Balloons [A Michael Jackson Fan Fiction]

Chapter 22: The Confession

   Normally, he'd just walk towards them and sign their stuff or take pictures with them, but this case was different. One, because he was alone and had no bodyguards to refrain the fans from attacking him. Two, it was extremely late at night, and he literally had no more energy to do all that. Three, they were literally a mob, probably a thousand, they were all running towards him. He just panicked.

   Once again, his efforts were in vain. They caught up with him just when he was about to go in through the back door. They circled him, literally, and screamed, cried, whatever. He was surprised how these girls had that much stamina, because they probably stayed outside the hotel for hours, screaming and chanting and crying.

   He was pushed and dragged. He had no control of his own body. His feet were literally a feet or two off the ground. He went in every direction. His clothes were torn and and destroyed, because each of the fans wanted a souvenir. He yelped loudly in pain, but nobody could actually hear him because he was overpowered by the excited screams of the fans.

   The commotion soon got the attention of security. They soon pushed through the riot, surrounding Michael as they forwarded slowly. He sighed in relief. He wasn't exactly happy about what just happened, but hey, at least he was still alive. He just felt like he had a huge tornado directly on him, tearing almost every piece of cloth he had on and injuring his body.

   The doors closed and the elevator ascended slowly. He almost fainted, but fortunately, one of his bodyguards caught him and shook him up. He was just a total mess. They finally arrived, and Michael entered his room quickly and took no hesitation to just jump on the bed, face down (on the pillow).

   As he moved, he felt stinging pains throughout his body. He groaned softly in pain as he tried to remove his -torn- blazer and shirt. Soon bare-chested, he looked around his body, and sure enough, blackish-blue bruises were visible almost everywhere. His arm even had a deep cut, which was now covered by dried blood.

   He shivered, and quickly called the lobby to send up a doctor. Topless, he saw how contrasting his -new- bruises were with his slightly tanned body. He saw how ugly his body was, being covered with a tan body makeup, to just cover up his disgusting vitiligo spots. The makeup was wearing off though, and dark brown spots were once again revealing on his body.

   A knock on the door made him look away from his body and stand up. He walked towards the door. Well, limp, actually. He hobbled on only one foot and had to hold onto the wall for support. Finally, he was able to reach the door and turn the knob, revealing the face of a now-shocked doctor.

“What happened to you?” He asked, his voice deep but filled with concern.

“You tell me,” he groaned.