i automatically assume the reader has a silk press or box braids when y'all are describing hair in these stories. LMFAOOOOOO, you will NOT rain on my parade. i'll picture michael x reader being about a black girl every single time
Synopsis: As michaels wife you can't escape the reporters and paparazzi trying to bombard you after Michael has passed.
Warnings: Mentions of Michael's death, mentions of depression, anxiety, and insomnia. Please please please take care of yourself, this is a very hard topic.
W.C. 2.2k
Masterlist
Nothing could have prepared you for that morning. Nothing. Before you had fallen asleep, everything had been fine. He was by your side, laying in your shared king sized mattress. He was breathing, he was smiling, he was talking, he had kissed you.
You had gone to check on the children when the doctor came in that morning, Michael was still asleep. You saw his chest rising and falling. You had kissed his head and thought nothing of the anxious feeling growing in your chest.
You were in the nursery, gently rocking your 6 month old baby girl, when you heard the doctor's voice shouting nervously from your bedroom.
After that, things were a blur. Your brain had shut out most of the memory, but you knew you had seen him despite the doctors best efforts to keep you from the room. You remembered the paramedics arriving far later than they should have, you remembered the sounds of the hospital, the voice of the doctor as he tried to tell you that your husband was gone.
You think you cried, you honestly weren't sure. You just remembered the feeling of emptiness settling into your chest, the feeling of your heart growing cold.
You refused to go back to the house for weeks, opting to stay with Janet. Those weeks were the darkest weeks of your life, you had lost your husband, the one person who understood you, the person who you had given your life to. And just like that, he was gone. It wasn't fair, nothing about this was fair. Not the fact that he was gone so suddenly, not the fact that you hadn't gone with him, not the fact that you had the children to look after.
You had really done your best to be there for the children, for the baby, Paris, and Prince. You tried to put up a strong front around them, to show them support, but there was only so much you could do.
There were days where you couldn't find the strength to leave the guest bedroom you were staying in. And there were a lot of days where you had wished that you hadn't woken up. But no matter how badly you wanted to be with Michael, you knew you couldn't.
You and Janet stuck together for a long time, leaning on each other for support. But there came a day when you knew you would have to go back to the Ranch, go back into the room to get your things. You had bought a small apartment, far away from all the things that reminded you of Michael. You couldn't live in the house, it would have driven you insane.
Janet kept the kids for the day, as you headed back to Neverland. You pulled off to the side of the road multiple times, trying to regulate your breathing. Since he had left it was like panic had embedded itself in your chest, you were always short of breath, you were always on guard, and you were always on the verge of a breakdown. It didn't help that you were receiving letter after letter from news outlets begging to get a statement from you. The entire family had given statements, but you were silent. Even at the funeral, you hadn't said anything. It took a lot of convincing to even get you to go, but you did, for the children. But you didn't say anything, instead you stood near the back, holding the children tightly, tears falling into a puddle at your feet.
The press took your silence and ran with it, saying that you had never cared for Michael, saying that you were in it for the money. The paparazzi had been stalking you more than ever, and you knew they would be at the gates of Neverland, waiting for your black Cadillac to drive by.
And that they were. There were so many of them, that they completely surrounded the car, trapping you just outside of the house. Their cameras flashed in a frenzy, blinding you from inside the car. Your throat closed up as you did your best to block out their antagonizing questions.
"Are you here to get the rest of his money?"
"Were you conspiring with the doctor?"
"How much money did he leave you?"
"Will you finally drop the act?"
"Are you happy your husband is dead?"
You covered your ears, sobbing into the steering wheel as security tried to get a hold of the crowd.
But the damage was done. The little amount of your heart left shattered into a million pieces. Everything around you blurred as you gasped for air, choking on your own tears and cries. Your sobs turned to screams as you curled in on yourself in the car, clutching your head in your hands.
It was Michael's two heads of security that shook you from your spiral. You jolted at their touch, body shaking as they looked at you with horrified expressions. You had been unreachable for 10 minutes, despite the fact that the reporters were gone and the two men were trying to talk to you.
You looked pale and frail, and they tried to make you go to the hospital, but you refused, saying that if you didn't go into the house now, you never would. They made you get into the back seat as they drove the car the rest of the way, sharing nervous glances with each other.
They stayed by your side while you walked through the house, getting the things you had come for. It wasn't as bad as you thought until you were standing in front of your and Michael's bedroom door. You quietly asked for a moment alone, to which the two bodyguards begrudgingly agreed to.
You stayed in the bedroom for a long time, hand running against the sheets, or the clothes in his closet. You slowly got your clothes, before carefully taking a few of his, the things that smelled most like him. You knew that his scent would fade away soon, but you didn't care. You needed something of his to hold onto. His familiar scent made your head spin, because you could smell him, but you knew he wasn't there.
