Note; Just for fun since me and my friend were talking about Michael Jackson killing Blanket.
"Happy birthday Blanket!" A man said, wrapping his arm around the now 12 year old boy.
The man was none other than Michael Jackson, said boy's father. He was a shorter man with a lanky posture and an extremely pale face. Greasy black hair hung back, some stray bits sitting over his brown eyes.
"Thank dad." Blanket smiled warmly.
"Come on, I have a special present for you, Blanket." Jackson grinned, the corners of his mouth curling widely.
"Cool." Blanket said unenthusiastically. His father's presents could range from a gigantic pink plush rabbit, or a new videogame system. "Where is it?"
"Downstairs, silly! Where else would I hide a super-secret surprise?" Michael chirped with an over-excited voice. It did make sense. Blanket's father never let him in their basement. If he had been hiding a surprise, of course he'd put it somewhere Blanket wasn't allowed to go in the first place.
"Hurry, now, Blankie." Jackson's voice dropped to a more serious tone. "We don't have much time."
Blanket shrugged and trotted to their basement door, anticipation biting at his stomach. He hastily opened the door, and a pitch black basement loomed before him.
"Go on in, Blanket." Michael said from behind his son. "I'll turn the lights on in a bit."
Blanket nodded and walked in, hopping in place. He bumped into something in the midst, soft and smooth. In the dim light, he could barely make out the form of a ceramic mask. He heard a click and the door behind him shut, blocking any light that could enter the room.
"Ready, Blanket?" Michael sounded rather determined to unveil the surprise.
"Uh-huh." Blanket said, admiring the mask. It's detailed face was in a form of shock, and it looked so... Real.
In a split second, the lights flickered on. Instead of luminescent artificial light filling Blanket's eyes, however, red light poured into the room. It was still dim, but Blanket could make out the room much better now.
It was rather roomy, with a cross hooked to the middle of the back wall. Several books lay in a shelf near the same wall, neatly stacked. Masks were on display everywhere, faces staring down at Blanket with terrified or agonized expressions. Blanket was slightly nervous now, and the fact that his father blocked off the door wasn't helping. He turned around and nearly fainted.
The mask he'd been examining earlier wasn't a mask. Upon closer inspection, Blanket could easily tell that it was too perfectly detailed to be a mask. The facial expression was in a terrified scream. The face itself was too perfect. Because that's what the 'mask' was. A face.
Fear coursed through Blanket's veins. His lower lip quivered and a cold sweat ran down his face. Something warm brushed against his back and he smashed his hand over his mouth to smother his scream.
"Twelve years old, Blanket." Michael cooed, his voice a low threatening purr. "And such a beautiful face. Such a lovely face." Michaels bony hand cupped Blanket's face. His fingers ran over the young boy's facial features. Blanket shivered profusely, to afraid to push his father's hand away.
"You look so pure, Blanket. Holy, almost." His father's voice was cutting, and it made Blanket flinch. "And every holy thing deserves a cross."
In a fluid movement, Blanket was scooped off the ground. For such a thin guy, his father was strong. But he was a skinny kid, too. Michael had scolded him about overeating several times. Had he been planning that so it'd be easier to pick his son up? Jackson carried him across the red-lit room, his brown eyes void of emotion. Blanket felt himself being set on a wooden surface. The cross, he realized, that he had seen only moments before.
Blanket protested, thrashing wildly. One of his arms managed to hit his father's chin, and Michael was set slightly off-guard for a second. However, he quickly regained his composure and managed to hold Blanket down. With quick hands, Jackson tied his son to the cross. Blanket's arms were wrapped brutally with a frayed rope, and he could already feel his wrists begin to bleed because of the tension. His legs were crossed and tied at the ankles. He clenched his teeth at the dull sting of the tight rope. Even his neck was tied down, but instead of a rope, a rubber wire was used to restrain him.
"Dad, what are you doing?" Blanket choked out, his words laden with fear.
