Caged (18+) (Michael Jackson)

I slept less than poorly that night. My head kept churning with all the new information I processed yesterday, and I was more tired from trying to sleep than I was when I went to bed. Plans about where to go from here kept being thrown around in my skull like debris in a hurricane. How should I approach my new clients? Should I be cold and professional when I presented myself in order to gain respect, or should I be more down to earth? Maybe they would they walk all over me simply because I was a woman? Or perhaps that actually was an advantage, to get them to open up to a somewhat motherly figure? Would my gender be an issue at all?

I was having five consultations later that day, but neither of them was with the man who really triggered my curiosity. And at 5am I gave up on sleeping and went to take my usual shower. No matter how hard I tried to clear my mind, it was like I was caught in a thick fog. My entire morning routine was made on autopilot, and I didn’t really notice I was done before I realized that I was putting away my plate and coffee mug. I’d been too consumed with my thoughts.

About him. Michael Jackson.

He’d refused to talk to any of his previous therapists, so I didn’t really expect him to open up to me either. Not without me putting a lot of effort into it, at least. And boy, was I going to.

“First step; make him trust you,” I mumbled as I walked to my car. Then I sighed.

“Second step; stop talking to yourself.”

I knew that would probably only last an hour. Tops. Mum always told me that I was just like my nana; busier holding long monologs with myself than to actually talk with other people. I didn’t really see a problem with that, though. And I was right. The moment I closed the door to the clinic behind me, I was at it again.

“Let me see... First one at eight. Gavin Seymore. Physical assault, rape, drugs and attempted murder. Twenty-eight years old, sentenced to eighteen years, no parole, convicted five years ago.”

I looked at my wristwatch and sighed with a smile.

“Plenty of time for a coffee.”

