2020
He pushed himself up on his elbows, looking around the room. The posters on the walls were a mix of faded hip-hop legends and old video game covers. He recognized every detail: the worn-out dresser with a missing drawer, the peeling paint on the walls, and the familiar creak of the wooden floor beneath the weight of his body. It was his old room.
"What the hell?" Zane muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. It felt different—thicker, more like how it was when he was younger. He glanced down at his body and froze. His arms were lean, his skin smooth and unmarked by the scars and tattoos that had accumulated over the years.
"No way," he whispered, heart pounding. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feeling a strange lightness in his limbs. Standing up, he caught sight of himself in the cracked mirror across the room. The face staring back at him was one he hadn't seen in years—eighteen-year-old Zane, before the world had beaten him down.
"How is this possible?" he wondered aloud, stepping closer to the mirror. His mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of his memory. The last thing he remembered was... dying. But how? And why was he here, in his old body, in his old room?
A flash of lyrics crossed his mind, sudden and sharp: "I'm starting with the man in the mirror, I'm asking him to change his ways..." Michael Jackson's voice echoed in his head, clear and haunting. Zane shook his head, trying to dispel the eerie sensation. Why was he hearing Michael Jackson lyrics?
He needed answers. His eyes darted around the room until they landed on his old phone, lying on the cluttered nightstand. He snatched it up, the familiar weight and feel of it grounding him slightly. With trembling fingers, he pressed the power button, praying it still worked. The screen flickered to life, displaying the date and time: September 23, 2020.
"What the...?" Zane's voice trailed off. This wasn't right. He was supposed to be in 2024. He scrolled through the phone, desperate for more information. News apps, social media feeds—everything confirmed the same date. Somehow, impossibly, he had been transported back in time to the end of the COVID-19 pandemic.
Zane sank back onto the bed, his mind racing. The impossibility of the situation gnawed at him. How had he gone from the 2024 back to 2020, and more importantly, why? His body felt impossibly light, almost as if he could leap across the room with ease.
"Don't stop till you get enough..." The lyrics rang through his mind again, insistent and loud. He rubbed his temples, trying to focus. Why Michael Jackson? Why now? The music grew louder, snippets of songs he had known and loved.
"Billie Jean is not my lover..." The words pounded in his head, nearly driving him to distraction. It was as if his brain was a jukebox, and someone had set it to repeat every Michael Jackson hit. The overload of lyrics was becoming unbearable.
He needed to do something, anything, to regain control. Grabbing his phone again, he decided to search for Michael Jackson, hoping for some clue, some connection. His fingers flew across the screen, typing "Michael Jackson."
No results. Zane frowned, double-checking his spelling. He tried again, this time adding "singer," "King of Pop," even "Thriller." Nothing. It was as if Michael Jackson had never existed. His pulse quickened, a sense of unreality tightening its grip on him.
"Smooth criminal..." The lyrics battered his senses. Desperate to escape the relentless assault of music in his mind, he tried searching for more familiar names. Prince came to mind, another legend whose influence had shaped his musical tastes. He typed "Prince" and hit search.
Nothing. No songs, no albums, no images, no articles. Zane's stomach churned. This couldn't be right. He tried other legends—Madonna, David Bowie, Freddie Mercury. They all came up, but Prince and Michael Jackson were conspicuously absent.
"Wanna be starting something, you got to be starting something..." The music was relentless, pushing Zane toward a breaking point. He couldn't understand why these icons were missing from history. His mind buzzed with a hundred questions, each more urgent than the last.
"What's happening to me?" he muttered, his voice cracking with a mix of fear and frustration. He put his phone down and took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He had to think logically, to piece together what he knew.
Somehow, he had died and then been reborn in his eighteen-year-old body. The world was as it had been in 2020, yet without two of the most significant musical figures he knew. And then there were the lyrics, the relentless stream of Michael Jackson songs echoing in his mind.
"Cause this is thriller, thriller night..." The words twisted through his thoughts, intertwining with his growing dread. There had to be a reason for all of this, some purpose to this bizarre twist of fate.
Zane stood up, feeling the strange lightness in his body again. He moved to the window, staring out at the street he had grown up on. Everything looked the same—quiet, a little run-down, but familiar. Yet, he felt like a stranger in his own life.
Then, suddenly, a overwhelming flood of music crashed over him. It was as if a dam had broken inside his head, releasing a torrent of sound and lyrics.
"Wanna be startin' somethin', got to be startin' somethin'..."
"Purple rain, purple rain..."
"I can't feel my face when I'm with you, but I love it..."
Every Michael Jackson song, every Prince track, every hit by The Weeknd surged through his mind. The melodies, the lyrics, the beats—all of it was there, vivid and complete. It was as if he had instant access to an entire library of music, waiting to be summoned at will. He clutched his head, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of it all.
