where sunflowers bloom, his light lives on
michael jackson aesthetic blog, sharing edits, gifs and stories.
Read Hold My Hand my Michael Jackson's fanfiction.
a little reminder since yall wanna watch that fuckass netflix documentary anyway
edit: oh and another thing, try and come into my ask box on anon to debate this, I will block you effectively and immediately bc I don’t listen to bullshit and won’t argue with stupid people either. - adding this to the original post since some of you wanna act a fool. 🪽
In 2026, I still can’t accept that, despite the numerous pieces of evidence, the judge’s ruling in 2005, and the testimonies of credible people, there are still individuals who give weight to those accusations.
I’ve read comments from people who believe Robson and Safechuck even though almost all of their claims have been discredited by REAL evidence and facts.
This isn’t about being a fan of Michael or not — it’s about having a functioning brain and the decency to educate yourself when all the information is literally just one click away.
With Michael, we’re used to hearing rhythmic, epic songs—songs about love, saving the world, peace...
But what if I told you there's also a dark side to Michael’s music?
In particular, I want to talk about a song from the Blood on the Dance Floor album, released in 1997. A song that isn’t about love.
It isn’t about peace. It’s about addiction. About fear.
About a body that can no longer bear the weight of the myth, and a society that was slowly killing him.
“Demerol... Demerol...”
You hear him scream it, over and over. Demerol is the brand name of a powerful opioid— The same one he was using. One of the drugs he became addicted to back in 1993, after the Chandler scandal.
But Morphine isn’t just a confession. It’s a scream. An attack on the medical system. On sensationalism. On the people who only wanted him to “perform” and never be vulnerable.
In the middle of the track—hysterical screams. Disturbing sounds.
It feels like a hallucinatory trip into the pain of a superstar everyone admired... but very few truly understood.
A Michael we’ve never seen before— Angry. Addicted. Fragile. Human.
“Trust in me... just in me...” he whispers, pleading.
And you don’t know if he’s talking to himself or to the drug.
Morphine is the darkest song he ever wrote. And also one of the most honest.
Summary: The year is 2022. Aurora Renaldi, a young Italian woman, is chosen—along with nine other candidates—to take part in a groundbreaking experiment: time travel.
Thrust into a world that isn’t her own, Aurora embarks on a journey through time with one purpose—to save a man’s life.
Tropes: Angst, Time Travel, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Aggression (in the future), Attempted rape/Non-Con, Drama & Romance, Dangerous Era, Falling in Love, Slow Burn, Sex, Rough Sex (in future chapters)
You can read the prologue and the first chapter to have a more complete idea of how Aurora has been selected for the experiment.
Here I'll begin right when she meet Michael. Let me know if you'd want more.
Enjoy the reading.
Available on A03.
A blinding flash overwhelmed me, and for a moment, I couldn’t feel my body. My hands touched something soft—it felt like grass. After a few seconds, I tried to open my eyes. The sunlight pressed against my eyelids, and I blinked repeatedly to adjust and see where I had landed. I hoped with all my being that I had done everything right. I had been thinking about the correct time period, but then... I was distracted. I only remembered... Michael.
I looked around. I seemed to be in a park. There was a lake nearby, and I noticed bronze statues. They depicted... children? Realization struck. I knew those statues. Just as I realized where I was, a voice startled me.
"HEY YOU!"
A Black man in a suit, wearing sunglasses, was approaching me. Instinct told me to run. I started to sprint, chased by the man. I didn’t really know where I was going—maybe my subconscious knew who or what I was supposed to find. I turned my head. The man in the suit was too fast and almost caught me—when my body collided with someone else.
"Hey, who are you?"
I looked into his eyes. Two dark wells, locked on mine, studying me. I couldn’t respond—too hypnotized by that gaze, or maybe still shaken from the "landing."
"I..."
Michael.