Little did I know how badly I needed that...

~~~~~~

“Damn, you’ve got a nice rack, lady.”

The man had barely taken his seat in front of me, and already proved that he had a mouth bigger than his body. He wasn’t especially tall, and he was slender, close to being skinny, and had shaved off all of his hair except for two bushy eyebrows and a tiny goat beard. I noticed that he had a habit of pulling at it, which revealed that he probably was a little nervous by nature. He hid it well, though. With a rude attitude and a cover of inked skin, he acted tougher than an average chihuahua. And his sharp facial features and stinging eyes, completed the image of being a not very trustworthy type of man.

“Nice to meet you too, Mr. Seymore.”

“Don’t fucking call me that! I’m not like my pathetic excuse for a father,” he snapped, and scowled at the officer who secured his handcuffs to a chain connected to a bolt on the floor.

“And why do we need this shit? It’s not like I’m gonna do anything crazy. Although I wouldn’t mind a little sumn-sumn, if ya’ know what I’m sayin’?”

I shuddered when he wiggled his eyebrows and undressed me with his eyes. Yeah, those chains would definitely stay on until I knew where I had him. But as for now I just ignored his immature outbursts.

“How are you doing?”

“Could have been better,” he muttered. I wasn’t really sure if it was because I didn’t give him the response he wanted, or in general.

“Do you want to elaborate on that?”

Gavin gave me the most deadpanned look before he sat back with legs spread apart.

“Well, I’m stuck in a motherfucking jail cell, in case you didn’t notice. Probably for the rest of my life too, because I’ll probably kill someone before they let me out.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Anyone in particular?”

“Yeah,” he snickered and sat up with his elbows resting on his knees. I could see the solid iron cuffs digging into his wrists. “Wanna know?”

I just waited for him to continue and tried to be as neutral as possible. I knew he was going to say something farfetched.

“Every single one of those idiots down there! Especially the sicko himself.”

“Sicko?”

“Sick-o,” he reiterated like if I was retarded. “Wacko Jacko? Mr. Ego trip, who thinks he’s the fucking King? I’m sure you’ve heard of him. But let me tell you something, doll. That motherfucker’s still living in the past, man. He ain’t nothin’. He prolly never was.”

“You’re talking about Michael Jackson now, right?”

“Damn, you’re sharp!” he chuckled, but it wasn’t a very nice laughter. And he seemed satisfied with my reaction. Maybe my body language revealed that he intimidated me a bit? I had to work on that.

“But my homies are taking care of that as we speak. You just spoiled my chance to participate in rearranging his guts. But I’ll be nice. I’ll forgive you for that.”

He gave me the elevator look once more and pushed his tongue against the inside of his cheek a few times.

“I’ll be nice,” he repeated thoughtfully, and kept studying me in a way I didn’t appreciate. But just as I was going to address his unacceptable behavior and change the topic, there was some commotion outside. Men were yelling and threats were exchanged, and moments after, a couple of security officers barged into the clinic with one of the prisoners in a tight grip between them.

“WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU STILL ALIVE, SHIT HEAD?” Gavin yelled.

“BECAUSE YOUR INCOMPETENT FUCK BUDDIES HAD TO RUN BACK TO THEIR MAMA’S AND HELP WITH HER KNIT WORK! THEY AIN’T NOTHING BUT USELESS LITTLE PUSSIES!” the other man yelled back while he tried his best to fight the officers. He stood no chance.

“FUCK YOU, JACKO!”

“FUCK YOU TOO, GLORIA!”

I watched in stunned silence, shocked at the brutality that unfolded in front of me. And I thanked higher sources that both men were in chains and unable to harm me.

“SHUT UP, BOTH OF YOU!” another voice bellowed from behind me, a voice I recognized. It was officer Davis, and he pushed passed me to help remove one of the two rivals. My consultation with Gavin was obviously over, and my new project was no other than the man himself.

Michael Jackson.

He was mad. No. More than mad. He was furious, and it looked like he wanted to kill whoever came close to him. Lucky me to be the one who had to stitch him up and clean his wounds.

“DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME!” he yelled to the men who pulled him into the emergency room, and it was first then I saw how messed up he was. He was bleeding from several cuts, and both his eyes looked like they were about to swell up. I couldn’t see his torso, and he didn’t flinch much from the treatment he got, but that could be the adrenaline that swarmed inside his body. Either that, or high pain tolerance. If his face looked that bad, I was absolutely sure he was injured elsewhere too.

“I’D FUCKING KILL YOU MYSELF, YOU DAMN RAT!” Gavin shouted, riling Michael up even more.

“GO AHEAD AND BELIEVE THAT! EVERYBODY KNOWS WHAT A COWARD YOU ARE! YOU HAVE TO GET YOUR FRIENDS TO DO WHAT YOU DON’T HAVE THE BALLS TO DO YOURSELF!”

“I WAS STUCK IN HERE, WHAT’D YOU EXPECT?”

“THAT YOU WERE MAN ENOUGH TO DO YOUR FUCKING DIRTY WORK YOURSELF! CLIMB BACK INTO YOUR MAMA’S PUSSY AND SEARCH FOR YOUR BALLS, COCK SUCKER!” Michael roared out, with eyes blacker than I thought was possible for a human.

“LEAVE MY MOM OUT OF THIS! I BET YOUR MOTHER DOESN’T...”

