Chapter Text
Death has surrounded you even as a child as young as four.
It started with your hamster who died so ridiculously you didn’t even feel an ounce of grief through the laughter. After that was an uncle you only saw in passing, then followed his wife who died of heartbreak during the funeral vigil. It was weird standing in the ocean of black clothes and red-rimmed eyes looking unfazed as the pristine white coffins were lowered to the ground.
With a family full of stubborn diabetics and damaged kidneys from the prominent drinking problems of everyone in both the direct family line and the extended, death was present ever so often you’ve gotten numb to it.
You thought yourself immune to the sadness. At least, until it was your grandmother’s turn.
“Maria Theresa Gomez is a woman who is loved in silence. She loved both her grandchildren and children in her own unusual ways. Although we have been regrettably distant these past few years due to work and life, I will always remember how warm she loved me and everyone sitting here with us.” Your mother’s shaky voice spoke through the speaker. You couldn’t drown her fake sentiments out even if you want to when the damned speaker is next to you.
She didn’t deserve to speak at your grandmother’s funeral. Nobody in this room deserved to look so devastated when they didn’t even bother to extend physical help.
All these qualified adults, board passers and big time uncles living in those huge, white modern houses in gated communities left the task of taking care of their poor mother in the province to a teenager. It was unfair how they spoke of her greatness, her warmth when all they did was throw money and call it a day.
Where were they when you had to run out of the house, screaming for help when your phone signal failed you? Where were they when you tripped and wounded your knees, crying and begging to God to not take her away just yet as the rain drowned out every sound?
How could they weep and cry here when they weren’t there when you returned just in time for her to push out her final words before getting cut off by death claiming her?
“Be happy. Remember what I taught you, child.”
You didn't get what her last words. What significance is there in tarot and oracle readings to your happiness? You'll never find out.
“My mother, despite being a religious woman, never did shed her own mother’s teachings of the occult. It was weird being raised—”
You couldn’t handle it anymore, you’ll have to just come back tomorrow to give her flowers instead. Muttering a hasty excuse, you sprinted out of the four-post tent with your head down.
She had left her home to you and everything inside it. Nobody in your family dared to contest their mother’s will, not that they need more money on their already fat pockets but it also didn't mean they wouldn't try to look for valuables to snatch away. It didn’t take you long to cross the distance to the parking lot, beelining straight for your Harley, making quick work of your helmet before zooming off into the distance. Away from the nonsense of ungrateful sons and daughters.
Away from the tears shed by the guilty.
Your grandmother’s house, despite being in the province, was an architectural standard of the rich back in the 1960s. A two-storey home with white painted stone walls, protected by high metal fences and tall plants, gated with a pathway lined up with rose bushes tended to by the two in-house gardeners.
She was neglected and alone but she swam in the cash of her children. It was how they cared, your grandmother had said with a strained smile.
Bullshit.
If they cared, they would’ve visited her last Christmas or even tried to visit her on her birthday instead of sending a lazy message through Facebook and calling it a day.
Hearing your Harley approaching, the guard runs from his shed to open the gate for you. In an alternative timeline where you weren’t pissed, you would’ve nodded at him as a greeting instead of driving past him without a single sign of acknowledgement.
You swore to do better tomorrow.
Parking your motorcycle in front of her home, you pushed past the nagging sadness to jog up to the wooden doors and throw them wide open.
Death is weird.
Everything in the living room remained the same. The vases still bloomed with the same greens and colorful flowers, leftover coffee mugs were still in the same exact place you had left it. Dust hasn’t even settled on the marble floors but there was a deafening silence occupying the space.
How come the world continues to spin when yours seems to stop?
You could almost hear the laughter ringing out of the spacious home, the sharply whispered gossiping by the kitchen counters, the echoing sound of slippers hitting against the floor—could almost see the faint trace of someone’s familiar form walking down the curved stairs as you entered.
There usually was a warm greeting and wide smiles that followed your appearance but today, there was none.
And that made your heart shrink in your chest.
You knew this day would come. There were signs—the heaving breaths, weakened limbs and a weariness in her eyes that gave you that sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach—even your grandmother knew she was going to die. What other reasons does the family lawyer have to visit the estate for every other day?
Unconsciously, you had begun grieving even when she breathed yet nonetheless made your heart drop seeing her eyes closed peacefully behind the glass of the open coffin.
It wouldn’t take long before the rest of your family would return, you need to clean the place up and put away the vintage collections your grandmother wouldn’t appreciate anyone having. There were already empty boxes left by the open kitchen, probably left by one of the staff.
