#Leaving Neverland | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

After the announcement of the deal with Yahoo!, there were 170K signatures of unhappy Tumblr users petitioning to prevent the sale in 2013.

notaplaceofhonour · 3 months

Text

One of the experiences that really highlighted to me how willing the left can be to turn a blind eye to and gaslight Jews about antisemitism was trying to talk about Michael Jackson’s antisemitism, such as in the song “They Don’t Care About Us”, which was released with the lyrics:

“Jew me, sue me, everybody do me / Kick me, kike me, don't you black or white me.”

I feel like that is shockingly straightforward with how antisemitic it is, both in its specific language (the K-slur & Jew-as-a-verb) and its conspiratorial bent in the context of the whole song. But when it came out and Jews were obviously appalled and spoke out about it, MJ made the standard “but have you considered that accusing me of bigotry offends me?” and “I was taken out of context!” statements that bigots make when they get called out on their bigotry.

As for MJ’s claim that he was taken out of context, here is some context: In 1993, MJ’s relationship with the press deteriorated when they began covering allegations of his child sex abuse. In the midst of this, tabloids ran a lot of scummy, sensationalized headlines—ruthlessly mocking his appearance and eccentricities and even running entirely false stories. This marked a drastic shift in MJ’s lyrics, which began to focus heavily on his victimhood (both real and perceived, often conflating both and tying them to broader social issues), with many of the songs on the next album HIStory (1995) being about this. “They Don’t Care About Us” is on this album. In 2003, there were revelations that Michael Jackson had grown close with members of Nation of Islam (a fringe and antisemitic hate group), and in 2005, Good Morning America aired a phone recording of Michael Jackson calling Jews “leeches”, claiming Jews had targeted him for his wealth, and saying “It’s a conspiracy. Jews do it on purpose”.

This is the context of Michael Jackson singing about being a stand-in for the victims of all kinds of real world oppression like racism and police brutality, and then saying he was being “Jewed” and “kiked”. It came out that he was molesting little kids, and rather than face the music, he tried to dodge responsibility by conflating those allegations with racism and the gross, sensationalist bullshit that tabloids were running on him; he wove all these things together in a narrative that he could use to wrap himself up in victimhood & conspiracy to position himself as not just a martyr, but the very archetype of martyrdom so that the world could, as he sang on the same album in his cover of John Lennon’s song, “Come together, over me.”

The lyrics were later changed to replace “Jew” & “kike” with abstract noise that drowned out the words or repetitions of “sue” & “strike”. But even so, this is still a song, not truly about inequality and injustice, but using inequality and injustice to shield a child molester from responsibility. And the fact that “Jew” can so easily be replaced with “sue”, not simply in sound but in meaning, without disrupting the narrative and tone of the song, belies the fact that Michael Jackson believed himself to be a victim of some sort of conspiracy between “(((The Media)))” and greedy Jewish lawyers.

And yet, trying to talk about this to this day, even with the benefit of hindsight, when it’s pretty well-accepted that MJ was in fact a child molester and knowing what he said about Jews after this song came out, it is next to impossible to get people to see the antisemitism in him tying together all oppression in the world as him being “Jewed” and “kiked” by (((The System)))—even when he literally says “Jew”, even when he says the K-slur, even when he refers to Jews as blood-suckers, even when he literally says Jews are conspiring against him. When people started using the song as part of the George Floyd protests, and I was like “hey, maybe that’s not a great idea” and gently tried to explain this context, I was ignored, told it didn’t matter because the song was about inequality, told Black people have every right to distrust Jews “because Jews are White” and stabbed Black people in the back by embracing Whiteness, etc. etc.

I think that is one of the times that really started to make it clear to me, “oh, yeah no, leftists can be staring straight at a K-slur in the mouth of a known sex offender and still say it’s fine”—something leftists generally would not do for any other vulnerable minority. It still astounds me.

#antisemitism #michael jackson #they don’t care about us #leftwing antisemitism #leftist antisemitism #k slur #jumblr #blm #mj #Leaving Neverland #blood libel

327 notes · View notes

hello-nichya-here · 2 months

Text

My love for MJ aside, speaking purely as someone who is looking into all the accusations against him and trying to be as unbiased as possible, it's CRAZY how the fans are labeled as being "in denial about the truth" when they are clearly correct in saying there's more than enough proof of his innocence.

Literally EVERYTHING is on Michael's side: eye-witnesses, videos, recorded phone calls, documents, and well-over a decade of FBI investigations, all of which contradict every single part of the stories about the supposed child abuse.

The proof of his innocence goes from "The pictures police took of Michael's genitals did not match the description the kid provided" to "This family that claims Michael kidnapped them and forced them to sell all their stuff, including their house, so they'd be dependent on him was confirmed to be lying since they still owned all the things they said they were forced to sell", all the way to "Michael wasn't even in the same country as the supposed victim at the time, and in fact, the very ROOM in which the the abuse allegedly happened did not even exist yet"

Not to mention proof that first "victim" (Jordan Chandler) was coerced by his abusive father into accusing Michael, that the family of the second "victim" (Gavin Arvizo) already having a history of scams that included lying about sexual abuse, and the Leaving Neverland documentary (that talks about the alledged abuse of James Safechuck and Wade Robson) was discovered to be copying an erotic book written by a confessed pedophile that wanted to share his fantasies about Michael abusing children.

Meanwhile all the people who say he was guilty have as proof is "Well, I saw an interview with the pedo that wrote that pornographic book and assumed it was true" or "I heard on a TV show 30 years ago that he was guilty and paid hush money to the victims and never checked that the investigation was still going and that the boy was even allowed to testify in court if he wanted to" or "This maid that was fired for stealing stuff from Michael's home claims she saw him molesting Jordan Chandler in Neverland - even though Jordan says he was abused during the tour, not in Neverland, so even if you were to believe his story you'd still have to assume this woman is lying."

It really is no wonder the 1993 and 2013 allegations did not even managed to get a proper trial with how little there was to work with, and the 2005 one led to Michael being found innocent of all charges in record time - I strongly suspect that if it wasn't for the former case, it wouldn't even have made it to court in the first place either with how nonsensical it was.

#michael jackson #mj innocent #michael jackson innocent #jordan chandler #gavin arvizo #james safechuck #wade robson #leaving neverland

95 notes · View notes

theasexual-jackson · 9 months

Text

So, HBO has released a new documentary on fnaf, blaming a school shooting on the game (that shit happened years before the game release), and called a random youtuber that has nothing to do with it pedo. Honestly, any soldier of love watching this whole ass drama is loving to see HBO getting roasted and cancelled again. What could we expect from a capitalist streaming program that let Leaving Neverland release? Hmph...

