Chapter Two
Two months later…
Michael is pawing through a pile of fan mail when he comes across a letter and decides to open it. He read the tiny girlish script written by Marissa. Her story makes him upset, he knows first-hand how brutal abuse from your father can be. He takes out a pad of his stationary and a random pen and starts writing back to her.
Dear Marissa,
I'm sorry to hear that your dad is so mean to you. I know exactly how you feel, all too well actually. Just promise me one thing; no matter what you do, never stop trying, never stop working, and never stoop to his level. Most important, don't ever, ever let anyone tell you dreams aren't worth it. You never know where you'll end up.
I hope you do alright for yourself and if you ever want to write back to tell me how you're doing, don't hesitate. Just send it to my personal address so it won't get lost in the piles of fan-mail, it's on the back of the envelope.
Best wishes and I look forward to hearing from you!
Michael Jackson
About a week later…
Marissa thrums through the mail as she walks to the door. Bill, bill, bill, eviction notice, credit card application… the last letter in the stack, the one she had been waiting for all this time. She jumps up and down, squealing with excitement. She tosses the rest of the mail on the kitchen counter and sprints to her room at full speed. She tears carefully into the envelope and unfolds the paper inside. She struggles to make out his sloppy almost child-like handwriting. There's a huge smile on her face the entire time she reads. She can't believe her luck! Out of all those fans, all that mail, she was lucky enough to get a response from the man himself! She carefully tucks the letter back in the envelope and stashes it in the bottom of her sock drawer. She starts drafting a new letter almost immediately.
Dear Michael,
I got your letter today. Thank you so, so much for writing back. You have no idea how much it means to me. I can't believe a celebrity as busy as you actually has time for fan-mail. You must have a crazy pile going by now!
So tell me about your dad since I told you about mine. I'm not trying to pry or anything, just curious. I won't tell anyone I swear. I suppose you don't have to if you don't want to. Also, how is Neverland coming along? I heard something about it on the radio the other day.
Hope you are doing well, I'm still holding in there for now.
Love you!
Marissa
About a week later, Tuesday…
Michael has just finished a stressful day of negotiations. He record company and his brothers are begging him to go on another tour. He doesn't want to let them down but he doesn't want to spend another year cooped up on the road with them either. He is moving on with his career and had his own vision to pursue. He's literally stuck in the middle with no way out. His maid hands him his mail for the day and he goes to his room, the door auto-locking behind him. He flops down on the bed, taking a few deep breaths to try and center himself. He spreads the mail out before him and picks out the letter from Marissa right away, leaving the rest of the mail neglected. He reads over the correspondence and ponders her question before digging out some paper to answer her back.
Dear Marissa,
I'm glad to hear you're doing alright. To answer your questions, Neverland is coming along great. I'll have to send you some pictures soon. I have a zoo now, and they put my Ferris wheel in last Tuesday, I'm so excited!
To answer your other question, um I'm not quite sure how to say this but he beat us. A lot. We didn't want to practice? That's a whoopin'. Miss a step? Get a switch. Tired of singing? You're behind gets torn up with a belt. We all felt more like slaves than stage performers. I usually got the short straw when it came to doling out the beatings because I was the only one that would even dare to cross him. I don't like to talk about it much. It brings up too many painful memories and then they keep me up all night.
Also, don't worry about prying, I know you're in the same situation. I know you understand and I trust you. Just remember, don't let anyone tell you you're less than you are, your father included. If I didn't learn that I don't think I'd be where I am today. You are the only one to make your fate.
On another topic: how's school goin'?
I love you more!
Michael Jackson
Later that night…
Marissa's father busts into her room, breaking to door off the hinges. He reeks of beer, vomit and ladies' perfume. He trips on a lamp cord and sends it smashing to the floor and himself stumbling across the small space. Marissa tries to shrink down under the covers. Her father rips them away and in his drunken stupor, slugs her in the face, hard. Blood and tears flow readily.
"You little ungrateful brat!" seems to be a favorite phrase among his incoherent swears. When he tires himself out he wanders from the room.
She grabs a dirty t-shirt and wipes the blood from her face and hands. Fresh bruises are forming on her arms, face and stomach. She takes slow, even breaths to try and ease the pain. She never gets used to this. She attempts sleep but every time her eyes close she relives every blow of the beating. Finally, she just gives up on sleep altogether, instead staring at the ceiling. When morning sunlight peeks through her window, she slinks out of bed and gets ready for school. As she applies makeup to cover the bruises, her mind wanders. She wonders if Michael ever spend s nights like this.
That Friday…
Mar gets the letter. She has to wait until her father is out of sight to be able to open it. This week has been particularly brutal on her. A letter is the perfect medicine right now. She waits impatiently for her father to pass out on the couch before sneaking off to open up the note.
She feels a pang of guilt as she reads about his father. It makes her a little happier though to know that someone has been through what she has and come out the other side better for it. She gets some paper and begins another letter.