Making a mental note to thank them, you take the biggest one you could find—which only reaches up to your knees—and force yourself up to her bedroom where her favorite collection of vinyls and Michael Jackson merchandise are locked behind glass cabinets that stretch from one corner to another and dust protection plastics.
Despite living with one of the arguably biggest fans of Michael Jackson in the world, you only knew the songs she would play out loud on Sundays and were familiar with the late artist at a surface level. She was insistent on making you remember the focal points of his life when you were much younger, enough to make the information stick a decade later.
You remember staring up at the overly protected pieces of paper with his autograph written in black ink and thinking how bizarre it was that a signature in a poster was more protected than her last printed picture with her dead husband.
Standing in front of said poster, you couldn’t help but chuckle.
Unfortunately, you need to hide all of her collection from your cousin who sold vintage cards and memorabilia on TikTok Live. Your grandmother’s well-cared for Michael Jackson collection would be sold to strangers on the internet who wouldn’t know how to properly take care of them—or worse, sell them twice the price acquired at, and you’d rather walk on a floor full of legos than let that happen.
With how many there were, it took you the rest of the afternoon before you got to the final shelf and three sealed boxes before you got to the final shelf. Leonora, one of the maids, had made you a plate of tuna sandwiches and orange juice at some point. She was mute so all she could give you was a nod but it was enough.
You’d rather that than someone’s insincere condolences anyways.
Uncle Manuel’s booming voice declared your relative’s arrival before the murmurs did. Quickly, you rushed out of the room and locked the door behind you before joining the circus on the first floor, mentally preparing yourself for an exhausting few hours with overzealous children and adults who’d interrogate you about your grandmother’s possessions.
“You didn’t stay till the end of the funeral,” Your mother began the moment she saw you descend the stairs, mouth set into a frown. “You know how much she loved you.”
You internally winced but externally ignored her, following the rest of the family into the living room, already dreading the sight of baby cousins fighting over something they saw from the shelves or the uncles discussing the worth of the antiques in the place.
“That vase was from our grandma, no? Straight up from the occupation?”
“You think she’d let us take her chinas? I always loved how that one looked.”
Grandmother had more vases and precious dinnerware kept hidden, they can take them as long as you get to keep her prized Michael Jackson merchandise and her chest full of cards and crystals you're sure they'll insist on throwing out so she could pass heaven's gate.
Not that you'll ever let them. Odd as they were, you loved her tarot cards.
Seeing you enter the room, uncle Manual grinned up at you. “Can I keep that blue teacup set, dear? Your aunt wanted it for a long time but mother dearest was a stubborn woman.”
You feel your mother’s stern gaze from the open kitchen, silently warning you to not cause any drama at the burial of your grandmother so you force yourself to nod, ignoring the creeping heat of anger down your spine and the bitterness on your tongue.
But that one minor action gave way to more requests. One being more audacious than the other.
It didn't stop at the precious chinas locked behind another glass cabinet. It quickly escalated to her jewelry, her branded handbags so carefully hidden away in her cabinet in their dust bags. You tried fighting them off, growing more angry with every audacious inquiry but what else can you retort against:
“You do realize your grandma bought them with your uncles’ money, right?”
“You don’t even use lady bags, rather than letting them rot hidden away, they’d have much use with us!”
“You’re so stingy. You don’t get to act like that just because grandmother left the whole house to you.”
“You’re just going to sell them for yourself! Hey Tony, did you teach your daughter to be this stingy?!”
But what hurt you most was your mother agreeing with them.
"Love, I know you're hurting but those items... Let's not be selfish, hm?"
You wanted to scream at her that it wasn't selfishness that made you protective of them. Why can't anyone understand why you're so insistent on keeping them hidden?
But with everyone ganging up on you, screaming and pointing fingers at you, there was no other choice but to agree even when everything in your body said no. With the agreement to only touch the bags and jewelry, you begrudgingly opened the doors to her bedroom, eyes casted to the floor filled with unshed tears as the hungry hyenas tore through the walk-in closet.
The day ended with your grandmother’s closet raided, stripped of the glamorous gold jewelries inside their boxes with only the unflattering rings and bracelets left, packed luxury bags missing from their chronologically arranged place at the top of the glass cabinets. You never saw this room so chaotically unmade, your grandmother was a meticulous woman who'd freak at unmade beds and unfolded clothes.
Everything was turned over and opened, dust bags strewn carelessly on the floor. Only the boxes you had stood in front of, her Michael Jackson collection being the only thing thankfully untouched in the entire place.
It was the only thing you could protect. Everything can go except these merchandise.
But while the women shifted through the hanged clothes and the hidden accessories in the drawers, the men looked at the shelves of other vinyl records you didn’t get to hide away. You prioritized hiding one collection, you forgot the others thinking no one would take them.