#fnaf #fnaf security breach #fnaf sb #fnaf fanart #fnaf movie #HBO #Core #Leaving Neverland #michael jackson #mj innocent #five nights at freddy's

79 notes · View notes

laverdad-sobre-michaeljackson · 2 months

Text

UPDATE #5: Ultimas noticias en el caso de Wade y James

En la audiencia del 28 de febrero de 2024, esto fue lo que paso:

Se ha concedido a Wade y James la consolidación de sus casos, cosa que el patrimonio estaba presionando para que no se les concediera. Ahora se hará un solo juicio por los dos casos.

Wade y James están presionando para que el juicio se realice en 2025, antes del estreno de la película biográfica. John Carpenter, el abogado principal de Wade y James, habló con Rolling Stone sobre las empresas y el Patrimonio de Jackson: "Quieren que la película biográfica de Michael Jackson salga antes del juicio. Eso es lo que pienso” (…) “Estas corporaciones que facilitaron el abuso en primer lugar, están reescribiendo la historia".

Las empresas de Jackson, por el contrario, quieren renunciar a la regla de los juicios rápidos de tres años y transferir los casos al departamento de litigios complejos. Sus abogados creen que los casos no estarán listos hasta después de diciembre de 2026. También creen que un juicio durará aproximadamente 20 días.

La próxima audiencia judicial es el 5 de junio. Aun así ambas partes deben presentar sus respectivos informes sobre la preparación del juicio antes del 22 de mayo.

#michael jackson #wade robson #jamessafechuk #mjestate #leaving neverland #jackson5 #mjguilty #mj

4 notes · View notes

eevylynn · 9 months

Note

Leaving Neverland

Ask me about my WIPs

Idk why I wasn't expecting so many Swanfire stories considering I haven't posted any since 2015, but here we are!

Leaving Neverland was one that I surprisingly don't have anything of in my Google Docs, so I don't really remember where I was going with it.

I did find some notes in one of my writing notebooks with different ideas of technology to explore that changed between when Bae was there with Wendy versus in the 90s. I also have notes on research on the Edwardian tech in terms of pens, running water, electricity, tvs, sliced bread, and music.

There's also lists of the differences and similarities between Neal's personality as well as young Bae from the Enchanted Forest, so that I could see what mix I think he would have been when he first arrived in the 90s.

After rereading the same paragraph three times, Emma figured she wasn't going to be getting any more homework done tonight until after all the little ones were in bed. As it was, her current foster mom and her four smaller foster siblings seemed to be having a rather heated disagreement on what exactly you needed to clean in a bath before you were considered "clean". Sighing, Emma looked around the cozy living room. The only other teenaged foster kid in the house, Geoffery, was sitting on the other end of couch, dressed in his usual head to toe in black, lost in whatever screaming was coming from his headphones. Figuring he wouldn't help relieve her boredom, Emma put her book back in her backpack and stood up.

"I'm going to go for a walk," she announced, catching her foster father's eye.

He nodded and replied, "Just don't be back too late, and don't wake anyone when you get in." He then turned his attention back to the game on TV.

Closing the front door, Emma breathed in deeply in relief of the nighttime silence. She glanced around a bit before walking down the porch stairs and went right upon reaching the side walk.

Her latest foster family wasn't the worst she's had in her 15 years of being in the system. Mr. and Mrs. Riston were nice enough. They seemed to at least care about the well being of the kids that lived there rather their paycheck unlike most families she's been sent to. She also likes that she's allowed a certain level of freedom over there that group homes don't allow. All in all, she was reasonably satisfied with them.

What she wasn't quite satisfied with was the small town the Ristons lived in. It's one of those everyone knows everyone. The only real hang out place Emma saw was a coffee and sandwich shop that doubled as the local movie theater. Heck, there were only a handful of traffic lights in the entirety of the city. As a city girl, the town really left something to be desired in Emma.

Crossing a street, Emma realized that she was right around the corner from an old abandoned house she had seen when her social worker first drove her into town. Hitching her bag up her shoulder, she decided to go check it out. She tried not to make herself look too obvious as she neared the old house.

The sprawling three story Victorian home had definitely seen better days. Its faded robin's egg blue paint was chipping from the sides. The wrought iron fence that encased the grounds was over grown with weeds and bushes. The extensive garden was obviously very elaborate at one point but was now creeping unkempt across the uncut lawn.

Emma glanced around as she crept closer. Seeing no one, she slunk over to the gate.

Thankfully, vines hadn't grown over it in such a way that it wouldn't open. She opened it just wide enough for her to slip through before quickly and quietly shutting it. Turning away from the gate, Emma eyed the creepy old house. Several of the windows were boarded up, and the door had a massive padlock locking it shut. Emma managed a few steps before she stumbled over something hidden in the shadows of the overgrown weeds. The echoing noise whatever it was made as it hit the fence caused Emma to duck into the shadows. Cautiously looking around, it didn't seem as though the noise disturbed anyone, so she carefully continued towards the house.

She made her way around to the side where an unboarded window stood just above her reach. She looked behind her for something that would give her the height she needed. Spotting an old stone bench, she congratulated herself for working out as she quickly drug the heavy bench to the edge of the house. Climbing on it, she looked through the glass. However, between the darkness of the night and the dirt caking the window, she couldn't see much inside.

Reaching into her backpack, she dug out a flashlight. Taking another cautious glance around, she turned on the flashlight and placed it right up against the glass, so it would light up the inside of the house instead of the glass. Inside she saw faded peeling wallpaper and old winged armchairs with stuffing pouring out.

Putting her flashlight between her teeth, Emma made quick work of prying open the window before pulling herself up and through it. Holding her flashlight in her hand again, she looked around what appeared to be an old sitting room. Greying cushions sat on the frame of an old settee in the corner. The old, faded Persian rug in the middle of the floor was fraying at the ends, and there seemed to be a hole in the ceiling that led to the floor above.

She was heading to the archway leading to the foyer when the light of her flashlight caught what appeared to be an old trunk in the room opposite. Thinking it might have something valuable inside, she walked towards it.

"Impressive."

The sudden male voice startled Emma who let out a small scream as she turned around to see a hooded boy with his hands in his pockets and a smug smile on his face.

"But you could have just used the back door."

(continue reading on AO3)

#swanfire #ouat #wips #baelfire #emma swan #fics #leaving neverland

4 notes · View notes

boricuacherry-blog · 1 year

Text

This sums up a lot of my feelings on MJ (with the allegations), it's from someone who used to be a fan. Many say there is no smoking gun in regards to the allegations, but for me the smoking gun was his own statements, along with reading about pedophiles from a csa expert that match all of his exact behaviors, as well as the exact process his victims all describe (And the disturbing photos of little boys) But here is one fan's thoughts:

As a victim of abuse, and as an adult, ironically, I worked with a pedophile for years without knowing....And I knew what to look for! Think about the ramifications of that.

