Paranoid (A Beatles Fanfiction)

Photograph

Ringo panicked. He couldn't move. His legs were weak.

"GEORGE!" he screamed. He dropped the rock and ran down the sandy hill onto the beach, kicking his shoes, socks and shirt off on the way.

"GEORGE! I'M COMING!" Ringo screamed.

A wave crashed down on him and he struggled to resurface.

The water was frigid, of corse being in the winter. But for some reason the weather managed to stay a bit on the warm side. Fucking mother nature.

He pushed and shoved his way though the aggressive waves. "GEORGE!" he screamed once his head was above water. "GEORGE! WHERE ARE YOU?!" Ringo stayed above water for a moment until another wave swallowed him.

After a few moments underwater, he heard a scream. "RINGO! HELP!" "GEORGE!" Ringo jumped up and saw George struggling to stay afloat. He remembered, George didn't know how to swim. "Hold on, George! I'm coming!" Ringo struggled through wave and wave for a good 5 minutes, him and George screaming at each other when they were above water.

After a while, George stopped screaming back.

"George! George keep yelling! I need to hear you!" There was a eerie silence besides the crash of the waves. Ringo nearly had a heart attack.

And then, something touched him. A hand, George's hand. "George!" Ringo yelled. He pulled George's hand up and his body followed up. And there he was. A wet, emotional and tired George Harrison appeared, gasping for air. "George! Oh thank God." Ringo gasped. George was trying to catch his breath and he couldn't reply back to Ringo. Ringo pulled him closer and yelled, "Wrap your arms around me! Hurry!" George slowly wrapped his long arms around Ringo and slowly but surely, Ringo swam them to shore.

The collapsed on the beach, panting and sore from swimming. George laid beside Ringo looking defeated.

Once Ringo caught his breath, he stood over George and all he saw was red.

"GEORGE! WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?! WHY, WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT!?! DO YOU EVEN HAVE A FUCKING BRAIN?! YOU COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED! BUT THATS WHAT YOU WANT ISN'T IT? TO LEAVE ME AND THE REST BEHIND! WHAT ABOUT THE FANS? WHAT ABOUT JOHN AND PAUL? WHAT ABOUT ME!?"

Ringo was breathing heavy, the water dripping off his body and his shirtless chest moving up and down. He stared down at George but he couldn't see him through the anger.

Ringo came to his senses when he heard a small sob. The red went away and his vision was of George, soaking wet and sobbing.

"I'm sorry." he sobbed. "I'm so sorry. I don't want to live. I want to be happy again. I just want to die."

Ringo stared at the younger boy, his eyes softening a bit. He slowly sat down on the sand and shuffled towards George. "George, come here." George got up with the help of Ringo and he sat down and faced him. His face was crinkled and the sobs kept coming. "I'm so sorry." he sobbed.

Ringo put a hand to his cheek and ran it through his soaking wet hair. "George, you're not a burden. I told you that earlier. You mean the world to us and we're doing everything we can to make sure you're okay." By now Ringo had both hands on his face, caressing George's high cheekbones. "John and Paul love you more than anything. I love you more than anything, alright? We can get through this."

George let out a loud sob and Ringo tucked his head into his shoulder, rubbing the guitarists back and rocking him and trying his best to calm him. After a few minutes of this a sudden bursts of affection plummeted through Ringo and he kissed George's head a few times.

The rocking stopped.

Ringo grabbed him tighter, as did George. And he kept kissing his head. George leaned back a bit. His dark brown eyes connected with Ringo's blue ones.

Ringo kissed his forehead, timidly, mind you. He kissed George's tear stained cheeks, his nose and then...

George.

He was kissing George Harrison.

***************************************

At 2:00am, a tired John Lennon sat awake at the dining room table, a glass of whiskey in front of him as well as a pad of paper and a pen. He was getting drunker and drunker as the night went on. Paul had went to bed earlier, not wanting to deal with a drunk John. As soon as he saw John break out the whiskey bottle, he left up stairs.

John doodled on the pad of paper he had in front of him. He drew a cat, a piece of toast, random people and squiggles. He didn't know where he was going with it. He seemed dazed, like he was a zombie or something. His mind was blank and the room was becoming a bit stuffy.

John sighed and took his things to the living room and sat them on a coffee table. Before sitting down he found his acoustic guitar placed on a reclining chair. Maybe it would get his mind off things?

John picked the guitar up and sat down in the chair. Putting on his glasses so he could see what the hell he was playing, mind you. Playing a few random chords and a few lead notes. Playing whatever came to mind. He felt empty. He felt no happiness while he was playing. Almost like he wasn't supposed to be playing this guitar. 

John sighed and played an E, B, A and back to E. It wasn't nothing special, those chord combinations have been used a billion times before. He played an F#M & an Am, and back to E. It sounded good! Whatever he was playing that is.

He kept the pattern up for a bit and sat the guitar down. He grabbed his note pad and pen and quickly wrote down those chords while they were on his mind. He felt a sudden burst of creativity and was excited with what he had just made. Now some lyrics. He looked back at his guitar and was about to pick it up when he heard a bang.

"Smokey." he groaned. He walked up stairs and into his small office and found his very obese cat Smokey on his desk. And a picture frame in the floor. With everything that had been happening recently he had forgotten he had two cats roaming around his large house. Only a small lamp was alight on his desk.

John crouched down to pick up the photo. He pushed his thick glasses back on his face, Smokey watching with mild interest. John was pissed off. He yelled at Smokey and the cat high tailed out of John's office. John threw the picture onto his desk and shut off the light.

He was about to leave before he realized what photo had fallen. He stoof in the doorway for a moment and slowly turned around. He went back to his desk and flicked on the lamp again. He gingerly picked up the photograph and Lord behold.

It was him and George.

The photograph was in an orangish tent. A bit worn out but was still beautiful. It was Shea Stadium, the concert they had played a week before finding out about George's illness. A photographer that was payed to take pictures of the concert gave some to Brian to give to the boys.

John had several photos on his desk. One of Julian, one of Cynthia and him, a few of him and Paul, one of him and Ringo from 1963 and then the one of George. The one Smokey knocks over.

It was almost as if Smokey was trying to tell him something.

John took the photo out of the broken glass frame. He would clean up the glass later on. Or Cynthia would. Or the maid.

The photo rest in his hands and he stared at it for a moment. He turned it over and saw written in that familiar hand writing, "John and George, buddies and pals!" and a smiley face on the side.

John nearly lost it.

George had looked so happy in that photo. In fact, through the entire year of 1965 he seemed happy. During the recording of Rubber Soul (which still has yet to be released) he seemed happy. During the filming of Help! he seemed happy. And at Shea Stadium he seemed ecstatic.

And look at him now. Everything had gone to shit. Limits were being tested, tours rescheduled, doctors appointments made constantly, everyone was stressed and angry. And John felt like it was his fault.

He had been rooming with George though most of the year. HE should have noticed George's medicine sooner and told Brian. HE should have saw the signs. And because of him George may not ever be the same.

And for the first time in a while, John Lennon cried.