Your cousin did, smiling as he took another, claiming how expensive some of those would cost as first prints. You saw the digits of their value spin in his greedy eyes like slot machines and it made you sick to your stomach.
It didn’t set in how much they violated the space until an hour later, after they all had upped and left, had you pushing yourself off of the living room couch to check the aftermath upstairs.
With shaky hands, you reach for the open jewelry box, tracing the gaps where familiar rings used to sit and the dam collapses.
It wasn’t fair.
You sobbed, not caring if any of the housekeepers can hear you. You doubt anyone was around anyways, it was already 11pm. Even then, they would understand.
Your family didn’t even wait it out before they’re already claiming their so-called inheritance, even your mother browsed. Some of them never even bothered to visit your grandma unless forced by an event yet coveted more of her items than the minutes they spent talking with her.
It wasn’t fair.
Is this how family is supposed to act?
A shrill ring pierced through the pin-drop silence and you jumped, snapping your head towards the open door, eyebrows knitted as a telephone rang—a sound you hadn’t heard in so long since the world had evolved to use their smartphones for communication.
It wasn’t just the sudden noise that surprised you, the fact that a telephone still worked in today’s age had you so confused your tears stopped falling. Weren’t they discontinued years ago?
Jogging down the stairs, you find the source of the shrill ringing by the living room, at the far corner sitting on a wooden stool sandwiched between shelves of books and trinkets from various foreign countries.
Fuck, isn’t this how horror movies usually start?
Suddenly oversensitive to your surroundings, you look around while reaching for your phone in your pockets, thumbing the power button, ready to send a quick SOS message as you approach the antique red telephone.
You shouldn’t be receiving any calls from any discontinued communication devices, horror movies taught you that, slashers and thrillers told you it would end with you swimming in a pool of blood but you’re tired.
But the fuckass sound is ruining your vibe.
With a sigh and a quick prayer muttered under your lips, you picked the phone up and a shy, effeminate voice spoke up in English.
“U-uh hi? Is this uh… California Animal Rescue?”
You reel back, face twisted in confusion because you’re nowhere near California.
More so the Americas.
Who the fuck is this troll?
“Um he-hello? Anyone? This is Michael, the one who reached out to your agency—did I–did I call the wrong number? I’m so sorry—”
“California? Dude, are you trolling me? ‘Cause I really got no time for this shit—”
“Huh? Trolling? What’s that?”
Now, even you’re confused.
Even your youngest cousin knew that word, the little guy used it in the right context even, how could this person not know what trolling means?
“Listen man, I just buried my grandma and watched my relatives violate her belongings, I’m fucking tired. I don’t really appreciate any jokes right now when all I want to do is punch someone through a wall.”
“Oh! Well I’m really sorry. I really thought—”
You didn’t have any more patience to grant and slammed the phone down with a frustrated grunt.
The prank call became the straw that broke the camel’s back and all the strength in your body leaves. With a whispered promise to fix today’s mess tomorrow in the still air of the lonely home, you dragged yourself to your designated room.
Surprisingly, the moment your head hits the pillow, you blacked out.
Maria tuts, hands on her hips as she stared at the mischievous toddler standing over the batter of choco chip cookies, cheeks sticky with dough and fingers still stuck inside her mouth as she turned around, eyes wide in horror.
“Dear, what did I tell you about eating raw dough?”
“Am sorry, gramma. I got hungy.”
She didn't have the heart to scold the child, not when she looked so adorably guilty with her dirty hands behind her back.
With a sigh, she simply tugged a couple of wet wipes off its package and worked.
When everything is cleaned up and put away in the sink, with the cookies in the oven, Maria sets her granddaughter in front of her television playing one of Michael Jackson's documentaries, one he himself released, not those defamatory crap.
Never those.
“You're already a big girl, sweetheart. You can't just eat whatever is on the counter, what if you're stuck somewhere? You'll just eat whatever is available to you?”
The child shook her head. “Am a smart cookie, gramma. I'll go and act cute to get food.”
Maria laughed, completely endeared as she wiped the last trace of dough on her cheek.
“Well, can grandma's smart cookie still wanna learn to play a guitar?”
She nods enthusiastically, pointing at the television as Dirty Diana plays.
“Teach me that one, gramma!”
You thought there wouldn't be anymore disruption since yesterday's odd conversation but when the damn thing began ringing again at 4AM, you were more than pissed to be woken up from your sleep. Greedy relatives, dead grandmother, and now an annoying bastard (probably) calling you before the crack of dawn.
Stomping down the stairs, you quickly picked the phone up, ready to scream at the person on the other line but he was quicker.