The rest of Gavin’s insults disappeared behind the door shutting closed with a bang. But Michael was still yelling and spitting death threats to everyone and everything around him, and all I was able to think about was how badly that man needed a hug. He wasn’t receptive for that kind of approach now, though.

“Calm down, Mr. Jackson! And sit down!” one of the officers said with a stern voice. I had to admit that I was impressed by how calm they were in such an agitated situation. Not that it helped making the prisoner behave any better.

“FUCK YOU! FUCK EVERYBODY! JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!”

“Sit! Down!”

I couldn’t believe how hard he fought to break free. He wasn’t too robust and far from being packed with muscles, yet he gave the two officers who held him a real run for the money. But after a bit of a struggle he was forced down on the exam table and secured on arms and legs just the way all psychotic patients are, when they need medical treatment and don’t cooperate.

This must be the most vulnerable a human can feel, I thought to myself. Being restricted from any kind of movements, and completely helpless to do anything to protect yourself, must be the ultimate humiliation and anxiety trigger. Still, it was necessary to prevent the patient from hurting themselves or others.

“Let’s give him some room to calm down, guys,” one of the officers said and adjusted his uniform. It looked like he had gotten a couple of punches himself, resulting in a busted lip and a growing bruise on his cheekbone, but he smiled, nevertheless. Not that this was a situation to smile about. It saddened me to realize that this was a part of their job. This was their kind of normal.

“No, I’m staying,” I said and stood my ground. I wasn’t going to let someone be in this position by themselves. That was the complete opposite of what they needed, to be isolated and more detached from reality. Michael needed to calm down on his own, but not alone.

“Suit yourself. He can’t hurt anyone now.”

I watched the two men leave and remained staring at the door. The room was now silent with just the two of us. Except it was everything but that. The raging storm inside my client was loud enough to be heard with my own ears. His breathing was heaving and uneven, and even though he didn’t say anything, his eyes vocalized a lot of what was going on inside of him. A complete chaos.

Now that the worst anger slowly died down, those feelings were replaced with new ones. I could see hurt and frustration. There were helplessness and anxiety, but most of all: Betrayal. This man was let down one time too many, maybe even more. It was like he’d lost faith in humanity for good.

“I’m Rory,” I said quietly. It almost felt like a crime to speak.

“I’m a psychiatric nurse.”

He refused to look at me. He didn’t acknowledge me at all. He just stared at a spot in the ceiling and breathed harshly through his teeth.

“That also means that I’m your new therapist.”

I finally dared to walk closer and let my eyes graze over his appearance. He looked nothing like the popstar the world knew. Not only because he was badly beaten, because he really was. But that aside, he was unrecognizable. His eyes were hooded and lifeless, and his skin was pale and discolored. It was easy to see the injury from the accident because he had scars on his forehead and his cheek, like someone had sliced his face in two and stitched it back together. His left eye was drooping, and his nose was crooked, but that might be from the fight. I didn’t know. I didn’t even know what I was doing when my fingers brushed over the rough surface of the bald patches on his head.

“Don’t touch me!” he snarled, and I pulled my hand back as if I’d burned myself. Then our eyes met, and the blood froze in my veins. I’d never felt this much hate from anyone, as the amount he was projecting at me right in that moment. Still, a part of me knew that it could have been anyone. Not me in particular. He was angry at people in general, and he had nowhere else to direct it other than at me. So he did.

“I’m sorry,” I said calmly, and rightfully so. I had no business touching him other than addressing his cuts and bruises. But he’d already shut me out again. He ignored me while I told him what I was about to do. He ignored me when I cleaned the three cuts. And he tried his best to ignore me when I closed two of them with a needle and sutures.

“I want to help,” I said after a couple of minutes in silence. My hands were now resting in my lap, but I was still holding the blue disposable gloves I’d used while cleaning him up. I didn’t expect him to respond, but I got a light scoff. I guess that was better than nothing. Our first attempt to conversate.

“I don’t know how yet,” I spoke honestly and noticed that our breathing now was calm and almost in sync. “But I do want to help.”

Eventually I got up and started cleaning up my mess. And for a moment I had my back turned to him when I heard him clear his voice.

“Let me loose.”

I slowly turned to look at him, and the coldest pair of eyes nailed me into an almost frozen position.

“You know the answer to that,” I whispered. I felt defeated.

“Then go fuck yourself together with the rest.”

And that was the last thing he said despite my attempts to continue our pathetic strive to communicate. So I stepped back and set myself a new goal:

I had to teach him how to walk, because we had a damn long way to go.