"What the hell?" he screamed, the sound echoing through the small room. He staggered, nearly collapsing under the weight of the auditory onslaught. The music was relentless, each song blending into the next, an endless loop of sound that threatened to drive him mad.
"Beat it, beat it, no one wants to be defeated..."
"When doves cry..."
"Blinding lights..."
Zane's screams grew louder, a desperate attempt to drown out the noise in his mind. He barely registered the sound of heavy footsteps pounding down the hallway, the door to his room bursting open with a loud crash.
"Zane, shut the hell up!" his father roared, the smell of alcohol heavy on his breath. The man loomed in the doorway, his face twisted in fury, eyes bloodshot and wild.
In another time, another life, Zane would have cowered. The eighteen-year-old version of himself had always been afraid of his father's rages, the man's anger a constant, terrifying presence in his life. But this was different. This Zane had lived through years of hardship, had faced death itself.
The music in his head faded to a dull roar, and he straightened up, glaring at his father. "Get out of my room," he said, his voice steady and firm.
His father's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in anger. "What did you say to me, boy?"
Zane felt a surge of anger, years of fear and resentment boiling to the surface. "I said, get out," he repeated, taking a step forward. The smell of stale beer and sweat hit him hard, but he didn't flinch.
His father sneered, raising a hand as if to strike him. "You think you can talk to me like that?"
The old Zane would have backed down, but not this time. This time, he was ready. As his father moved to hit him, Zane's fist shot out, landing a solid right hook to his father's jaw. The man staggered back, stunned, clutching his face.
"Don't you ever try touching me again," Zane snarled, his heart pounding with a mix of fear and adrenaline. He watched his father, waiting for a response, but the man just stared at him, bewildered and off-balance.
Zane didn't wait for a reply. He pushed past his father and stormed out of the room, his mind still reeling from the flood of music and the confrontation. He needed to get out, to clear his head, to understand what was happening to him.
As he stepped outside, the cool air hit his face, calming him slightly. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. The neighborhood looked the same as it always had—run-down houses, cracked sidewalks, a few kids playing in the street. But everything felt different now, like he was seeing it through new eyes.
He walked aimlessly, his thoughts a chaotic jumble. The music was still there, a constant undercurrent in his mind, but he was starting to get used to it. He could sense the songs, call them up when he wanted, and push them back when he needed to think.
"Billie Jean is not my lover..."
"Kiss..."
"The Hills..."
As he walked, he passed familiar sights—the old convenience store where he and his friends used to buy snacks, the park where he spent countless hours escaping reality. The memories were bittersweet, reminding him of what he'd lost when he had left this place.
"A place with no name..."
He had no clue what was going on, but for now, he'd go with the flow. He couldn't go back to that house, not after what just happened. He needed somewhere to think, somewhere safe.
His thoughts turned to an old friend, someone he hadn't spoken to in years. Terry Duckworth, had been a source of comfort during Zane's teenage years. Terry had always been there, a steady presence when Zane's life had been anything but. When Zane left the neighborhood, he had also left Terry behind, cutting ties with everyone from his past. But now, Terry seemed like the only person he could turn to.
He remembered where Terry lived—miles away on the other side of Compton.
"If you wanna make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and make a change..."
The journey across Compton was long, but he barely noticed the distance. Each step felt surreal, like he was traversing both his past and future simultaneously. Familiar landmarks brought back memories, both painful and comforting, but he kept his focus on his destination.
As he approached Terry's place, a modest but well-kept home nestled among a row of similar houses, he felt a pang of nostalgia. The front yard was just as he remembered, and the sound of laughter and music drifted out through the open windows.
Zane hesitated for a moment before knocking on the door. It swung open almost immediately, and there stood Terry, a wide grin spreading across his face.
"Zane! Wassup, man?" Terry greeted, his voice full of warmth and familiarity.
Zane couldn't help but smile, feeling a rush of relief. "Hey, Terry."
"You finally decide to move in with us, huh?" Terry joked, clapping a hand on Zane's shoulder. It was a running joke between them, one that masked a serious offer Terry had made countless times.
Zane chuckled, though the memories of his home life stung. "Maybe I did."
Terry's face softened. "Come on in. You know you're always welcome here."
Stepping inside, Zane was immediately enveloped by the comforting, bustling atmosphere of Terry's home. It was like stepping into a scene from a Tyler Perry movie—voices overlapping, laughter echoing, and the rich aroma of home-cooked food filling the air.
Terry's mother, a stout woman, called out from the kitchen. "Who's that at the door, Terry?"
"It's Zane, Ma," Terry replied, guiding Zane further into the house.
"Well, don't just stand there, boy! Come get yourself a plate!" she hollered, a broad smile on her face. "Ain't no guest in this house, only family."