Two strong arms grabbed me. I nearly fell, but the man caught me and restrained me. He probably thought I was going to attack Michael.
"Unlawful entry, miss. I’ll escort you out. My apologies, Mr. Jackson."
"NO! Wait... I... Michael..."
I couldn’t speak. I felt faint. That’s why I was here.
"What happened, Jim? How did she get in? You were on guard, right?"
"Sir, I... she appeared out of nowhere. I was patrolling the north side of the property when I saw her. I’m sorry, sir."
"She had to come in from somewhere. I’ll speak with Bill. Escort her out—gently, please."
"Yes, sir."
I said nothing while they spoke. I was still staring at Michael. I needed to talk to him. But I was too weak—I needed a moment. The jump, the run... and now, seeing him.
I tried to speak just as I was being pulled away and saw Michael fading from view.
"NO! I... MICHAEL, PLEASE LISTEN TO ME!"
I struggled against the guard.
"Come on, don’t fight it."
"MICHAEL! I NEED TO TALK TO YOU! Let go—you’re hurting me—wait!"
The more I shouted, the tighter he held me, the more my strength faded. Michael kept walking away, and I knew this might be my only chance—everything I had done to get here would be for nothing otherwise. I summoned every last bit of strength I had and broke free from Jim’s grip, running toward Michael as fast as I could.
"MICHAEL, WAIT!"
I reached him. He looked frightened, raising his hands as if I might attack him—but I didn’t. I stopped in front of him, breathless, pressing a hand to my chest to calm my racing heart.
"No, wait. Please. It’s important... I’m here to help you."
"I really can’t—JIM!" His worried gaze searched for the bodyguard.
Jim caught up and tried to lift me off the ground, but I resisted, grabbed Michael’s hands, and stepped back. He looked truly scared now. I looked into his eyes and tried to find the words to show I wasn’t crazy—I was here for him.
"I’m here to help you. Please, listen to me..."
"I’m sorry, I..."
He was trying to back away. I saw the worry on his face, but something shifted. Alongside his fear, I saw curiosity. He stopped resisting my grip.
"Jim. Wait, let her speak."
I couldn’t believe it. I stared, stunned, not realizing that the large bodyguard had released me. I stood still for a few seconds, looking into Michael’s eyes—our hands still joined.
"Go ahead, I’m listening."
His voice pulled me back to reality. I blinked, trying to organize the chaos of thoughts swirling in my head. I needed to find a simple way to explain how I got there—and why. The "why" was more complicated, and... harder to accept. But I couldn’t reveal everything at once, right?
Think, Aurora, think.
"Sorry, uh... I just need a moment to recover from... all of this."
I sighed, trying to calm my pounding heart. Still rattled from the chase.
"So, um... my name is Aurora. I’m Italian. And I got here... thanks to a time machine."
Did I say it? I did. I never thought I’d utter a sentence like that in my life, and yet...
"Alright, Sir. I think that’s enough. May I remove her?"
"Jim, please. I’m telling the truth."
I cut in before Michael could speak. I was regaining strength, and I wasn’t going to leave without at least trying.
"Michael, listen carefully. You might not believe me—I could hardly believe it myself—but here I am. I’m from 2022. And I’m here... to save your life."
"Okay, miss. Now you’ve gone too far. Come with me, please..."
Neither of us paid Jim any attention. Michael and I looked into each other’s eyes. I tried to speak through my gaze, to transmit everything I needed to say. He, on the other hand, looked overwhelmed with emotion, yet said nothing.
"Sir..."
Michael snapped out of it and turned to Jim, speechless.
"Um..."
He was clearly confused and uncertain. Then he looked back at me.
"You can go, Jim. I’ll handle the young lady."
What?
"Are you sure, Sir?"
"Yes, Jim. Go. If anything happens, I’ll call you. Alright?"
"Alright, Sir."
Jim gave me one last look, then turned and walked back to his post. I watched him leave, then turned my attention back to Michael.
