Help! | McLennon

In My Life

-November 25, 1968-

"Beatle Paul McCartney is dead. The musician died at the age of 26. The reason has not yet been revealed."

"The Cute Beatle died. The release of The Beatles' new album overshadowed by a tragedy."

"The Beatles member dead! Read all about it!"

John kept desperately switching from one paper to another. He knew well that Paul's passing was the hottest topic, so there was no escape. He wasn't looking for an escape anyway. He continued to read about it, because he just had to.

Almost two days had passed since he discovered that his best mate and lover was dead and he still couldn't wrap his head around it. He felt completely cut out of reality, even from his own body. He felt as though he had entered autopilot state and something else was controlling him.

Paul, his Macca, was dead. He wasn't breathing, he had no pulse... He was dead. Dead as in not living. Dead as in never going to smile or laugh again. Dead as in never going to kiss or hug him again. Dead as in never going to write, play and sing again. Paul was dead and there was nothing John could do to bring him back. He was gone, just like that.

John put the papers away nervously, attracting attention of some people to himself. He corrected his sun glasses and hat, then turned to look through the train window. All he wanted in that very moment was to disappear completely.

As soon as the police took Paul's body away he jumped on the first train heading North. Paul and him were supposed to go to Liverpoool, so that was what John was going to do. He was going back home where he could feel Paul's spirit with him again.

There is no good way to find out that somebody close to you has passed away. However, all that John could think of was how much any other way would have been better. They had been so happy together, everything had been as good as it could have possibly been. All of the sudden Paul had fallen asleep and never woke up. How was that fair?

John didn't get to say goodbye. How could he ever fully accept that the other was gone forever?

He didn't even wait for the autopsy results. In his head all that was happening was just a very, very bad joke. A joke so bad that he wanted to kick the ass of the person who was playing it on him. No, he wanted to kill them brutally. He wanted them to die suffering.

His palms clenched into fists and he breathed a long sigh, the air barely flowing beetween his teeth. Fortunately the ride wasn't too long, or so it seemed, and soon he was out of the train. However, something had to go wrong. It was John after all. The Beatle John Lennon whose disguise was far from good. Someone had notified the reporters and they were waiting for him at the station.

"John, how do you feel about Paul's death?"

He glared in the direction where the question had come from. His mouth hung open as he couldn't spit out a single word. He had never expected to have to answer this kind of quesions, not ever. He didn't want to answer it, because Paul couldn't he dead.

"There are rumors that you were with him when it happened, is that true?"

John blinked a few times to dull his headache. He carefully took off the sunglasses from his nose and placed the normal ones on instead. Paul would always remind him to have the glasses in his pocket while he wasn't using them. This way John was supposedly safe from his total blindness, which could be problematic.

"Yeah," he mumbled and squinted his eyes at camera flashes coming his way. "I was with him."

"Why, John?"

He looked around and noticed a crowd of people staring at him. His throat started clogging and for the first time in a long time he felt anxious about being in public. His knees felt weak and his head seemed ridicoulusly heavy, which combined put him on the edge of a fainting fit.