I'm a huge fan of MJ...or was. You never truly stop. And I grew up loving the man and his music. I was definitely groomed...as we all were, if only to love him. And his 'people' were very careful to ensure we loved MJ the man (god?), as well as (if not more so) than his music.

But after reading the numerous court case transcripts and watching the documentaries...the ones which allow MJ to speak and his victims to be heard...it isn't the victims of MJ but his own words and actions (that I've seen/heard first hand) which concern me the most.

To explain both sides, we actually only need MJ's words and his documented actions.

I try not to be biased, despite being a victim of abuse...because I've also been accused of abuse (and exonerated)... by a former colleague so I know how it feels to be innocent but under suspicion.

The sex offender I knew is now in prison but everyone around him had to be investigated so they could be cleared. But I know firsthand how awful that process was as an innocent. So I'm careful to see both sides.

If MJ was accused once by a stranger, I would have had my doubts, but likely sided with MJ if sufficient evidence wasn't produced.

But MJ was accused again and again...and again (and again) by the closest people to him. Children and adults alike. His own staff. Families he helped. Friends. Colleagues, acquaintances and more.

This is all deeply problematic...and despite paying tens of millions in settlements again and again (which alone is worrisome), MJ consciously kept on sleeping with other people's children.

And when he had his own kids...he went to extraordinary lengths to make sure the mother wasn't part of his life with those kids. Kids who went on to have very troubled lives.

Although I don't believe MJ ever directly physically abused his own family (though he did hang baby Blanket out of a 5th floor window for a photo op).

It's relevant to say that the pedophile I worked with never abused me or anyone in front of me or close to him...so I'm never surprised when MJ's family or Macaulay says, "we never saw it." But that's the point of abuse. It doesn't happen in public or it's not meant to. Though with MJ, I believe at least a form of abuse did occur in plain sight after he spent years systematically normalizing odd behavior.

It's a fact that MJ had a giant bed in a separate wing of his child-themed Neverland Ranch, connected by one long corridor with a security system he personally installed. Which he claimed was designed to warn him if anyone was coming towards the bedroom...where he slept with other peoples' kids.

I've watched him say the latter on video. And even if he was tricked into miscommunication (it happens)...that is yet more evidence of a man unsuited to child care.

To reasonable people who ask, "did he abuse kids sexually?" I say there are many forms of abuse which can ruin lives. But 'that's not the only point.'

As a trusted adult with influence, money and power, MJ undeniably grossly abused his position of trust time and time again.

When it comes to childcare, the latter is enough to be a huge problem for 99% of average people. And if you abuse your own kids... in any way...it's somehow even worse.

We know without a shadow of a doubt that MJ repeatedly demonstrated a total lack of good decision making. Simply being involved with all these kids (often poor, vulnerable and even sick) in a way which could lead to the children feeling wronged, betrayed...abused even.

The latter is based on an endless parade of self-produced (by MJ) evidence from sanctioned interviews and court documents. I repeat....MJ's own words and actions continue to give me the most concern, as they should any reasonable person and especially parents.

Even if MJ was 100% innocent of every claim (statistically unlikely), by acting as he did...he let the possibility of abuse arise in the media and in peoples' minds.

Which unsurprisingly resulted in long painful court cases, for not just MJ, but also the kids torn between the lawyers and the parents and the media. Again, that is indisputable. And at the very least...MJ's lack of good judgment...as the most powerful adult involved...makes him responsible for that suffering. 👏

Simply by sleeping with a stranger's child or trying to be their "best friend" and ignoring the age and power dynamic...MJ and his enablers were all putting these kids' wellbeing and emotional health at risk (again and again). He without a doubt put his own needs (legal or otherwise) before these innocent kids. Again, this is indisputable based on documentary evidence.

I don't know about anyone else but I've never slept with strangers' kids, or promoted that idea as "acceptable" as MJ did in interviews. I have enough common sense and know what adults are capable of. And what I could be accused of. You just don't do it under any circumstances. Unless you believe rules/laws/morality...don't apply to you. 👈

And if you wonder why people push back so hard on the facts of this sad case...even after his death...then you need to understand that the MJ estate generates $400-800 million a year for his family and lawyers, who are the people that push back the hardest.

And fans push back...because MJ spent decades brain washing us all that he was a protector of children around the world...as his own HIStory tour claimed. And he was a good entertainer who we wanted to love.

I watched MJ's 1996 deposition video recently and was stunned at how careless/callous he was. He laughed and joked and yawned and messed about while lawyers and the authorities literally pulled his carefully built reputation through the mud.

This was a man who had the most expensive legal team in the entire world. He had months to prepare. But this was his plan. To behave like the claims, so serious they could put him away for life, were a joke.

And if that was a legal strategy, it makes him the best actor and liar on earth. And if that's true...then how could we trust anything he said.

A man child who lived in a literal make believe land based around the dream of never growing up...or more accurately never taking responsibility for his actions...Never never...land.

In many ways MJ was all the wonderful things he claimed he was...but he was also someone who was 100% guilty of gross misconduct with other peoples' children and allegedly guilty of countless cases of sexual abuse.

Even if MJ's crime was only consistently terrible judgment...it still lead to the widely proven emotional abuse of multiple children. That is enough for me as a fan...to walk away. And those who covered for him were/are equally guilty of a form of abuse against vulnerable children.

All except the victims who lied out of fear (and love). Children will defend their friends...their idol...their abusers...but as adults, and in his death, some were able to break free of their emotional dependency or fear of repercussion.

Arguably the alleged victims have had their lives destroyed twice. Once by MJ and then again by his estate, his fans, and the media.

Summary:

There are always two sides. I base my opinion on MJ's own documented words and actions. Alongside my wish for him to be innocent, but knowing my own experience with sexual predators.

It is MJ who convicted himself as guilty of child abuse. I don't know exactly what type of abuse, but any abuse (and repeated abuse) is unacceptable. And without a doubt, a number of the children he chose to be involved with were damaged through their interaction with him. The latter cannot be overstated. People focus so much on victim testimony and material evidence (which are important too, and were present at Neverland) but MJ's own response to the accusation makes it clear as day.

There are enough victims of undeniable abuse at his hands who also claim there was a sexual element to it...that I feel it is fair to say he was most likely a pedophile. More than enough kids have stated he showed them porn and gave them liquor, on top of abuse. At the end of the day, he cannot do any more harm, though his family and estate still hurt his alleged victims.

I have never bought the skin disease theory. At best, Jermaine tiptoed around it and said they were using bleaching creams in the 70s for blemishes....the fact is, you can trigger it all over your body by using those chemicals. Plus MJ went full body dark like mocha, then latte, then casper all at once...that doesn't happen. No makeup in the 70s to 80s could cover him from head to toe as he was pouring sweat.

So stop re-victimizing the victims! If you want to continue believing he's innocent, that doesn't mean it's ok to bash the accusers.