“Hey this is Michael from earlier. I just wanna say I'm really sorry for disturbing your mourning. I really did think I had the right number to the animal sanctuary but apparently not.” He nervously laughed. “Can you forgive me?”
For a moment, you just stared at the device, not believing what you're hearing.
Why is this rando calling you to apologize for a genuine mistake he never meant to make? It was stupid, Michael is fucking stupid, he shouldn't be so apologetic.
From confusion comes a sudden wave of clarity.
He didn't know you were having a bad day already and you had a bitch fit on him. The poor guy just wanted to adopt an animal saved from an unfortunate fate but instead got screamed at by a moody woman. That was unfair, he should know how it should've been you who’s apologizing to him. Maria would be disappointed if she saw you get angry at someone who doesn't deserve it.
With a sigh, you responded to him.
“Why are you apologizing? I was the one who blew up on you. I should be the one saying sorry instead.”
There was silence on the other side, for a moment you thought he had dropped the call after his apology. You stared at the receiver again when he spoke again.
“Oh good, I really thought I was the one in the wrong.” He says with a breathy laugh, betraying the arrogance of his words.
At the shift in tone, you laughed in disbelief.
For some reason, hearing his voice brought about a wave of peace. He sounded familiar like a distant memory from your childhood, someone frequenting the television in the background while you were playing with play-doh or legos, days where you didn't have to think of the future, of the importance of money, of how you have to be a perfect daughter for a mother who never seem to think you're enough. Just you and Maria, guitars and silly cards on the table she claimed to give her foresight.
“Okay Michael, I realized now that I was an ass for blowing up on you, I’m sorry, okay? But did you get to talk to the animal sanctuary you wanted to reach?”
He audibly perks up, the mic picking up the shuffling fabric as he seems to sit up. “Oh yeah, they said the guy I was eyeing up is still available for adoption.”
“What kind of animal were you planning to adopt anyways? It sounds like it's not the usual dog or cat.”
“I’m getting myself a llama.”
You paused.
“A what now?”
“Yeah! I’m calling him Louie. He was rescued from an illegal trade ring.” He responded as if it was the most normal thing to say.
It wouldn't be the first time someone had a unique pet though, you recall your grandma telling you how her idol had a monkey and a llama pet himself.
Seems fitting for someone named Michael to also get a llama for himself.
“Hello? Are you—are you still there? It's not that weird, right?”
“No. I uh, knew someone named Michael who also had a llama. A giraffe and a monkey too. I've heard more extraordinary things.”
“Huh? A giraffe sounds good, not gonna lie. Maybe I should follow this Michael friend of yours and get myself one too.” He beamed, once more acting like it was something you spout on a normal Tuesday. The absurdity of it all made you giggle.
What started at a wrong foot smoothly transformed into something of a waltz. A gradual build up, one brush of paint after another to create a picture of uncanny similarity by an unusual match between two unlikely people. It wasn’t like any other connection you had outside of your girl friends and family, Michael was a pleasant conversation, he had a sense of whimsical wonder as he spoke of surface level facts about him.
Listening to him felt like a balm on wounded skin, strong enough to erase the throbbing pain in your chest to fill it with a coolness instead. He sounded like the calmness of childhood innocence, the reincarnation of it even. For a moment, you forgot the painful reality and let yourself swept by this shy but charismatic man's nonstop chattering.
There's a surprising amount of similarity you had with the guy. He captured your interest so much you couldn't help but pull out the ottoman to sit next to the telephone.
He loved music, had produced one album whose name he didn't want to give while you're a part of an indie band who played in bars and events as a guitarist and sub-vocalist. Michael loved to draw but he was more charcoal than your oil paints. Unsurprisingly, he watched cartoons religiously, he particularly revered Peter Pan while you were more of Tinkerbell girl from her own animated movie series.
To which he responded with a squawk saying there's no standalone Tinkerbell movies.
This led to you defending what you saw, even pulling your phone out to search and read out the summary from Wikipedia to him quite passionately.
“Huh, that's interesting. I'll get someone to check the video rentals for that. I'm so sure I've never heard anything like that.”
You furrowed your eyebrows at that, taking a second for his words to register in your mind.
“The hell you mean video rentals dude? What year are you in? The 1980s?”
“Duh? Obviously?”
Is this guy trapped in one of those cults hidden inside a forest clearing in a mountain somewhere in the USA? What does he mean by 1980s?
“Now you're just fucking with me. What do you mean by ‘obviously’? I'm looking at my phone and it tells me you're being a troll.”
Michael lets out a disbelieving huff.
