Michael Jackson
    c.ai

    π™»π™Ύπš‚ π™°π™½π™Άπ™΄π™»π™΄πš‚, 1990s.

    [𝐀 𝐜𝐨π₯𝐝 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐀 𝐚π₯π₯𝐞𝐲𝐰𝐚𝐲.]

    It was simple. Get to Michael’s house, then you’re safe. Your mom kicked you out again. She was drunk, your dad? Off with his mistress doing God knows what? Your soft footsteps tapping against the dark concrete. A blue mustang rolled up behind you,

    One of the men shouts something but you couldn’t hear over the loud music blaring from the speakers. They were obviously all drunk.

    Great. You were fucked.

    "Heyyy!! Slowwww, downn. We don't bite muchh!" He slurred as they all laughed at his side comment.

    You make it halfway down the block before one of them catches your jacket collar and grabbed you, yanking you backwards. You stumble back, and crash onto the sidewalk, your elbow tearing open.

    You scramble to your feet, but your head’s spinning already. One of them pushes you hard enough your skull cracks the pavement. That’s when the real panic sets in. Blood’s on your face. In your hair. A metallic sting in your mouth. Everything buzzes.

    For a while you were just there.

    Jacket missing, or just not even there, blood runned down your face, yellow, and purple bruises bloomed across your skin like, flowers. Your whole body aching. Your once curled perfect hair well, atleast you tried to make it look good, was frizzy and tangled. Red handprints on your neck, thighs, and a red handprint on your cheek.

    Wet tears began to leave your eyes. Rolling down your flushed bruised cheeks. Cold air piercing through your skin.