With his jacket hugging his body, Michael Jackson sauntered slowly down the sidewalk lonesome with his head hung low, looking as if a part of him was killed and was left to die alone. The way there was quiet, something that he found himself tense up to. Drug dealers sometimes roamed the streets, selling drugs to underage children and asking them to urinate into a cup they found in a dumpster. The sour scent of urine hung in the air and made him want to gag and return home to where he was greeted with the more pleasant scent of the cardboard resting in the living room.

Thugs wandered the streets, stopping kids from time to time from their destination to either steal their valuables or ask for a "square" which was the codeword for marijuana. Debris was littered everywhere and overlaid the paved walkways so much that it was as if the sidewalk never existed. There were even broken bottle tops that were used in gang fights in the alleys along with emerald green shards covered with a deep crimson substance. Most of the day, you can hear the sirens of police cars and fire trucks check what the trouble was, whether it was a marijuana growth gone wrong or the usual robbery that happened at the local store.

Now, the streets were empty, a barren wasteland, an arctic desert unaccompanied by those who usually came out in the day. Those who had sense to stay out of the streets were safe in their beds either watching the television or sleeping the night away.

Michael's shadow played off the wall as he strolled down the empty sidewalk, casually stepping over bits of debris and in the distance, he noticed a group of men and from where he stood, he counted six of them. Four were tall and muscular while two were on the heavyset side, in possession of bags outlining stolen goods from the corner store they had just robbed. They noticed Michael eyeing them and began to speak in low murmurs amongst their selves as they quickened their pace towards him.

He was afraid to what they might do to him and knew that if he were to get in their clutches, there would be no witnesses to save him. He made the attempt to flee but once he did, he came face to face with one of the men and a blade to his throat. The white light of the moon reflected off the silver metal and stung his eyes from how bright it shone.

"Gimme your money." He ordered in a gruff, husky voice. His voice was like the flaming iron gates of Hell creaking opening to unleash the demons it had kept secluded inside the fiery pit. The man's dark chocolate skin was covered in tattoos and the one that caught Michael's eye was the scowling black dragon on his forehead breathing fire onto his piercing black eyes.

"I ain't got no money." Michael snapped and turned to continue onward but was stopped once he saw man blocking his path. He turned and turned but the more he turned, the more they seemed to multiple. There was no way he would be able to escape, no way that he could fight six people all by himself. He knew that he was going to die. This wasn't the fate he wanted. He wanted to die old, safe in his warm, comforting bed but no, he was going to die on the cold street of Brooklyn for something he didn't have, something he could never get.

One of the men brutally shoved Michael into the alley wall with a loud thud and he felt the back of his head collide with the cold brick surface and he stifled a grunt. The men came at him like relentless predators stalking it's prey as they lunged towards him with large prodding hands that felt like ice against his skin. They were so close against him, he could taste the heavy intoxicating scent of vodka and nicotine hanging on their hot breaths. They beat him senseless as if he were nothing but an object that had to be broken in. He didn't scream that entire time because he knew well that if he did, it was sign of weakness and it would give them more pleasure and more reason to beat him into a pulp. Besides, it wasn't like anybody would come and save him. His mind was blank as he fell into darkness....

Blood trickled down pale skin all the way down to the torn clothing splattered with a dark crimson substance. He was pushed up against the wall, laying limp in a puddle of his blood that stained the cold cement. He could feel his life rushing out of his side where a pocket knife had been sliced into. His stomach was aching with afflicting hunger and he was exhaustedly weak due to the lack of hydration and blood leaving his system. His eyes felt like something were weighing on them as they fluttered open to examine his blurry surroundings that were only dark shapes but he was able to tell that none were human. He was cold but he didn't dare to shudder. It would only bring more pain unto him. The men had left him for dead and had stolen his jacket and his wallet. Little did they know that both items were worth nothing but a poor trade.

He opened his mouth to call for help but only a weak moan escaped his bruised quivering lips and he could barely hear his own cry for help. He felt as if someone were clasping their hands over his ears to block out the sound. He struggled desperately to lift himself off the ground but the pain in his body was too great and he could only managed to sit and whimper like a wounded pup. He could taste his blood on his tongue as it overwhelmed his nose and the bitter taste made him want to gag but he held it in in fear that blood would come out.

It was a miracle that he even survived and it would be another miracle if someone saw him but by the time that would happen, he would already be entering the golden gates of Heaven and have no hope of continuing to live his life. But it wasn't his fault for not knowing any better to be out on the streets at night. His father was never there for him and left him to the care of his mother who was constantly working. A workaholic was not even the word that Michael would describe her as. She was much more active than that. He never saw her at home. He was always greeted with the painful, utterable silence and the sound of him throwing his backpack on the floor. If it weren't for the pictures in the living room, he would have forgotten how she looked like at this point. Even if she were at home, all she would do was yell at Michael to the point he was crying and secluding himself in the comfort of his bedroom.

I deserve this... Michael often thought during those times. I deserve all of this, to die alone here...

