Help! | McLennon

Ain't That A Shame

"Are you kidding me?"

"Listen to me," Paul mumbled and closed his eyes to put his thoughts in order. "That's all the money I have on me, alright? Should be enough for... what? Ten baggies?"

"I'll give you six and that's just because we go way back," the man annouced with a sigh. He pushed the bags into Paul's shaking palms and looked at him, resigned. "Next time we're not doing this in your house, this shit's too risky. You are still fucking Paul McCartney."

"Ah, fuck Paul McCartney! But I'll do whatever you want as long as you give me the drugs."

The rest of the conversation flew out of Paul's head as soon as he closed the front door. Even though he could still feel the strong effect that the alcohol had on his body, the thrill of being in possesion of heroin again made him sober up quite quickly. He threw the six, little, plastic bags to the table. Suddenly the phone rang, causing his heart to skip a beat. He picked it up sloppily and lied down on the couch.

"Hello, who is this?"

"It's John. Can I—"

He didn't have enough time to finish, because Paul slammed the phone down. He didn't need to hear John's voice now. It would only make him reconsider relapsing again. So what if heroin was bad? It had done less harm to Paul than John had. Both had been the most important things in Paul's life at one point or another, but there was a huge difference between them. John dumped Paul and was the one who didn't want to be with him, while Paul was the one to dump heroin. Whenever he wanted it back, he could have it in a blink of an eye.

Paul spilled the inside of the first bag on the coffee table, then grabbed the first piece of paper he could lay his hands on and used it to form it into three lines. He breathed a deep sigh as he looked at his masterpiece, playing with the paper nervously. When he was on the verge of leaning in, he realized something very important.

He didn't truly believe heroin was the answer to everything. Maybe sometime in the past he had, but he had stopped a long time before even entering the rehab program. He was dependent on the substance, physically and mentally, despite all the cons of using it. He was just another junkie who would do everything to get another dose. There was no deep, philosiphical meaning to that one. In the long run it was just harmful, but it was a quick fix and that was all he needed.

Paul rolled the paper up, placed its end at the beginning of the first line, covered up his right nostril and moved the paper all the way to the end of the line, while inhaling as hard as he could. As soon as he got over the burning pain in his nostril and throat, a sense of euphoria overcame him. It wasn't caused by the drug itself yet, it would take a few minutes for the effects to manifest. He was bursting with excitement only at the thought of what was going on inside of him and how amazing he would be feeling pretty soon.

He snorted the other two lines and the phone rang again. Paul picked up and luckily it wasn't John this time. It was Ringo calling to inform him about an important band meeting that would take place on the next day. He asked Paul if he was okay, even though the lad had thought that he managed to speak to him in a way that seemed normal. He was overwhelmed with all the joy swirling around in his head. It felt as if little rays of sunshine were tingling every inch of his brain.

Soon enough he decided that he needed more. He had five bags left, so that wasn't the issue. The issue was that Paul didn't want to have to wait again. He wanted the effects to kick in right away.

He ran to the bedroom, tripping over his own legs, and looked around as he was trying to remember something. His eyes eventually wandered down and he remembered that there was a loose floor panel under his bed.

He got on his knees and moved it to the side, revealing what had been stored under it. A few needles, a medium sized bag of marijuana and seven LSD blotters. The LSD didn't belong to him, it must have been John's. Paul would take it occasionally, but he was never a fan. Pot on the other hand he was glad to had found, but what he had been looking for was a needle. At this point he didn't care if he was scared of needles or not, he needed to get higher and he needed it fast.

While waiting for the drug to melt, he snorted another bag. He would do more and he wanted to do it badly, but he needed to leave something for the next day. Another problem was that he didn't have much money left. He was pretty sure he didn't have enough to keep paying the bills, so the house had to go. It wouldn't take long to find a fan who would buy it for millions. This way, Paul would be able to easily buy a nice apartment and afford buying as much heroin as he wanted.

The moment when the needle cracked his skin open seemed like salvation. He could feel the liquid enter his vein and travel all the way up to his brain, giving him the rush of happiness he craved. The effects kicked in right away and Paul felt like flying. His mind wasn't bursting with anxious thoughts for a change, it was in a state of nirvana and he would do anything to keep it from disappearing.

He stumbled to the bedroom again, but he had to lean against the wall for a moment. After such a long detox from drugs the amount he took wasn't small and his body was warning him about it. He was beginning to feel nauseous, weak and drowsy. It was just a small set back, but he would overcome it and get his body used to the substance again.

On the next day he woke up with a strong headache, but it wasn't unexpected. Even though hungover was the worst part of using drugs or alcohol, it felt a little comforting. He cursed under his breath as he saw that Mal would be there to pick him up in half an hour. Martha licked his palm as a response to that, but even her warm tongue couldn't make him feel better.

"Something shaking you, McCartney?" George finally questioned after the third song during which Paul hadn't joined John on the vocals. Paul forced himself to look up from his guitar. He blinked in attempt to dull his headache and shook his head. His throat was sore and his bones were rattling as he was coming down from another high.

"Now that we're taking, there is a reason why we met today. We're getting interviewed tomorrow," Ringo explained and left his drumkit to sit down closer to the rest. "It's been so long, eh? I can't remember our last interview as The Beatles as a whole!"

"Mhm, yeah..." Paul drew a heavy sigh as he remembered why that was. The intense happiness that he was filled with because of taking up heroin again was slowly transitioning into guilt. It was so confusing, because the way he felt about it kept changing. One minute he was thankful for doing it and not caring about anything else, but not long after that the rational part of him would come through and bury him in shame and regret. "I'm sorry..." he muttered under his shaky breath.

"Hey, nothing to be sorry for! To hell with the past, we gotta make the best out of now. Ain't that right, boys?" John, who had been weirdly nice to Paul and didn't seem to have any negative feelings towards him afrer their most recent fallout, cheered.

"That's right, Johnny!" George and Ringo agreed in sync, while Paul was trying to process the fact that he had said that he was sorry out loud. He didn't mean to do that, but it didn't matter. The others didn't truly know what he was apologizing for anyway.

They played for another 15 minutes before Paul excused himself to go to the bathroom to snort more lines. By the time he was going home, he had nothing left. Although he was trying to pay his attention to playing, he couldn't help but worry about how to get more heroin.

"Do you have any money on you, Ringo?" he asked, curiously, when everybody was getting ready to leave the studio. Ringo narrowed his eyes in suprise.

"Yeah, why do you ask?"

"Can I borrow some? I'll pay it back, I promise."

Paul couldn't really hide how desperate he was and Ringo did seem to pick up on the fact that he was anxious, but he gave him the money he needed despite that. After he came back home, calling his dealer was the first thing he did. He even managed to get him to come to him again, so while waiting for the man to arrive, Paul turned the house upside down, looking for money. After adding that to what he had gotten from Ringo, the total sum seemed acceptable.

It earned him fifteen bags, which would keep him breathing for the next two days or so. The most important thing was that it would help him get through the next day's interview, which he wasn't looking forward to.