Being found not guilty in one trial against one accuser does not automatically equate to innocence. Especially with all the other allegations.

7 notes · View notes

jaewrotethis · 1 year

Text

7- Twice...

I must’ve died, or maybe I never woke up and I’m still in bed. Or perhaps, I’m still in the asylum, sedated heavily, and never was released back into the world. The evolving world with boys that can fly. I raise my shaking fingers to pinch my arm, looking at my hand while doing so. I blink hard, then pinch harder.

The boy lets out a simple ‘ha’ only more so a laugh, “You’re not in a dream,”

“I, um,” I cross my arms, not realizing I was squinting. I swallow hard, “Who are ‘they’?”

What was that? Pick a better question.

“Who the hell are you? Why were you in my room, what-?” I shake my head closing my eyes, his are so piercing I need a moment. “How did you fly?”

His expression changes, he looks defensive. His smile shying away, his face becoming upset. He still though, looks so in control of himself.

“Who are you?” He steps to me.

I back up, now I’m defensive. He looks older than me, chiseled chin, wise eyes as if they’ve seen more than I’ll ever dream of. His skin is dark and his eyes even darker. He steps closer, quicker than before and grabs my left arm, pulling it in. He shoves my sleeve up faster than he snatched my arm, revealing the almost scars. His expression changes again. A curious state overwhelms his eyes, he goes to touch the lines. I yank my arm back.

“What are you-”

“I’ve seen this before. What does it mean?” He asks me, lost in his own thought.

“Why did you come to my window? What are you doing here?”

“What made you do it?”

I’m surprised at his questions, though it can’t last long when a bubbling anger of only questions and no answers is rising. The flying light bulb, then zips up from the edge of the building, behind the boy. It springs right at us. I flinch thinking it’s going to hit me in the face, but it circles me and returns to its spot behind the boys shoulder.

“What the hell is that?” I ask recovering from flinching.

“Tell me the cause of it,” he points to my arm.

He’s been watching us.

Why else was he in the bedroom? Why does he want to know so bad? The sudden speak of the second voice next to me makes me flinch harder, as I forgot she was there.

“My, my mother,” I’m distracted by the flying light, the cold adrenaline, and the physical appearance of the voice in my head.

“You’re lying,”

“A man,” my mind goes blank of reasoning.

“What does it mean-wait, the man from the brick buildings?” his face scrunching, “That doesn’t make any sense,”

“How did you know about that?” an instant fear stabs my stomach.

“I don’t understand,” He points at the ground far, far below but all I can focus on is the fact that he saw what happened.

He was probably apart of it. He must’ve seen us kill him. He would’ve raped and killed us!

He begins walking to me still speaking.

“Get away from me!” I turn around to run away.

I barely take a step before he’s standing in front of me. Standing there impossibly instantly. I turn right into him, his fingers closing around my biceps. The trigger forces me into panic.

“Stop! Get away!” Don’t hurt me-” I stop when his hand wipes the air in front of my face- then black.

------------------------------------------

His P.O.V.

This human girls words echoes in my head, Don’t hurt me!

Such terror in her voice then cut off so quickly. I nearly stammer for a breath as she hits the ground, hard. I lean against the wall of this building’s doorway. The skin on my face feels hot. My heart beating in my chest in a speed most unusual to me. It’s only to stop the spinning do I pull at the roots of my hair. Resorting to sitting down on the cement, knees up, elbows on knees, I take the moment to think.

Something about this girl…

This girl spills an energy so different. Such a powerful source deep within her, it’s a miracle it exists in this realm. I could sense it the moment I reached the Mainland. Shadow couldn’t seem to understand the concept of moving on about it for a reason I didn’t believe until I saw her for the first time. It wasn’t my intent to be seen. Curiosity won out, again, when I crept too close only to panic and fly away when she opened her eyes and saw me. From there it was plain unreasonable to leave such power shivering on a case of metal stairs. But I had gotten sloppy, thinking it was my responsibility to save all that power from the cold.

She should never have seen me.

I should’ve left her on the metal stairs.

I shouldn’t have brought her here.

She’s so young, so immature. What was I thinking getting involved? She’s a child! A selfish child jumping off buildings, wasting all that power.

I look at her crumpled body on the floor.

“Why is there so much?” I ask quietly.

Tink tugs on a lock of my hair in concern.

“Why is there so much of it?” I say to Tink, gesturing at the glow of the girls worth that shades off of her magic core.

She shakes her head and raises her arms.

“It’s not natural. In THIS world? THAT much? Why? Why her?” my agitated movements shoo Tink away as I stand up, pacing.

I absolutely can not stand this nerve wrecking emotion. A ticking away calmness into uneasy heat, cooking in my chest. I stop pacing and look at the girl on the floor. Hair in her face, arms by her head. She’s doing this. She is causing this unnerving emotion. I grunt in anger of having a single unknown anything inside my head. Curiosity always starving to know what I don’t understand and right now it’s famished.

I look to the sun, rising now. The sky turning blue with a pink light. The colors remind me of real magic. Not like the failing to grow loss on the floor. The bright sparkling edges of the sky drift my thoughts to power. As if my train of thought rides passed the pieces that I had put together of her unsettling nerve. I slowly look over to the girl on the floor. Magic is fueled by belief. This girl’s belief is what I’ve been feeling. Her imagination and natural wondering faith is so strong, stronger than any other’s I’ve ever felt, only heard of. Ancient tales retell of beings with such power and no knowledge of how to wield it. They’ve become the greatest threats in history. The girl suddenly becomes a target. A danger that can grow into something catastrophic.

“Tink, do you think..?” I ask her but she’s already shaking her head.

“She could be the next mayhem,-”

She shakes her head shouting at me now, Let this world kill her spirit, that is what this one does, remember? Let her grow up!

She acts grossed out when she says ‘grow up’, and makes me laugh. She smiles when I do so. I consider what Tink says. She gives me the easiest option, to walk away as it’s none of my concern. Killing the girl to avoid a potential threat in the future isn’t necessary. And harboring the power to grow it myself is an unlikely project. Thus, I shrug.

“Come on,” I say to my friend and sprint off the building.

The thought of wasting such a powerful resource wants to anger me. But I can only angle the anger at the girl for starting all this in the first place. As I break the sound barrier flying away, I can’t help but feel that I might have lost a great opportunity. She’s almost like an anonymous toy I have no time to play with and figure out. I dislike the conflicting feeling she gives me as if it’s an impossible itch in my skin, in my mind that I can’t and probably won’t ever be able to scratch. Misplaced, unfamiliar, contradicting, almost wrong. She’s so strongly sourced yet so pathetically weak to misspend all that power. I almost go back, maybe to try to save all that power. But its a risk I don’t care to take. If she lasts until she’s an adult it will die and be wasted anyway.