When you got back to Janet's, you locked yourself away in the bedroom with his sleep shirt.
The next day, the front pages of the tabloids were plastered with your devastating face. The titles called you crazy, out of your mind, insane, a loose screw, anything they could think of they called you it. Janet was furious, but you couldn't find the strength to care.
All your strength had left you the day your husband died.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
It had been almost 17 years now, and you were better, but you still weren't healed fully. Things had been up and down, some years were good, and then some years were particularly bad. Especially while raising the baby, those were the hardest years. You were on your own, you were inexperienced, you were lonely, you were depressed, and you were paranoid beyond all belief. The press had still been bombarding you, still trying to get some sort of formal statement. But you were a sealed door, they weren't getting anything from you. These were the same people who mocked your husband, the same people who lied and tried to ruin him, and now they wanted to play the sympathy card. They could all go to hell.
There were days you begged God to bring Michael back, and there were days where you cursed at him for taking Michael away from you. When your daughter got older, she started asking questions about her daddy. Paris and Prince would always go quiet when she asked, and they would look at you. You always did your best to answer her questions without crying, you wanted her to know everything she wanted about her daddy. But it was hard, it was hard when she asked you why he was gone, if he was coming back, and it was hard when all three of them talked about how badly they missed him. You never tried to sugar coat things, you told them it was hard for you too, but that Michael believed all of you were strong, and that he was watching over you all.
Things got better as the press stopped hounding you, of course there was always a letter or two every month, but nothing like how it was before. That was until your husband's biopic had come out. You were proud of everyone involved, especially Jaafar. The premier was the first time you had been seen publicly at an event since Michael's funeral. You didn't dress up all crazy like other people, but you did wear his favorite dress. You thought the movie would be hard to watch, but it made you smile. For the first time in a long time, you felt your husband's presence. It was almost like he was sitting beside you, holding your hand. After the screening you found Jaafar and gave him the biggest hug you could muster, not caring that cameras were flashing behind you. You pulled back and smiled at him softly, "Michael would be so proud of you."
The moment was brief, but there was a lot said in how you looked at each other.
After the movie, it was like the floodgates opened. All those news outlets who had given up on a statement from you were suddenly pounding at your door, staking out your driveway, emailing you, emailing you, sending you letters. You hadn't felt this anxious in a long time, and you were nervous things would get bad again. You relied heavily on a prescribed medication to keep you from spiraling, but since things had been okay the doctor took you off of them. You had been okay for years, and now everything was starting to crash back in.
As much as the thought angered you, you knew how to get them to stop.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
After a lot of thinking, you had agreed to a singular interview, and only if they sent you a list of questions and stuck to the ones that you okayed.
And so there you sat, fidgeting nervously in a plush chair under studio lights. Janet was off to the side, there for emotional support.
The interviewer was a younger woman, she seemed nice, she seemed new, so you figured she would be professional, that she would stick to the questions on the page. And for the most part she did. She was polite, she asked about how you and Michael met, what it was like being married to him. And then one of the producers from offstage cleared his throat and looked at the poor girl sternly. She looked at you nervously, giving you an apologetic look.
Your chest dropped, you knew what was coming. You wanted to leave, you wanted so badly to take off out the door, but your body felt frozen in its place.
"There's a lot of speculation about that day, Mrs. Jackson. People want to know the truth. Did you have something to do with your husband's death? Did you marry him to get his money, was the love a whole scheme to become rich?"
Your mouth felt like a desert, you could feel your heart beating painfully in your chest. "No-" you breathed out, eyes stinging with tears.
"Is it true that you went crazy after he died? Were you sent to a mental hospital for help?"
The question struck something in you, and the fear was overrun with anger. "Let me ask you something. If the only person on this planet that truly understood you died while you were in the next room feeding your 6 month old baby would you be okay? A part of my soul died with him that day, do you understand what that's like? Do you understand what it's like to have to stay strong for your children when the person you loved more than life itself was taken from you? And do you know what it's like to be stalked, scrutinized, and bombarded by the same people who tried to tear down that person? No. You don't. My husband was my entire world, and when he was taken from me I was accused of being a part of it, I was followed. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat, I could barely breath most of the time because my world was taken from me. So do not sit there and act like you know anything about what I went through, or assume that I went crazy. Because if that happened to you, you would have gone "crazy" too." You stood up. "I think we're done here,"
"Mrs. Jackson." She called out.
"No more questions, thank you." You walked straight to Janet, taking her hand and walking out of the studio.
As you got in the car, Janet couldn't help but smile, "That was quite the official statement from you. I don't think I've heard you speak that much in 17 years."
"Yeah well, they can take their shitty journalism and shove it up their ass."
Janet smiled and reached over, grabbing your hand, "I've missed you."
You smiled and leaned your head on her shoulder. "I missed you too."
