Santa Monica BLVD, CA, September 8th, 1997
3:30pm
*TRIGGER WARNING*
This chapter contains brief mentions of self harm, blood, and sick. Though it's not very graphic, please refrain from reading if this could bother you. Safe reading x
***
"Michael doesn't like to talk about her," Afia started slowly, feeling guilty only for a second, "But she's the start of a lot of this.."
Michael shook his head, blowing air out of his lips as he frowned harder out of the window.
It wasn't even worth the trouble.
Discussing June, felt like one big scam, to Michael.
Afia had made her mind up about their relationship, and she wasn't going to listen to him or his feelings.
Could he blame her?
Kleff sat forward once more nodding, "Is this another woman that became involved in your relationship?" He asked, as Michael flicked his head around to shoot Afia a wicked glare.
He didn't want to go into it.
It was all such a tangled mess, that Michael was sure Kleff would run to the nearest news station with whatever he had heard.
Afia swallowed her next words, and looked away from that fiery glaze that had descended across Michaels entire face.
Stone.
Ice.
He could blow so hot and cold, so very easily.
"Yes," She whispered nervously, wriggling in her chair as she suddenly felt a heat around her neck, "She fell in love with him.." Afia's voice fell to a whimper, and it hit Michael in the gut.
She sounded so wounded.
Broken.
It was true, of course.
June Chandler, a married woman, had fallen hopelessly in love with Michael.
Whether it was her intention to do so, didn't really matter.
The damage preceded the intent.
Afia balled her eyes closed and shuddered, "Michael met the Chandlers in 1990.." She trailed off, knowing that Michael would be making a face at her to stop.
"Michael, this makes you uncomfortable?" Kleff noticed how Michael had turned his body wryly in his seat, showing evidently that he was unsettled by the direction of the conversation.
Those little cheeks were red and ripe, and he looked hot enough with embarrassment and rage to fry an egg on.
Michael winced, "Afia thinks I cheated on her with this woman.." He spat, the words digging out of his mouth in shards.
He couldn't believe he was being forced to talk about a sensitive and private case with a fucking Hollywood therapist.
It would be damning to the entire case, that was still ongoing, if she continued.
Many people thought that Michael and Afia had left the allegations behind in 1993 after the settlement, but the court battle raged on well into 1997, too.
"Michael, what else could I possibly think? The letters? The phone calls? Evan?" Afia hissed angrily, so hurt that he was choosing to accept his own version of the facts as reality.
"When did you begin your relationship with the Chandlers?" Kleff asked quickly, as Michael sighed hard, blinking away his anger.
Afia inhaled sharply and shook her head.
This had to be done.
"Michael met David, her husband," She spat venomously, throwing Michael a stern side eye, "In 1992.. They helped him when his car broke down, and from then, I guess they stayed in touch.." Afia shrugged sadly.
Michael continued to shake his head, his skin heating with anger.
This was not meant to be public knowledge.
Ever.
"Okay, and when did you start to get involved with the family, and subsequently.. June?" Kleff peered at Michael, who was focused on a spot on the ground.
"I promised to call them," Michael growled, "From there, we just became friends. David and June. We all became friends.."
"No we didn't!" Afia was shouting now, "They were your friends. You wanted to visit them, and have them stay. I wanted nothing to do with them!" Afia screeched, feeling scorned that he would even include her in this mess.
Afia had never liked Michaels tendency to strike up friendships with women and their stray kids.
She'd never appreciated the phone calls late at night to the house, asking for Michael, and asking to speak with her husband.
Something about it always felt wrong.
It's like he was doing it in plain sight.
Hiding his affairs behind the thin veil of friendship.
Michael rubbed his thighs with his hands in exasperation, "I wanted friends. You told me I needed friends. Whenever I made them, you hated them!" Michael huffed at her, shaking his head once more.
Afia was feral with rage.
Yes, she wanted Michael to make friends.