"Um... thank you. I mean, sorry—I didn’t mean to be so aggressive. But I am telling the truth."
I tried to sound calm and apologetic. The last thing I wanted was to make things worse in his eyes. I wouldn’t exactly welcome strangers breaking into my home either.
"Don’t worry. Now, take a deep breath and tell me everything. Come... I’ll make you a cup of tea."
I was speechless—and weirdly guilty, though I didn’t know why. His calm demeanor, his kindness surprised me. He showed no sign of wanting to throw me out. Was just telling him I was here to save his life really enough?
What are you thinking, Michael?
I followed the homeowner to the entrance door, fully aware that I was about to face a long conversation. I needed to choose my words carefully—because from that moment on, both of our lives would change forever.
It’s unbelievable that there are still people today who think Michael is guilty. Weren’t 13 years of persecution enough? Jordan Chandler’s confession, his declared innocence after the trial twenty years ago, the inconsistencies in the testimonies of his accusers, the lies surrounding the statements made by Robson and Safechuck… it should all be more than enough. It doesn’t take much to do a bit of research — today everything is available online and easily accessible. Just look it up. I won’t accept this anymore. Not today.
I looked around, trying to understand where I was.
It seemed like the entrance of a mansion owned by a wealthy businessman. On my left, a beautiful white marble staircase with a black-painted iron railing. My first instinct was to go up—and so I did.
I climbed slowly, step by step, heart pounding so loudly that I could hear each beat echoing through the silence. I didn’t dare say a word—not even to check if someone was there.
At the top of the stairs, I felt something soft under my feet.
I looked down: I was barefoot, walking on a Persian rug that covered the entire corridor. Suddenly, I heard a noise.
It sounded like a heart monitor from a hospital. Curious but terrified, I crept toward the illuminated room.
Standing at the doorway, I froze.
A man lay motionless in the bed. I couldn't see his face clearly, but I saw oxygen tanks by the bed and a Black man fiddling with a needle and a vial beside him. For a second, I didn’t understand—but then realization struck:
I knew that man.
Conrad Murray.
What the hell…
Before I could react, I felt a hand grabbing my wrist. I turned sharply.
Two deep, dark eyes stared at me, solemnly.
Michael.
I stared at him in disbelief, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned his gaze to the scene before us. I couldn’t help but observe him: his serious face, his empty, lifeless eyes, his body… too thin, his skin marked by vitiligo and lupus.
I looked down at his hand gripping my wrist—it was ice cold.
It hit me:
This was a dream.
A nightmare.
I felt my cheeks wet. I wiped away the tears streaming down my face. I was witnessing his death.
I turned back toward Murray.
He was now frantically stuffing vials into a bag. Michael’s body lay lifeless in the bed; the monitor emitted the long beep of death.
I looked at Michael beside me; panic rose in my chest. I had to save him. Bastard, I thought, watching Murray hide the evidence.
I screamed—but no sound came out.
No.
« MICHAEL! »
Nobody could hear me. I was screaming voicelessly, utterly powerless.
« Please, NO! »
Michael’s grip on my wrist remained firm.
I struggled to break free—to reach the dying figure on the bed.
« NO, PLEASE, LET ME GO! »
"Save me."
I froze.
In one swift motion, I turned to him.
He was looking at me, his eyes brimming with tears never shed, pleading silently.
And then—in a blink—he vanished.
I woke up gasping, drenched in sweat and trembling.
It had been 13 years since I last had that dream.
But this time, something felt different.
I got up, splashed water on my face, and took deep breaths to calm my pounding heart. I looked at myself in the mirror.
Once I managed to calm down, I returned to bed, knowing that sleep would not come easily.
That dream would haunt me for days to come.
Extract from the story "Hold My Hand - a Michael Jackson story" written by me and published on Wattpad in Italia, but I'm currently translating to english and you can read the prologue here.
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