All he ever did was be bad with the gang he associated with, the "Rebels", they were notoriously called. They robbed, they stole, they drank, they smoked, and they beat people until they were begging to die. Michael was the most rebellious next to the main leader, his best friend since second grade, Mini Max, a true leader who was always there for his members. Especially, Michael. He had been saving his leather butt ever since he rescued him from a few boys that bullied him in the fourth grade.

The men who attacked Michael previously were his bullies but this time, Mini Max wasn't there to save him like the hero who saved all, the one Michael had created in his imaginative mind. He looked up to him. He was strong, determined, dependable, and Michael's favorite characteristic, funny. He was proud to be in his gang and to be his friend. He wanted to see him but now, that didn't matter to him anymore. He wanted to see anyone's face right now, someone who would help him. He didn't want to die this early. He hadn't even made it to his junior year.

"Please..." he managed to moan. He heard light footsteps approaching his way and his head slovenly turned to the source of the noise. The footsteps suddenly stopped and at the end of the alley, he saw a silhouette darting towards him, her neck scarf flowing in the arctic wind.

She kneeled down beside him with her frantic eyes analyzing his body for any critical injuries.

"Hey. Your going to be alright, okay?" Her muffled voice sounded as if she were thousands of miles away and yet, she was so close to his face, he could smell the faint aroma of her vanilla perfume. "My apartment is nearby so I'm going to need you to wrap your arm around me, okay?" He nodded wearily and leisurely rose his limp arm off the ground and laid his hand on her shoulder. His pace moved like an exhausted sloth and the girl instantly helped him up to his feet and mounted him onto her back and she carried him out of the alley. His face was buried in a bundle of her ebony tendrils that held a sweet, strawberry scent that made his brain sizzle. He shut his eyes and fell into the depths of his unconsciousness.

Michael's eyes slammed open as he jolted out of his slumber and his widened eyes scanned his surroundings. He heard a small giggle from the girl carrying him to the doorway.

"Don't worry. We're here." She assured him softly as her hands slowly pulled away from under his legs and his feet planted safely onto the porch.

"I'm glad that your awake," she said with her hand fishing into the pocket of her jeans and he heard the jingle of her keys clinking together, "I thought you died on my back." She giggled softly, slightly startling Michael.

How is that funny? He mused to himself as he wondered obliviously about the punchline. He reluctantly followed his savior inside and she flicked on the lights of the room. The first thing he noticed were the many black and white portraits of famous African American celebrities hanging high on the cream colored walls.

Michael looked over at the girl who was now as clear as day and he recognized her as one of the girls who attended his school. At least, that's what he thought. He hadn't been to school in weeks. He never noticed her before until now.

She had a heart shaped face with long curling rivers of inky black hair that gently framed her smiling caramel face. Gazing into her emerald eyes were like staring into incessant verdant spring fields. She was perfect, an absolute work of art. She wore a red, black, and white warm up jacket embroidered "Duxston Dancers" in white and a white top rested under. The image of a black and red dog covered the rest of her back. Her black jeans gently clung to her slender legs and showed off her many delicate curves.

He bit his bottom lip as his prying dark chocolate eyes took another look at her curvaceous body before hastily turning away from her to prevent himself from doing anything he would regret.

"Stevie Wonder?" Michael questioned as he limped his way towards the colorless image hanging above a lamp.

"Yep. My mom is practically in love with the guy." She said from the kitchen and he could hear her rummaging through the drawers, "She dies over that man but I don't blame her. He's pretty amazing being blind and still able to play so many instruments. Now, people don't have an excuse to say why they can't do anything since they know that Stevie did it." Her words meant something to Michael but he didn't quite get it but he knew they were important to him in some shape or form.

"Oh. Can you come over here for a minute? I have to wrap your wound and I don't want to get blood on the..." Her voice trailed off into nothingness as her forest green eyes stared down at the blood dripping onto the floor. She heaved a shaky sigh.

"Too late..." she muttered under her breath. Michael realized that he was the blame for ruining the white carpet floor and apologized but she carelessly brushed it off as if it weren't a big deal.

"It's fine. It's just blood. The real problem is where it's coming from." Her hips swayed with grace as she strode her way towards Michael. The touch of her fingers against the skin of his taut stomach sent all sorts of chills throughout his heavy body and he fought off the urge to shudder with the slice of ecstasy he felt. He winced slightly once he felt the rough material of the gauze press against the gash in his side but the feel of her nimble fingers working around him eased his pain.

"There. All better." She stared at his blood as it stained the gauze. "Almost." She giggled, "Well, I'm going to go next door to borrow some alcohol and until I get back, I need you to rest, alright?" He nodded at her instructions and she flashed him an endearing smile that struck him with awe and started towards the door. He gaped at her as she made her way out the door and he sighed once the door shut behind her.

No girl he had ever encountered made him feel or act this way before. He knew there had to be something special about her, something that he wanted, needed. He had to find out that "something". Whatever it was, it made him feel good.