Disclaimer: Death is one of the most awesome characters in Neil Gaiman's Sandman graphic novel series. The brother referred to here is Dream. I trust Michael Jackson needs no introduction? Let me just state first that I mean him no disrespect; this is my way of paying tribute to him, of hoping that he is at peace now. I do speculate about his face, but not about the cause of his death. This was written back in July, so some details we have now were unknown to me then and hence are not written about.
Finding Neverland
Pain. Intense pain. White flashes behind his eyes. Blackness.
And suddenly, a strange feeling, a light feeling, as though he was floating, bodiless. No, it was more than just feeling bodiless. All the stress, the worry, the fear, the anxiety, the sadness, and the loneliness that had weighed his soul down were no more.
"Hello, Michael."
He turned. There was a woman standing there, and if he had still been breathing, his breath would have caught at her beauty. Her skin was so pale it was white, and she wore a black fedora over her thick, messy, long black hair. She was dressed in black, and wore a black sequined glove on her right hand. The ankh, the Egyptian symbol of life, hung around her neck, and just below her right eye was what appeared to be a curl of black eyeliner, reminiscent of the Eye of Horus. She was humming You Are Not Alone.
Michael smiled, nodding towards the glove. "Nice look."
Death laughed; Michael had never heard anything more beautiful. "I was always a big fan of yours, Michael."
She seemed strangely familiar, although he couldn't believe he'd forget such a face. "Have I seen you before?"
Death laughed her musical laugh again. "No. You've probably seen my brother. I look like him, sometimes."
"Who are you?"
Death didn't say anything; she simply looked at something to the side. Michael followed suit, and found himself staring at his own prone body, surrounded by paramedics. His son stood there, looking dazed, and Michael tried to reach out to him, but his hand passed though the boy as though he were nothing but mist.
"I'm dead," he said wonderingly. Strangely, he didn't feel scared, or sad, just calm. Peaceful. He had never felt such peace in life.
He reached out to his son once more, whispering," Goodbye. Be brave. I love you."
Death laid a gloved hand on his shoulder, and he turned to face her. "What happens now?"
She smiled a crooked smile. Symmetry was overrated, when you saw that smile. "That's up to you, Michael. It's always up to you."
There was a mirror there that may or may not have been there before, and he gasped, touching his face. It was what he has longed for, in life; the pale, flawless beauty of angels in their marble glory – yet the features, and the smile, were his own.
It had been bright earlier, but now it was dark, and he could not remember if it had always been so or if the Sun had only just set. A star shone brightly, its warm light beckoning.
"Second star to the right…," he murmured.
"And straight on 'til morning," Death finished. She held out a sequinned-gloved hand. "Fly with me, Michael."
And they flew.
~*~
Sivaroobini
12th and 13th July 2009