What a waste.

I fly straight into the sky. The further I soar away from her, the easier it is to drop the anxious feeling. I exhale, relaxing and aligning with the bright white star. Second to the right, I fly straight home. Never to see her again. Never to return to this world again. Except, maybe, for new recruits.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Five Years Later…

Her P.O.V.

“Jaynessa please, last one. I won’t bother you for a week,”

“It’s Jane! And you said that yesterday.” I try slamming the door harder but she shoves on the other end.

“I know, I’m sorry, I’m trying do a good job so Tris doesn’t fire me, please, just take it,”

“No, I said!” I throw my shoulder into the door.

Footsteps approach the door on her side and the door busts open. I take the blow to the head and get knocked to the tiled floor. Two guards stand in the doorway with her now.

“Jane, if you don’t you know she’s going to come in and force you,” Charlotte pleads.

“I’m not scared of her,”

“Seriously, Jaynessa, you’re going to be eighteen now. Stop being so immature.” it wasn’t Charlotte speaking.

It’s Tris’s voice. She steps into the room beside the guards. Her face smile plastered on her fake lips. Pencil skirt too tight, and hair done up. She kneels down beside me, placing her caked face too close to mine.

“Your birthday is tomorrow, let’s not be moved to the top of the Treatment List so soon.” she takes the small syringe from Charlotte’s hand, “Take the medicine,”

“It’s. Jane.” I say through my teeth.

I slap the needle holding the cold drugs from her hand and run for the door. The guards were here to intimidate, none of the adults thought I’d actually try running. I push Charlotte’s small figure into one of the guards and force my way into the hallway. I’m on my feet and running before they can exit my room. I push other inmates out of my way as I bolt through the community room.

“Making a break for it again, Jane?” I hear a fellow inmate call behind me.

I get to the end of the hallway to the lobby and yank open the heavy doors. All the while, footsteps behind me, chasing after me.

“Jane! Stop!” Charlotte cries echo in the white halls.

Not a chance.

Poor girl. Brainwashed like the rest of them. I shut the doors behind me locking them loudly. On the other side of the room the hallways divide into four ways. The hallway on the far right obtains my exit. Sprinting down it, panting as I run, I don’t stop until I’ve reached the glass doors to the lobby. Just one more set of doors after that and I’m outside. The glass doors slam loudly with my hands as I snatch at them to swing open. A nurse behind a desk in the lobby shouts at me as I rush through the threshold, aiming for the exit doors.

“Hey!” Stop!”

“Oops,”

Fists closed at my running sides, I run passed her for the exit. But I don’t make it. Just before I reach the interior of the door frame with my outstretched finger tips, someone slams into me from the right side. He’s big and he tackles me to the white floor. I’m rolled over and pinned down on my stomach with my hands behind my back, just as Tris and the rest come rushing in, out of breath. I’m wincing from new bruises of contacting the tile in the way I just did and Charlotte gives me a look of pity as we both know there will be consequences. Tris’s high heels click loudly on the tiled floor as she walks over to me.

“Tisk, tisk, Jane. What was your plan?”

I glare up at Tris.

“Make it passed the side doors? What about the fifteen foot electric fence around the perimeter, hm?”

“You’ve got lipstick on your teeth,” my breath struggled under the male nurse on top of me.

“Two weeks. In the box.” she says looking down at me.

“No. Tris that’s too long, she-” Charlotte starts.

“She will have a usual punishment just as anyone else would,” Tris cuts her off with a rising voice.

Her eyes go back to me, she’s enjoying me on the floor.

“But-,”

“It’s alright, Charlotte. I have friends waiting for me in there,” I say to her.

Tris snaps her fingers at me and the guards at the door pull out a white pouch that I know too well.

“Hey. Hey, no, Tris, you don’t have to do that.” I plead to her, looking back and forth from her to the opening pouch, “Come on, I’m not fighting. Tris!” I shout louder as she walks away.

The guard steps to me. The pouch is opened, its contents pieced together.

“No, no, no, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to-”I fight now away from them, “no, no!” I’m crying now as the needle digs into the back of my neck.

Charlotte looks away as the guards sit me up and push my head forward to stick the needle in my skin. I feel the cold liquid spread from my neck to my spine. Too soon it’s in my head, my eyes spotting with black circles, and I fall into the guard’s arms.

- - - - - – - - - - - - - - - - – - - - - -

When I come to a small light hanging above my small bed swings slightly high above. I turn my stiff neck to recognize where I am. The box. Solitary. A tiny metal toilet with a sink attached to the top of it sits in the corner. And that’s it.

The door is thick and only has a small opening for trays of food to be sent through. I know a small vent sits on the wall under the bed that I lay on. The only other characteristic of the room would be a sky light, high above in the ceiling. The light bulb sways and will flicker off when the timer goes off, indicating it’s daytime. Sun light will be my only source of light through that small skylight until dusk breaks and the light bulb flicks back on. I grunt and sit up, shaking away the lingering medication fatiguing me. They must’ve thrown on the thin bed in anger with the way the back of my head aches. Quick movements are a dizzying factor thanks to the poison trying to leave my blood. There’s an itchy emotion that longs for me to open the window for air, but it’s too high. I suppose that’s the point of it.

Two weeks.

I’ve done longer. A whole month one time last year. I had been stashing doses, claiming I never received my dailies and building an inventory to sell to other girls. Tris was livid when I was caught with far too much of our currency in here. It was heard that she was demoted or something similar, something bad enough to make her rage incredibly so. Enough so, that I lost the few human rights I had left. My birthday passed in this box, as it will again this year. My tally marks for every last minute of being 16 are still behind the bed frame, I’m sure. I kept such special track for when we turn 18, extra treatments are added to our narrow window of effective dose from lethal dose. And I know Tris has been dying to see me try to handle another treatment.

Experimenting is all medical practice. Their new ‘medication’ is only successful through sacrificed inmates, which comes in waves. When they discover a new solution they’d like to test, they choose one of us to take the leap of faith. By law we are only supposed to get a maximum of 4 treatments, or experiments, before we are in lethal danger. No more until we turn 18, for when we reach that age, apparently we become invincible adults that can handle chemical torture. They give us as many treatments as they want when we reach what they call maturity.

There’s been 19 girls dead from the treatments since I’ve returned to Bromley on that cold Saturday morning. Some of them good girls. Girls that were nothing but scared and alone. I’ve dreaded turning 18 ever since the first one went missing. Deep fear of death alone and humiliation up until the final moments lurks in my heart, for Tris would absolutely adore seeing me choke to death on my own vomit, while brutally hallucinating. But she hasn’t been allowed to come for me just yet, that is, until tomorrow.