She wanted him to have the same fulfilling and loving friendships that she enjoyed herself.
She would tell him, that he would benefit from having a confidant.
A best man.
A right hand.
He had Bill Bray, and Elizabeth, but as far as real, honest friends, that's as far it went.
His industry friends were surface level, and could not be trusted fully with most of his woes.
Afia had not been a child star, and so she'd reached a level of development in her childhood that Michael hadn't.
Afia had made childhood friends with kids in her neighbourhood.
Kids in her classes, and from her street.
She'd walked the streets of New York with her girl gang, and she'd chased alley cats away with them.
Michael hadn't experienced that kind of thing, ever.
His childhood friendships were brief, cut short by his busy touring schedule with the Jackson five.
As far as making solid connections with people, Michael had not yet found that formula.
Afia, was his friend.
Afia, was meant to be his best friend.
Afia wanted nothing more, than for Michael to find his soul tribe.
She wanted him to be fulfilled.
She'd even introduced him to some of her friends, and they'd always had a good time together.
But Michael always wanted his own.
His own group of people to go on trips with.
His own set of friends to plan events and parties with.
He found it hard, to assimilate into the world around him of adult men.
Sure, he could talk and laugh, and joke with them, but deep down, it didn't feel like his soul purpose.
He didn't like drinking heavily at nightclubs, and talking vulgarly about women.
Sure, he could do it, but it wasn't him.
He'd much rather find friends to go to shows and plays with.
Friends that liked music and art.
He wanted to have conversations about the never ending existential crisis he found himself mulling over at night.
He could do that with Afia.
But it wasn't always enough.
It was only natural then, that the friends he made, were sometimes women.
Emotional women.
Who liked plays and fine art.
June was that woman.
She steam rolled her way into the Jackson household without a second thought, and set her eyes on Michael quickly.
Afia never liked her.
She didn't like her hair.
She didn't like her clothes.
She didn't like her fucking voice, or her face.
"Afia," Michaels mouth was dry, as he began to breathe deep to calm his flaring temper, "Every time, I have tried, to make friends, you haven't liked them.." He mumbled again, feeling embarrassed now.
It was embarrassing in his mind.
Michael felt extremely insecure, that at the ripe age of thirty seven, he hadn't managed to make those kinds of connections.
He felt inadequate.
It was the only part of him, that made him feel so small compared to his wife.
Afia was a social butterfly.
She knew how to start a conversation, and end it without awkwardness.
She could make a speech, that would hold an entire room for an hour.
Afia, had never felt shy or nervous around new faces and personalities.
She took everyone she met in her stride.
Michael was far more refined, and hesitant.
He wasn't sure how to start conversations, and make small talk that would lead to bigger and greater dialogue.
He only had two settings.
Deep and insightful chatter, or lighthearted musings about comic books or movies.
It made him feel small, and inferior.
In all the ways he excelled, whether financially or musically?
Socially, he had lacked.
It's not that he was shy.
Not really.
Other people just remained so in awe of him, that he was forced to say something that allowed them to still view him as their God.
He didn't know how not to be Michael Jackson.
The two identities, like Afia had complained, seemed to merge into one.
Michael didn't concern himself with politics, and popular culture, and so he often struggled to keep up in those kinds of conversations.
It's not that he didn't know about current affairs, it just didn't interest him.
He could follow along when the conversation was about the war in Iraq, and he had many gripes about war, and poverty and famine, but not in the lighthearted way that casual chit chat demands.
He could either give a UN Speech, or say nothing at all.
When Michael invited Teddy Riley, and some other rappers over for dinner at the ranch, they got along like a house on fire.
But that feeling always came back.
When they asked him about his thoughts on rap music, he could do that.
He followed rap and enjoyed the music a lot.
But when they started to discuss street smarts, and affairs that were niché to the community, he fell off the track.
"So you think Pac is just gonna let it slide?" Teddy had laughed, "Man he was with me at the studio, two gats on the floor, and a Rottweiler.. always armed up" Teddy laughed, but Michael was horrified.
"Gats? Oh my God!" He gasped, as the table went quiet, "That's crazy!"
Michael didn't want to seem soft.
And to most of the men that got to know him, he wasn't.
He was just sensitive.
Caring.
Too affectionate and kind for the types of men that frequented the music industry.
He felt like it was all too corrupt.
And this made him feel so isolated.
"I wanted you to make friends with honest people. Real people. Loving people, Michael...The cascios? Fine," Afia breathed, shaking her head, "They were actually so good for you, and for us. But these others? These strays? These women?" She flinched.
Michael sighed sadly, "Because you're so good at that. You know who the bad guys are, and I don't. I'm just helpless.." Michael drawled sarcastically, sitting up and folding his arms with a frown.
Kleff was nodding away, examining the dynamic.
Afia and Michael appeared to have a low level competitive streak to their relationship.
It was evident.
Michael was the hit maker.
Afia the hit maker turned movie maker.
Michael was the introvert.
Afia, the social butterfly.
It was all starting to appear in front of Kleff, as his picture of the couple broadened out.
"Tell me about June," Kleff made them both break their icy stares at one another once more, "She seems like a point of contention in this marriage.."
Afia flicked up her eyebrows, "You could say that," She scoffed, "She wouldn't stop calling him. She called him day and night. She showed up at the house with Jordy all the time.. Michael just let her walk right in.. She probably had access to the main gate at one point.." Afia flounced, pushing more of her freshly done braids out of her face.
Michael sniffed in derision, "She never had access to the main gate. She had access to my office, that was it.."
"Why would she need to visit your office?" Afia quirked, catching Michael off guard.
His mouth fell open and he blanched.
"Because she knew you hated her coming to the house, Afia.." He snarled at her tone.
Afia laughed, and shook her head once more.
"See? She had a right of way. Right into your arms, right out of my grip.."
"Your grip?" Michael winced, "So whose the control freak now?" He teased, tipping his chin up at her.
Afia couldn't even hide her rolling eyes.
"If I'm a control freak, for not wanting a strange housewife to contact my husband at 1am, then that's on me.." She sighed.
Michael felt hopeless because it looked terrible.
It was terrible.
"What raised your suspicions about June?" Kleff asked now, glancing over at Michael who was sporting a moody glare off into the distance.
"Well, where do I start?" Afia hissed, making herself comfortable in her seat again.
***
Neverland Ranch, CA, 20th February, 1992
12:00am
"He what?" Michael gasped, trying to keep his voice down, as he spoke into the phone.
He'd cupped his hand around his mouth, hoping that he wouldn't wake Afia, who was sleeping peacefully in the bedroom next door.
Of course, he was speaking, in secret, to June Chandler.
Michael had made a habit now, of creeping out of the bedroom to answer the late night phone calls, and speak to his friend on the phone in the master bed bathroom.
He'd always assumed that Afia slept through.
He was wrong.
She would awake almost immediately, knowing that he wouldn't let the phone ring long enough to wake her up.
She'd creep soundlessly toward the glowing light coming out of the en suite door, and press her ear to listen.
She always felt so wrong for invading his privacy.
But recently, it became less of a moral problem to her as she'd watched June and Michael become inseparable.
David, June's husband, had already called Afia secretly, asking her to tell him the truth about the relationship.
If Afia wasn't alert before, David's phone call had made her like a guard dog, ears perked up and alert.
She spent her nights, creeping around the house, looking for anything that could incriminate him in this affair.
She believed, without reasonable doubt, that Michael was fucking that woman.
Afia would search the movie theatre, the pool, and the guesthouse for clothing articles like underwear and bras that didn't belong to her.
So far, she hadn't found any.
She'd even been reduced to searching through the trash cans of her and Michaels many bedrooms, like a fucking raccoon, looking for used condoms and wrappers.
Anything.
Anything that would call time on it.
Now as Afia listened, her heart sank to her stomach.
He spoke to her so softly.
So calmly.
So sweetly.
He sounded almost as flirtatious as he did when Afia began dating him.
She hated it.
June fawned over Michael like a hopeless love sick teen, and she couldn't bare to stay in the room if they were together.
"Girl, no way.." Michael giggled, "I think you should talk to him about it.. he sounds dangerous.." He whispered still, hunched over the sink, as Afia peered through the tiny crack.
She squinted, because the light in their master bedroom toilet was so harsh.
Michael had wanted it that way.
He loved the lights to be hot and bright just like the stage.
His natural habitat.
He even installed spotlights above their bed when they first married, which Afia at the time thought was romantic and sensual.
As time went on though, and the harsh lights showed every stretch mark and bruise on her body, she regretted allowing him to ever have them installed.
"June, I can't come and see you. It's so late. You're gonna get me in so much trouble with Affie," He whined, and Afia felt her breath hitch, "I know.. I will visit soon. Say hey to Jordy for me.." Michael sighed, as he nodded listening intently to whatever bullshit she was drooling into his ear.
Visit soon?
Why would she even request him to visit so late?
Other than to fuck behind her back like HAMSTERS.
Afia felt fire flood her bloodstream.
The heat quickly spread into her hands and her face.
"Bye. Try and sleep. Bye.." He mumbled, clicking the phone back onto the wall and sighing.
Afia frowned and swung the door open, startling Michael.
He jumped, his stripy pyjama top swaying open to reveal his bare chest.
His curls were down, loose, and sitting around his face.
He looked tired, but bright eyed.
He never slept all the way through the night.
Never.
Michaels toes gripped the cold tiles as Afia's appearance at the door startled him.
"Afia, you're up?" He gasped, his face blushing bright red.
"You're fucking talking to her again," Afia hissed, stepping into the bathroom, her silk robe clinging to her clammy skin, "Why are you talking to her this late?" She demanded, a hand on her curvaceous hip.
Michael pressed his lips together and sighed through his nose.
"She's having trouble, with Evan and-"
"I don't give a fuck!" Afia was shouting whispering, her other hand hoisting into the air to emphasise her disgust, "Are you in love with that bitch?"
"Afia, what the fuck!" Michael hissed, splaying his hands palm up to show her the same anger.
"You just told her you can't come over. Are you fucking insane?" Afia hissed, stepping closer toward him, "If you fuck her, I will kill you. I will kill you, so help me GOD-"
"Don't raise your voice at me," Michael was speaking above a whisper now, his tone levelled and menacing, "Don't you come in here putting your hands in my face, it's 12am!"
"Exactly," Afia walked up to Michael, so she could press her heaving chest against his, "12am and you're on the phone to that skank! You must not know who the fuck I am.." She spat in his face, as he looked down at her through his nose.
She was wild- no buzzing, with anger.
The emotion was physical.
It was making her tremble before him.
Michael brought a huge warm hand, and enclosed it around her neck, softly bringing his thumb to stroke his wife's throat.
His signature move.
"Go to bed," He growled, "You're tired. You're emotional. Go to sleep.." He grunted, dropping his hand, and barging past her to the bedroom.
Afia was left reeling.
She let out a huge breath of air, and collapsed against the sink from the emotional stress of it all.
She wouldn't be able to continue if he had cheated.
She wouldn't be able to look at herself the same way ever again.
She knew for a fact, if he had, she wasn't going to leave.
Michael knew that too.
That's what made her feel so sick with anguish.
Afia turned on the tap, and rinsed her face with cold water.
Her hands were shaking.
She couldn't believe he was talking to another woman so late at night.
Let alone telling her that he couldn't visit.
It made her feel sick.
Afia's stomach turned, and she ended up vomiting violently into the sink.
She quickly twisted the tap harder, to hide the sound of her heaving, but Michael had already heard and rushed in.
"Afia?" He gasped, as he looked at his wife, hurling her body over their marble instalment.
He didn't think twice, and darted to her side, rubbing her back, and pulling away the lose hair that fell from her headband.
Afia couldn't stop the sick.
He'd made her feel ill.
The sneaking around.
The anxiety that she felt all the time, heart racing as she'd searched day and night for clues of his infidelity.
It was making her ill.
"Hey," He soothed, wincing at the smell of fresh bile, "Get it all out.." He sighed, moving his hand from her hair, to stroke her cheek.
"Leave!" Afia breathed through gasps of heaving, and she pushed him away from her with her hand as her head jerked back into the sink.
Her stomach emptied out again.
"You're being sick," He hissed, "I'm not leaving you whilst you're sick.." He shook his head.
How annoying that even when he was helping her, she was still trying to make him feel bad.
"Don't touch me!" She spluttered, cupping some of the water streaming from the tap in her hand, and gulping it into her mouth.
She spat it into the bowl angrily, as Michael stepped away.
Afia splayed her palms on the cool tiles of the bathroom sink top, and breathed shallow into the sink bowl.
She was done.
No more vomit.
"You make me feel sick," She whined, her voice echoing out of the bowl, "I know you're seeing her.."
Michael folded his arms and silently walked over to the cabinet by the bathroom door, opening it, and finding one of his many stomach upset medicines.
Without words, he walked back over to Afia, and unscrewed the lid to the Pepto Bismol bottle, pouring some of the liquid into the cap.
He placed it down angrily next to his wife's face, that she kept hanging in the sink.
"Drink.." He mumbled.
She grabbed the cap, standing up, and shotting it back in one.
They glared at each other as he watched her swallow, and Michael refolded his arms, as Afia was still trembling.
"Just tell me the truth," She whispered shakily, feeling tears coming, "Just tell me if you love her.." Afia broke, as a tear slipped past her lid and slid down her cheek.
Michael scowled.
"You're worried about nothing," He gritted his teeth, "I'm not fucking June.." He looked away, as the silence made everything feel dreadful.
Afia could not understand why he didn't look at her when he said that.
She didn't understand why he couldn't just end the friendship that was causing her so much emotional pain, either.
His answer wasn't good enough.
She knew that now.
Without much thought, Afia launched the unsealed Pepto Bismol bottle into the wall length mirror hanging on the wall above their sink.
It shattered instantly, and so did the bottle, sending shards of glass and medicine residue flying.
Michael jumped back.
"Enough.." He huffed, storming out of the bathroom once again, and flouncing downstairs, no doubt to sleep in the movie theatre.
Afia stared forlornly at the mess, and hiked up her nightgown to pee.
Tiredly, and wearily, she slumped to the toilet, not caring if she trailed her bare feet into the glass.
It crunched beneath her, as she felt some of the glass scrape and cut her skin, and so she flopped onto the toilet seat, yawning.
She could feel depression settling in her.
Dread.
Intuition.
Something about the relationship between June and Michael wasn't right.
As she emptied her bladder, she pondered just what she'd have to do to make Michael pay attention to her sadness.
Her cut feet stinging, she winced and looked down.
Blood red trails, all over the marble floor.
***
Silence.
The room was silent, because the memory was damning.
Afia spent that night, as she could remember, crying soundlessly into their expensive pillows.
Michael, had stayed up, depriving himself of sleep with movies.
Their relationship was so ridiculously complicated, even then.
Michael blew some air out of his mouth and looked up, trying to fight back tears.
His throat tightened, and he knew, in his heart of hearts, he'd put Afia through some unspeakable pain.
He remembered now, as Kleff remained silent, how he'd gone in the bathroom in the morning, to show the cleaner where the mess was.
He was shocked, and concerned, when he saw Afia's dried blood streaks on the tiles.
Their marriage was new territory.
Michael had never had a relationship so deep, or a love so tumultuous.
Diana was the last of that, he thought.