The wiry man in front of him seemed to relish the sound of fear in his son's voice. He let out a hoarse chuckle of amusement and leaned closer to the small boy. His warm breath reeked of rot and decay. A hand crawled up to Blanket's face again, rubbing the cheeks where tears now trickled down.
"Don't cry now, Blankie." He said in a hushed tone. "It'll be over soon. And then your beautiful face will be with daddy forever." A large smile was now apparent on Jackson's face, curling so widely that Blanket was afraid.
Michael smiled warmly at the restricted boy and reached over to one of his many books. Blanket's eyes, although watery, now noticed that the cover was stitched with hair, and the fabric was instead skin. Michael flipped through, displaying the various faces inside. Blanket dully noted that all the faces were fearful, sorrowful, or agonized.
"Aren't they beautiful, Blanket?" Jackson swooned. "They remind me of myself. Before this-" he pointed to his facial features, stopping at his nose and concave cheeks. "-Happened."
Blanket gulped. "Don't I remind you of yourself, too? You wouldn't want to harm such a -er- lovely face, right?" He sounded pathetically desperate, but he could care less.
"To the contrary, my son." Michael grinned wickedly. "I need to preserve your-" he gripped Blanket's cheeks roughly, making said boy cry out in pain, "lovely, lovely, face."
"Especially before it becomes tarnished by age." He added.
Michael walked away and left Blanket there for a moment, walking to a small table in the corner of the room. He shifted some of the things on it and pulled something up that glinted in the blood-red light. Walking back to his son, he draped a reed circlet around his child's head. Then he picked up something sharp.
Blanket gasped at the metallic knife. It was sharp and curved, as if specifically made to peel off flesh. Michael drove the hooked weapon into the pale skin on Blanket's right forearm. Blanket wailed in agony, feeling the knife cut into his skin like it was butter. A warm trail of crimson blood shone in the red light and Blanket could taste his own salty tears on his lips.
"You know why I love the color red?" Michael asked nonchalantly, as if carrying on a normal conversation over coffee. "Because it makes the blood shine so much brighter. So much prettier." He rambled on, his hand driving another hooked blade into the other arm with expert precision.
"Dad, please..." Blanket managed, his words burning into his throat. "Stop..."
"Stop? What did I tell you about quitting, son? We all have responsibilities, and if I turn my back on mine, then what role model would I be?" He said honestly.
Blanket only hung his head in defeat, letting out one more whimper as Michael cut through his skin further. His father grabbed a scalpel from his table again, whistling as he worked. With a steady hand, he gingerly grabbed a syringe. He walked over to his son and gave his forehead a quick, fatherly kiss. Blanket only sobbed further, his body shaking weakly. In one fluid moment, Jackson drove the syringe into his son's neck and injected him with the black fluid inside. The small boy let out a weak, straggled cry of pain and was immediately shushed by his father.
"Don't cry, my beautiful baby boy." He cooed. "Just close your eyes and go to sleep."
Blanket tried fighting off the drowsiness, but he felt his eyelids get heavier and heavier with each dragging second. Within less than a minute, he succumbed to the comforting numbness of eternal sleep and closed his eyes.
Michael smirked in delight, noticing his son's stoic state. With experienced hands, he took the scalpel across his son's angelic face, slowly peeling off his pale skin. He wanted to take things in moderation. He wanted to savor every second of this. Carefully gouging out his son's eyes, he set them in a bloody mess on a metallic tray next to him. He slowly carved out the soft flesh around his lips, making sure to leave a small hole for breathing. Michael's knife glided gracefully across the other cheek and he ripped the newly cut face off with glee. It was perfect.
Michael washed the face off, bleaching the side that had been hidden. He grabbed his book, but a better idea flashed inside his mind. Michael pressed his son's mask to his face, matching up the skin perfectly. While holding it in place, his other hand quickly used the concrete cementing glue and pasted around the edges.
A permanent mask now sat on his face, the features aligning perfectly.
HE was going to be Blanket. HE was going to have the perfect face. It was HIS special day, and he cheerfully walked back up the stairs of his basement to celebrate it.