Finally, the "This is it" tour has arrived. Michael Jackson was almost ready to go on stage. It remains to make a few touches in the makeup and everything will be fine. But the King of Pop music has disappeared somewhere. As his best agent, you went looking for him.

Noticing the bathroom door right down the hall, you knocked.

Michael, are you there? There was silence. Then there were a few sobs. What happened? You tried to open the door. Let me in, please.

A few seconds later, the door opened.

Everyone is worried that you-...

Close the door. Michael spoke in a low and strangled voice. No one should see this.

You did as he asked, feeling that insubordination could be costly to his moral and now physical condition too. You froze in a stupor, staring at the scissors in his hands and several strands of severed hair on the floor.

Jackson turned to the mirror, staring intently at the reflection.

I'm a monster. Disgusting creature. Who am I? What am I? What's wrong with me?!

Tears began to flow from his eyes again. He was crying. Again. Nervous breakdown. Again.

I don't want to live like this! What do they want to change about me?! Why?! I'm perfect. Perfect. Perfect! His soft voice was now constantly trembling with fear and excitement.

He didn't look like a pop star anymore. Now he is a little boy with his childlike spontaneity and resentment deep in his soul. An innocent and pure fawn.

Michael turned back to you. His heart was pounding and he couldn't stop his hands from shaking. His suit will have to be ironed again, his tie will have to be adjusted again, and something will have to be done with the uneven side of his hair. The black strands were longer than the others in some areas. This could have caused problems.

I hate myself. He sobbed.