"I checked you over. I made sure you hadn't cut yourself. I thought you'd tried harm yourself," Michael swallowed tears, "Who would walk across broken glass? What sane woman would do that?" He breathed in exasperation.
The attack on her mental stability was a way to distract from the very real emotional distress that Afia had suffered.
If Michael had to face the fact he'd pushed her to it, he might have to face the fact that he was guilty, in some way.
"I was so depressed. I wanted to harm myself, don't doubt that!" Afia cried out, and she was trembling once more, "But I couldn't. I couldn't do that to you, I couldn't do that to Chi.." Afia's voice became quiet as she considered her daughter discovering her injured.
It hurt her deeply.
She would never attempt such a thing in her children's home.
Michael covered his face with his hand and sniffed.
Everyone in the room was quiet again.
"Michael, I think, whether or not you slept with June, the relationship you had with her alone hurt Afia deeply.." Kleff soothed, leaning forward to pull a Kleenex from the box on his coffee table.
Michael waved the tissue away, and uncovered his face.
It was red and wrought.
"I know that!" Michael hissed, finally sighing in defeat, "I hate that I let it get to that point, because I knew that it hurt you, Afia.." Michael shook his head sadly.
He hated being wrong.
But he also hated that he'd hurt his love.
"So why? Why not just tell her you couldn't carry on doing whatever you were doing!" Afia breathed.
Finally a breakthrough.
Michael was admitting that not only did he know he'd hurt his wife, but that it wouldn't stop him.
She felt relieved, but also broken.
"I don't know," Michael swallowed a salty lump of saliva, "I don't know why I did any of it. I don't know why your pain didn't stop me. I don't know.." He whispered, looking up at her with watering eyes.
She glared at him.
She loved him so much.
She loved him to a fault, actually.
"Did you touch her?" Afia asked.
The question caused goosebumps to shoot up across both her and Michaels bodies.
She'd asked him before, but the answer was never yes or no.
The subject was simply changed, or an argument escalated.
Now, as they sat there, with a mediator like Kleff, all bets were off.
Cards on the table.
Michael felt like something was sitting on his chest as he carefully considered his answer.
Kleff looked up, almost nervous to hear Michaels reply.
"Michael, did you have a relationship of a sexual nature with June?" The Dr asked, and this made Michael sigh hard.
Afia's face crumbled.
He did.
His reaction confirmed it.
She clamped a hand to her mouth to stop herself from crying.
Not so much because it hurt anymore, but because he'd lied and manipulated his way out of taking accountability for so long.
"Yes," Michael coughed out as he began to cry, "In a way, I did.." He whispered softly, looking on at his wife, who made no effort to hide her crumpled face.
Afia waved her hand, trying not to summon the waves of emotion that were getting into her tear ducts.
Her stomach turned again.
"I knew it," She spluttered, "I knew it and you lied.." She growled, finding it hard to get oxygen into her lungs.
Kleff had stood now, to pull a bottle of water from the pack under the table.
"Even though this is so painful, the truth coming out means that it can be straightened out too.." Kleff tried to ease the awful atmosphere, as he struggled a bottle free and handed it to Afia.
Michael was nibbling his lip like a child.
He was sure now he'd lost the game.
He was sure that everything he'd tried so hard to keep together had no way of fixing itself.
He'd said too much.
Afia screwed the water open and drank huge sips until the bottle crunched with emptiness.
"Afia, please say something.." Michaels voice was low and trembling, and he was holding his hands together in a huge begging fist on his lap.
He looked truly broken.
Afia shook her head, and threw her head back again to drink.
That same feeling of nausea was swirling in her tummy.
The same feeling from 1992, and 93, and 94, and 95 and all the other years he'd made her question his faithfulness.
"You lied," She repeated, shaking now, "Liar.." She hissed at him, narrowing her eyes beadily at the man before her.
Michael looked away in shame.
Something died in that room.
Whether it was the secret, or the love.
They didn't know.
But something died between them right then and there.