I don’t remember how many doses I’ve been given. The last five years has been one long sickness, fearful of turning 18 and being killed by their drugs for surveillance. It’s become a scarring obsession to be reminded how I had the whole waking world to explore just before being put back here to die under their circumstances.

I was found on the rooftop by a police search helicopter. Mother believed I ran away, somehow, through the entire city and on top of the highest building in only hours. She did exactly what she said she would do. She convinced the doctors that the bruises on my flesh were self inflicted. She managed to get her own bruises by then and claimed it was me that caused them. Her word against mine won out, in the eyes of everyone, I was a danger. So I caved and did as she willed. She wanted me to be a danger, a monster, so I became one. The only moment of opportunity I had I took it and dosed her right there in the office where she signed away my life. She was choking on her own stomach acid by the time I was being hauled to the back of the coo coo bus. I wasn’t even 14 yet, and I’m not meant to leave here until I’ve improved completely, the nice way of saying ‘never’. No exact number of days until I can leave. No release date or sentence. I’m here until forever as far as my mind knows. My constant sedated, treatment induced mind.

But my mind isn’t complete trash. I no longer fall into depression or panic attacks. I suppose, that’s their reasoning for proof of effectiveness. All panic and feelings of self pity are replaced with constant thoughts of the flying boy who called himself ‘Peter Pan’. In the beginning I thought I’d dreamt him. I woke on the rooftop with immediate thoughts of the scary dream that took me across the city. Thinking it was some sort of deep sleep walk across the London streets. But my sleeve was still rolled up, where he had so curiously shoved it up my arm. Old faded scars now but I knew, then, that it was real. The whole morning, the flight, the magic, it was all real. He was real. I became obsessed with the entire morning I had and his ability. My entire mind was absorbed in the idea of him as a way out of everything horrible. Something about him was a real escape from life, for flying was a lie, and yet, he did it. He knew so much more than I did and I needed to know what it was. I was too wrapped in the thought of what he might know that I couldn’t even try to fight my way out of being institutionalized. Not that it would have even mattered if I did try.

The obsession of an escape became a loathing. A powerful loathe for the escape that left me behind. I was certain he didn’t save my life for no reason, and so positive he’d come back to finish the conversation. I went mad trying to think of how to even begin to find him when I’m a prisoner in one building. I believed he would return to be the escape I wanted him so badly to be. But time flew faster than he did, he never returned, and no one ever listened. No one ever believed me and I never got a single question answered. It would drive anyone mad. Hate grew in my heart because only I knew the truth. Only I saw it first hand. It is the one truth I still know. Therefore, I grew to hate the boy that called himself Peter Pan.

My days are spent wishing for revenge and a way out of this prison. I deserve answers after all these years. I’m consumed with understanding what he was, what he was thinking, what he did, why he did it. The boy should pay for what he’s done. Had he never come into my life I wouldn’t be a prisoner and a lab rat destined to die strapped to a chair, I was free. But that boy in green decided to save my life and then disappear without a trace, spiraling my life all over again.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The Next Day…

I dull my fingernails to add another tally mark to my collection behind the bed. Today I’ve turned 18, and I wonder just how many minutes I have left before Tris unlocks the door to take me to the lab. I just know she’s been waiting for today. And I just know, my days have been numbered and that number has never been closer. I don’t let myself cry as I hear footsteps come close to the door. I shove the bed back into place to hide the tallies and I wait. The small door opens and a food tray slides into my cell. I exhale, and the tears are harder to keep in somehow. I ignore the tray and again when another comes in, hours later, for dinner. The sun sets and still I haven’t been seized. I begin to wonder if Tris is purposely building the suspense, to add to the mental strain, the worst type of torture.

I lie on my back on the bed, with my hands under my head, ankles crossed. I had moved the bed with its side to the wall. I sit thinking about the papers and journal I have behind a tile in my room. I long to get back to my room to add to it. Writing thoughts down is critical here, for the medication is unpredictable and thoughts can be lost forever. And I know they will not let me out for a single day without dosing me. I miss seeing ink on paper, wet as I write then dry behind my hand as it wipes across the paper. As I’m reminiscing in the aesthetic, the light above me flickers, then shuts off. My room now pitch black with the exception of the moonlight shining through the window on the ceiling. I sit up.

Cheap asylum, can’t even have decent light bulbs.

The moon casts a faint blue light through my tiny window in a squared stream. The rest of the box called a room is black. I sit up to lean against the wall, still on the bed. I stare at the darkness, where I know the door is but it’s too dark to see. My jaw clenches with fear of the door opening any, just any second now. A real fear in my bones that produces the fake belief that the door is opening. Further and further it opens. Waiting to take me to the lab to receive the next treatment. My heart wants to shutter from the fake visions until the stream of light suddenly flickers.

A shadow of some sort passes over the skylight, causing the flicker. The stream blinked for just a second, I’d’ve missed it had I not been staring right through it. I suppose the shadow might have been a bird or a bat. Still, I sit up taller, studying it closely. The stream of light flashes again, as if someone, maybe, jumped over the window. But I hear no footsteps or thumping around up there. The third time the shadow appears it partially covers my small source of light and stays in one spot. I stare frozen in terror.

A person’s shadow sits in the middle of the window. But for some reason I don’t believe that shadow is attached to anyone. I jump to the end of my bed to look up into the glass of the window. What I see runs my blood cold and pounds my head with hot panic. It’s not just a shadow. It’s the shadow. It’s the demon. The spirit that chased me when I was 13. Its eyeless face stares at me through the glass way up there. A scream tries erupting from my throat but the frozen fear stops it as a whole breath caught. The demon rises its arms up over its head and dives through the glass without so much as cracking it. It sinks right through the glass, and all I can do is blink. It calmly seeps all the way down, looking third dimensional instead of creeping on the surface of anything, until it’s hovering above my bed. I’m stiff, staring at it, feeling like I might wet myself.

Not. Again.

Shock freezes my body as it lowers lower, and lower, slowly. It meets my level, a small breath leaves me lips as a second of silence passes, dread and fear filling the air in the room. Then in an instant it grabs both of my ankles. It yanks forward, pulling me from the bed. I flinch but it’s already taking off upward with a very firm, very painful grip on me. The scream finds its way out and rips from my throat, pain stimulates up my legs from the demons cold hands. The floor suddenly in front of my face as it shoots up through the window with its tight grip on me. The glass shatters around me. I cover my head with my arms but it does nothing to stop the shards of glass from scraping and cutting into my skin. I slide through the window upside down, just behind the demon. It grips tighter, I see the rooftop of the asylum lowering further and further away.

I’m screaming in fright as my mind is trying to figure out what is happening to me. The demon flies with such speed, I become flat, cutting through the air, no more pain in my joints. A feeling returns, I’ve only ever felt once before, the glee of flight. The rush of thrill. The tiny growing sense of fun eating up the fear, or the fear becoming something I really, really like. The sense is destroyed when the demon dips down, throwing it’s grip on me upwards, at the same time letting go of me. I’m forced up into the sky, screaming like a little girl, midair. The demon tosses me up, only to catch me by under my arms, and carry me by my pits with its forearms.