Zane couldn't help but feel a lump form in his throat. This was the kind of warmth and acceptance he had always longed for. He followed Terry into the kitchen, where Terry's uncles and younger cousins were gathered around the table, talking loudly and jovially.
"Hey, Zane!" one of the uncles called out. "Long time no see, boy. Come sit down. You too skinny, need some of this good food."
Zane smiled, feeling a tear prick at the corner of his eye. He quickly wiped it away, not wanting to draw attention to himself. But Terry's mother noticed.
"Zane, honey, you alright?" she asked, her voice softening with concern.
Zane shook his head, forcing a smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just… grateful to be here."
She nodded, understanding more than he said. "Well, you're always welcome here, you know that. Now, sit down and eat."
Zane settled into a seat at the crowded table, a plate already being piled high with food by Terry's mother. The lively chatter and laughter enveloped him, providing a comforting background to his turbulent thoughts.
"Man, you see the game last night?" one of Terry's uncles asked, shaking his head in disbelief. "LeBron still got it, I'm telling you."
"Yeah, but you know the Lakers gonna need more than just him if they wanna make it through the playoffs," another uncle chimed in, his tone serious despite the playful argument.
Terry leaned over to Zane, grinning. "You still rooting for the Clippers?"
Zane laughed, shaking his head. "You know I am. They've got a good shot this year."
The conversations flowed easily, the familiarity and warmth of Terry's family making Zane feel more at ease. For a while, he managed to push aside the confusion and fear that had gripped him since he woke up in his old room.
After dinner, Zane and Terry made their way to the nearby park. The sun was beginning to set, casting a golden hue over the playground and basketball courts. They found a spot on a bench and settled in, watching a group of kids shoot hoops.
"So, what's been going on with you, man?" Terry asked, glancing over at Zane. "You seem different."
Zane took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. "It's... complicated. I've been thinking a lot about music lately."
Terry raised an eyebrow. "Music? Since when are you into music like that?"
Zane hesitated, unsure of how to explain without sounding crazy. "You ever heard of Michael Jackson? Prince? The Weeknd?"
Terry frowned, shaking his head. "Michael Jackson? Prince? Dude, what are you talking about?"
Zane sighed, realizing that in this world, those names meant nothing. "Never mind. Just... I've been feeling different. Like I can sing."
Terry laughed, nudging Zane with his elbow. "Sing? You? Man, you couldn't carry a tune in a bucket."
"I'm serious," Zane insisted. "I feel like I can do it. Like, really do it."
Terry looked at him skeptically. "Alright, prove it. Sing something then."
Zane hesitated, the idea of singing in front of Terry both thrilling and terrifying. But he felt an inexplicable urge, like the music inside him was begging to be released. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and began to sing.
"She's out of my life..."
The words flowed effortlessly, the emotion in the song pouring out of him. Terry's skeptical expression faded as Zane's voice filled the park, the haunting melody capturing the heartache and longing in the lyrics.
"She's out of my life
And I don't know whether to laugh or cry
I don't know whether to live or die
And it cuts like a knife
She's out of my life..."
As the final notes hung in the air, Zane opened his eyes to find Terry staring at him in stunned silence.
"Damn, Zane," Terry said quietly. "I don't know what's going on with you, but that was... that was something else."
"I never knew I could sing," Zane admitted, still feeling the tremors of the song's emotion coursing through him. "Neither did I," Terry replied, shaking his head in disbelief. "You've been holding out on me, man."
They sat there for a moment, the weight of Zane's new reality settling in. The park around them continued on as usual, kids laughing and playing, but Zane felt like he was in a different world.
"So, what are you gonna do with this?" Terry asked, breaking the silence. "You gotta do something with that voice. Maybe you should try recording something. My cousin's always talking about how important it is to lay down tracks and get your name out there."
Zane raised an eyebrow. "Your cousin? Oh, you're talking about him."
Terry nodded. "Yeah, you know, if anyone can give you some advice, it's him."
Zane thought about it, the idea both exciting and daunting. "I don't know, man. I've never done anything like this before."
"Well, you gotta start somewhere," Terry said with a grin. "We can go back to my place and mess around with my laptop. See what we can come up with."
Zane hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah, alright. Let's do it."
They made their way back to Terry's house, the familiar route bringing a sense of comfort. Terry's family was still gathered in the living room, laughing and talking, but they barely noticed the boys slipping past them and heading upstairs.
Terry's room was a chaotic mix of posters, clothes, and electronic gear. He cleared a space on his cluttered desk and set up his laptop, pulling up a basic recording program. "Alright, let's see what you got," he said, handing Zane a makeshift microphone.
Zane took it, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves. "What should I sing?"
"Whatever feels right," Terry said, leaning back in his chair. "Just go with it."
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone