon your skin and the dry July air only makes you feel, ironically, more suffocated the more of it you inhaled.

In fact, the entire situation is just that: suffocating.

"Are you alright, sweetheart? You seem a bit...vacant"

The kindly sentiment comes from the voice of none other than your dear father. He supportively places his large hand on your trembling shoulder, careful to not rumple the pristine ivory bridal veil that perfectly trails down your back.

Forcing your uneasy mind back to the present moment, you look to your father, wishing that he could know exactly what was going on inside your troubled mind. As you clench your bridal bouquet between your clammy fists, you wonder if his instincts told him that something wasn't quite right; if they have, he's perfectly concealed them behind his kindly eyes.

Plastering a smile on your face, you nod with a convincing amount of enthusiasm and sweetly console him, "Of course, Dad! Just a little nervous"

"I don't blame you, sweetheart. I'd have scarpered by now if all this press was at mine and your mum's wedding" your dad sighs, frowning a little as he uneasily glances behind him where a sea of photographers and journalists are waiting to pounce.

Following his gaze warily, you're instantly blinded by a retina-burning flash, hundreds of photographers desperate to capture every possible money-making snapshot of you. Your wedding is one of the most anticipated and speculated affairs of the entire year, possibly of the decade. It's practically an all-you-can-eat buffet for media workers worldwide.

You're so tempted to escape from the jaws of the press, this ceremony and everything it represents, but you aren't about to let your father know that.

No one could ever know.

Turning away from the invasive eye of the paparazzi, your father presses a reassuring peck on top of your perfectly styled hairstyle. You reach for his hand and squeeze it, eternally grateful for every ounce of his precious paternal love and care for you.

As the large wooden doors before you swing open, you feel all the more thankful to have your father by your side during your last moments of freedom. You relish them, savouring them like they are the last delicious morsels of the most divine dessert. But you know that the sweet aftertaste can only last so long.

It feels as though a thousand eyes are suddenly fixed upon you as the heavy doors finally open fully. It's safe to say that the numerical proportion of the congregation is heavily tipped in favour of your soon-to-be husband's party. Many of the guests you recognise from the television and cardboard sleeves of your vinyl LPs; Barbra Streisand, Stevie Wonder, Eddie Murphy and Elizabeth Taylor are just a few to name. They stare at you in awe as the sunlight shines behind you and frames your silhouette like a halo, glowing for all to see.