More terror fills my stomach as I look down at the country far, far below my dangling feet. The terror quadruples in heavy strength as the demon lets go of my right arm, only holding on by my left. I scream again and reach to hold onto it in pleading fear. The clouds behind surround us now. My hair whipping behind me. My skin cold and my patient outfit fly about, showing off skin. With the spirits free hand it holds out a fist in front of my face and opens it. For one fraction of a second I stare at the fist in confusion but then I realize what’s about to happen.

Son of a bitch, that’s twice now! I think.

Then it opened its fist and all this blue powder flies into my face. The blue dust flies back into my face, forcing me to want to sneeze. A familiar scent of shampoo fills my head. My eyelids drop and the throbbing, warm pain of being held by one arm disappears. My head falls, I see the sky below my feet, then black.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I hear loud wind in my ears. Hearing it wakes up the pain deep inside of them from the cold. My hair licks and pulls against my scalp. Under my arms increasingly grows warm with soreness and I finally open my eyes. The clouds are all gone. All I can see is blackness speckled with bright stars. Millions of shiny stars cover where the ground should be, to the left, and to the right. Sky in a complete 360 degrees. The stars burn with fire, clear detail in all colors. The blazing orbs glow with deep red flames that lick blue then purple, but it’s also a neon yellow fading orange, green, blue and all the rest. A heavenly core peeking through magical flames.

Stars aren’t white at all…

My situation not coming to mind at all until I become dizzy when I try to find where up and down is. I didn’t even feel the delicate layer of ice forming on my skin, or the ice flake shards growing from my strands of hair and face. The darkness morphs with a dark blue crawling through the black. The dark blue becomes a shade lighter, then another shade. I am able to make out a black figure in the far distance ahead of us. A large figure, not really a shape, but a land mass. The blue becomes shades lighter, the mass nears faster than I feel us moving, and the stars beneath me sound like waves. I look down to see black and blue waves only reflecting stars, and I’m unsure how long the waves have been there. I look up at the figure again. It’s instantly closer and the demon releases my arms entirely.

I war cry out at the demon. My stomach jumping to my throat. I fall through the sky, looking down to see where I’ll land but I already hit it. I land hard, hearing water. Waves. The night sky displays the bright stars and an even brighter moon, lighting the scene of a beach. I lay on my back for a moment, choking to get my air back. The wind slammed out of me, head vibrating with dizzying pain. I let out a tough and long cough. Then snap upward gasping. I cough and sputter, my eyes tearing up, air slowly getting easier to come. My heart finally slows down the less I cough. I realize my fists are full of sand. I release, dusting my palms together then wipe sand from my face. I examine my surroundings, choking on a sob.

A forest, thick and dark, sits in the night behind me. The moon is too big it looks unreal, the huge body of water is a sickening dark blue. An ocean by the salty smell. The demon had disappeared into the night sky before I hit the ground. The moon shines white on the sand. No sign of people or civilization anywhere.

What the fuck…

The cold begins to hit me. I hold myself. My skin is ice cold. I stand up looking around seeing the land curve inward into the water on the far left. The wind blows cold in an ominous whistle echoing from the lagoon. I begin walking down the beach, confused, cold, dizzy, and hurting from fresh bruises. I rub my arms but the goosebumps remain. I feel warm bruises on my under arms, especially the left one.

Where am I?

Am I free?

I wonder if the asylum life is over now. Nothing of my night makes any sense, I don’t know where I am. I don’t know why the spirit dropped me on a beach in the middle of the night. I begin to think I died and this is what hell is, maybe.

Maybe the demon drops souls here to be eaten by Satan himself… Maybe the hell is that I will be alone on a cold beach for all eternity…

I fail to make sense of anything or come to any conclusions. My feet stop walking and turn to face the woods. I stare at it completely hypnotized. Then I walk into the woods. Scary woods, in an unknown place, at night, alone, is a bad idea. But I’m following something. A noise. A sound. A song. A pitched whistling from a pipe or a flute of some sort. It’s faint and hard to hear behind the wind. But the soft peaceful song, lures me right to it.

I trip over fallen logs and large roots. My feet getting caught in vines and bush bits. My arms gain small scrapes, tiny slices. I step on sharp rocks, sticks and stickers that cut my feet. I push pass heavy leaves, and thick bushes that leave cuts in my hands. None if matters, the song is so luring. I’m still in the institution clothes. The white shirt and white pants that are distributed to us monthly. My once white socks have turned brown from the dirt under my feet and blood from the hike. The song gets louder with each step so onward I push, up and down uneasy hills. I’m not sure how long I’m tripping and stumbling through the woods, basically blind from the night, when the song stops. I stop with it instantly in my tracks. As if I were sleepwalking and just woke up the second it stops, my sense snaps back to me. The forest is dark. Darker than dark. Barely any moonlight seeps through the thick canopy.

Why the fuck did I just venture into pitch black woods?

I hold my breath, listening. I hear animals in the distance. Close distance. Loud, monster sounding animals. Dangerous, rabid sounding animals thumping between trees in every direction but remain unseen. Something doesn’t feel right, besides fear, and besides uncertainty, something else. An icy shiver spikes down my spine and spreads to cover each and every bone in my body. Hard. And painful. But just for one quick second, then it’s gone completely. But before I can think about what that icy feeling was, I feel a second feeling. A more familiar sense from behind me. This one I recognize as the sixth sense. The sense that hints that someone has their eyes on me. Or that their right behind me.

I spin around throwing my fist at whoever is standing directly behind me. My fist comes in contact with someone’s palm. He’s a boy. Hooded in a dark cloak. A mask, hard to see in the darkness, covers his face except for his mouth. His curving-into-a-smile mouth. He twists my fist forcing me to turn the other way with my arm behind my back.

“What the hell-” my own cry of pain escapes as he kicks the back of my knees, knocking me to the ground and shooting pain up my shoulder with the arm that he holds.

My knees dig into the dirt, both wrists now in his one hand. A second boy steps out of the bush in front of me. He to is hooded but I can’t see his face in the dim, almost nonexistent, moonlight behind him. His hands at his side, I feel the sick smile on his face.

“Aw, damn, what is this?” the boy holding me down complains.

He’s not asking me but asking the second boy in front of us. I hear rustling around us, fearful the scary sounding animals have found us. But now that I focus on it, the animals have gone completely silent.

Don’t be scared. Don’t cry. I tell myself.

I start struggling to stand but the boy pushes me back down sending pain up my shoulders.

“Who are you?” I demand.

The boy in front of me replies, “That’s not how this works, love.”

I freeze.