“Nah, you're the joker here. Why are you so surprised it's the 1980s? Do you guys have no calendar in your house? What year did you think it is now?”
“Are you in a mountain cult somewhere? It's 2026 dude!”
“The only mountain I'm seeing here is the one with the Hollywood sign in Los Angeles. I sure as hell ain't in a cult.” He scoffed. “We have a music group but never once a cult, although the tabloids say our following seems a little crazy.”
“All I'm getting from that is I'm talking to one of the top dogs in an existing cult.” You deadpanned but the smile on your lips betrayed the delivery.
Michael sputtered, thrown off by the absurdity of your conclusion before he fell into a boisterous cackle, loud and oddly rhythmic in that pitched voice of his.
“Wh–what?! How did you arrive at that conclusion?! I just–I just said—”
“You said people outside your cult think your following is crazy.”
“I said paparazzi!”
“Outside people.” You shrugged.
Michael laughed again and it sounded like church bells ringing pleasantly on a warm Sunday morning.
“You're crazy! That's so far from what I said!”
“You can't fault me for that, English is my second language!” You defended, lips still split into a wide smile.
“Oh yeah you mentioned not living on the continent, where are you from then, magic friend?” He asked. “This is a bit bizarre. If you really are from the future like you insist you are. I question how I could talk to you if you're also living on the other side of the planet.”
“I am from the future. I'll go search for the goddamn lottery ticket tomorrow and you'll see.”
“I have no need for that money though. I think we have plenty already.”
His soft voice matched with the arrogant comment threw you into a whiplash for a moment but nonetheless triggered the competitiveness inside you, pulling your phone out and pinning the telephone between your ear and shoulder.
“Nah, I'm searching for it now. What is the exact date wherever you are?”
“So fired up just for lottery numbers. I really have no need for it and I believe you.” He mulled over his words before continuing. "Maybe."
“It's a proof of claim. Just tell me what's the date wherever you are.”
He says the date. You found the lottery result after a couple taps and recited the numbers back to him, insisting that he writes it down. It took a little fight to make him stand up to fetch his notebook, all the while he was "grumbling" rather loudly as he navigated through what seems like a big room with how far he went.
“I'm gonna turn you into a prophet with all the information I have in my hand. Prophet Michael. It has a good ring to it, no? It doesn't have the mystical aura the others have with their cool names but I think it sounds good.”
“You sound so sure of these numbers, it's making me want to buy a ticket.”
“Just say you're actually broke dude, I won't mock you contrary to popular belief."
“I’ll just donate it to multiple animal sanctuaries." He said nonchalantly and you could imagine him shrug as he did so. "Also what do you mean 'contrary to popular belief'? You a preppy bully at a private school?"
"Dude, I ride a motorcycle and play an electric guitar in a band. What gives you the impression I'm a mean girl?"
"Woah, you drive a motorcycle?!"
Only when the gentle rays of the sun peaked through flimsy curtains did you realize how long you've been talking to Michael from the 1980s. The doors opening for one of the housemaids, Anna, to enter only solidified the hours spent on someone apparently from the past. Anna didn't even bother hiding her surprise when she saw you sitting on an ottoman next to the vintage telephone.
You flushed under her gaze as it drifted from your face to the wired phone you were holding up to your ear. Realizing how ridiculous and crazy you looked listening to a device supposedly dead and discontinued for decades, you suddenly slammed the phone down with an internal wince.
Sorry Michael.
“Did you even sleep, dear?” She asked, aged face contorted into worry.
“I did, a little. I think I sleepwalked here, aunty.”
That was such a shit lie, you surely had better days but how else do you explain such a bizarre sight?
She sighed, abandoning her primary task which is to cook breakfast to approach you and place both hands on your shoulder.
“You know what I think? I think you need a little bit more rest, sweetheart. A broken heart can be quite fatal.”
There was no doubting the concern from her voice, what bothered you was her thinking the grief from losing your grandmother had you picking up a vintage telephone and acting like you were calling her like you used to do as a child.
Well it was a hell of your making, saying sleepwalking had brought you here. You should've tried to think of a better excuse next time.
Placing your hands on top of hers, you gently pry her hands off of your shoulders.
“I promise, it's not what you think—”
“Shh, no need to excuse it. I understand, dear.” She smiled. Not wanting to feed the fire further, you just forced out an awkward smile of your own. “Now go to your room, we'll handle the cleaning, okay? Your relatives are truly demonic, didn't even let poor Maria rest before pouncing like some low class vagrants.”
“Anna!”
“Nobody heard me except you, little lady. You and I both know you share the same sentiments anyway. Now go and sleep. You're not slick, as my grandchildren would say.”