That phrase.

That voice.

It can’t be.

I look up but he’s just a cloaked silhouette. The rustling stops when boys surrounding us step from their hiding spots and light lanterns. Every single one of them masked and cloaked. All masked except the one in front of me. The lamps lit, and I see his face.

“Whoa,” slips from my lips as I stare at the boy in front of me.

His smirk hasn’t changed. His face, somehow, older. His figure, bigger, stronger, he looks older. His brown eyes somehow darker. His clothes no longer green and brown, but everything replaced black. A small lock of brown hair is fallen between his eyebrows with the rest of it stuffed in his black hat. It is him. His eyes fall on me and his expression changes. From prideful and energized to confusion and discomfort, his face falls. His eyes widen and his jaw almost, just almost, drops. With his guard down for that one instant I lose all confused fear and gain control.

“You!” I yell suddenly overflowing with anger.

My stomach heats with a rage I’ve never felt before. I fight to stand, stronger this time with anger as fuel. The boy in all black backs up, his breath increasing. Obviously, uneasy, I take it as a win and nearly stand all the way.

“You. What are you doing here? How did you find this place!” he switches to anger.

His fists ball and he walks to me. His eyes burn with the same rage in mine. I stare at him confused at the very faint red glow around his entire torso, chest, arms, hands, all of it. I look at it blinking and thinking it’s a trick of the very faint moonlight. But my eyes go back up to meet his and seeing his anger only infuriates me more. He has no reason, no right, to be angry.

“You! You’re the reason! They put me back because of you! It was all cause of you! It was your fault! All of it!” I’m so angry I yell only what I can.

My thoughts flying through my head I can only yell unexplained nonsense. I’ve never felt anger like this before. The red glow lightly pours off my own skin and I take notice to it. I compare it to the glow coming off of him. Suddenly, it’s an instinct to allow the anger to explode. In doing so, the red glow is taken from his chest as I absorb it all and throw it out in all directions. I yank down, away from the boy holding me just as the red glow gets torn from Pan, absorbed into my hands, and then thrown out all around me. All the boys surrounding us stumble but not by much and the one holding me gets knocked back, I’m free.

You die now, Peter Pan!

I don’t waste not one second trying to figure out how the red glow listened to me and blasted into everyone around me. I charge the boy who ruined my life. Only two masked boys are already running at me. And it only took one to take me down. He slams into my chest with his outstretched arm, running passed me. I hit the ground, back first, wind yet again taken from my lungs. The boy in black stands over me.

Pan. His name repeating in my head.

“I told you, that’s not how this works,” then he brushes his hand over my face lightly.

My eyes fall. Relaxation grabs all my muscles. I breathe deep and slip into unconsciousness.

7 notes · View notes

yeonjun4beagles · 1 year

Text

neverland, my love, 이젠 안녕

#cj!shitpost #leaving neverland #i am so in love with the song

2 notes · View notes

hello-nichya-here · 6 months

Note

I'm sorry, Robson and Safechuck did WHAT

You heard me. They used the erotic fiction of an actual pedophile as their "statements" against Michael Jackson.

The fucker's name is Victor Gutierrez. He was part of NAMBLA - North American Man-Boy Love Association. It's literally a group of pedos pushing for the laws of north america to treat pedophilia as normal.

He wrote the book "Michael Jackson was my lover" and passed it off as Jordan Chandler's (the original accuser) diary, and in the book he claims the two were IN LOVE, Jordan consented, and they even had a "secret wedding", with vows and rings exchanged. Obviously Jordan denied over and over that anything mentioned in that book is truth, and the supposed "wedding" is never mentioned in his accusations.

And in "Leaving Neverland", Wade Robson and James Safechuck literally claimed that, at the time they felt they were in love and basically dating Michael, and that part of their abuse included... a secret wedding with vows and rings exchanged.

Literally all they did was change the tone from "This is a love story" to "Michael made us believe our abuse was just love." But they still had the nerve to not only falsely acuse Michael, but of also using the wet dreams of a proud pedo, who was probably masturbating to the thought of Michael abusing Jordan, and pass it off as "our tragic tale of how we survived something horrible."

Words cannot describe how immoral this is.

#asks #michael jackson #mj innocent #leaving neverland

15 notes · View notes

moi-ennepe · 2 years

Text

James Safechuck's mother's bit in LN always gets me because... she says she danced with joy when Michael died in 2009 because "he can't hurt any more children" but her son actually says that he didn't realise he was abused until 2013, so she couldn't have known. but IF she knew, then why didn't she contact the authorities? why did she let James spend time with Michael well after the first allegations?? that statement holds less water than a pasta drainer

#james safechuck #leaving neverland #michael jackson #mjinnocent

2 notes · View notes

washethemaninthemirror · 19 days

Text

01. Inicio

En 2003 se estrenaba el documental "Living With Michael Jackson", documental que causo polemica por comentarios cuestionables que hacia el famoso artista sobre los niños. Ademas de estos particulares comentarios, Michael Jackson tenia un comportamiento cuestionable: un comportamiento que consistia en deshonestidad, manipulacion, mentiras, narcisismo, drogas y acusaciones de abuso sexual.

Aunque tras su fallecimiento en 2009 la gente empezo a sentir lastima por Jackson y su imagen quedo mas limpia, salio en 2019 el documental "Leaving Neverland" hecho por Dan Reed, documental el cual nos hace escuchar los relatos de Wade Robson y James Safechuck, quienes afirman haber sido abusados sexualmente por el cantante, asi como escuchamos el relato de sus familias.

Si bien la comunidad "Moonwalker" siempre fue hostil con los acusadores de Jackson, todo se fue de las manos tras la salida de este documental. Videos de YouTube, documentales en contra, pancartas en autobuses, pequeñas protestas en la calle… en general todas las redes sociales se llenaron de informacion falsa y comentarios agresivos. Todo lo que sea para "refutar" el documental y las acusaciones anteriores. Y no solo fanaticos, sino tambien su propia familia, ex-abogados y quienes se hacen llamar "periodistas" subieron a este tren.

Michael no era una persona perfecta. Si bien fue de los artistas mas exitosos y vendio millones de discos su vida era una mierda. Estaba obsesionado con las cirugias plasticas, las "relaciones romanticas" que tenia con adultos no eran creibles, tuvo una mala infancia y jugo un papel en su muerte. Pero la gente glorifica a Michael Jackson y trata a sus acusadores como si fueran el diablo. Es un culto.

Obviamente siempre podemos decir que nunca sabremos lo que realmente paso, no estuvimos alli. Pero toda la cantidad de informacion incorrecta y conspiraciones ronda por el internet, la cual hace que victimas se queden calladas por miedo a no ser creidas, y tiene que ser refutada.

¿Fue Michael Jackson el "hombre del espejo"? En este blog no veremos.