Broken Words - Paul McCartney, John Lennon

Panic in New York

He set his feet upon the ground, dragging the suitcase behind him. The flight was alright, a quiet solitary belonging to only himself and the arising emotions within. He had declined the offering of a meal. He was not hungry for food, but for life and the rather short one of his friend. Though, it appeared he used the term loosely. What he and John were to one another was more than a silly term anyone in the world could use, such as 'friend.' Friends did not get into fights quite as brutal as the ones they had been through, Paul told himself. Nor did they appreciate each other as much as the two did, even if they did not express it in ways which could have been wiser. Through it all, all in all, he had something for John Lennon. More than a typical friendship. The pit of dread where his stomach once lied was evident of that. He bite his lip to muffle the sobs. Sobs? By God, was he grieving already? And he had yet to see the - the hotel. Where -

A crowd stood before him. Fans of young and old, still absent of children. He could see the flowers and records in their hands. Stupid memorabilia for a person they could have never known as he had. They could never touch him, like he had, in the late summer nights. Never speak to him in a quiet whisper, never stand beside him and sing and play with him.  Because he was gone, Paul knew that now. John was dead.

He approached the large apartment building with no precaution. The fans parted at his presence, speaking in hushed tones. It's Paul - Paul McCartney. Oh, my, I'm so sorry for his lost. I could not possibly imagine what it could be like.

Of course, they could not have. Once they did - if ever - that would be the time when they should be lined up to the gates of the Dakota. Not now, when grief was still fresh in its birth, forming in the eyes of the unthinking people gathered around him. Hell, he himself was practically unthinking, beside the one thought rolling through his head in an endless loop: John is dead. Dead. John is dead.

"No, that cannot be right," he said to himself. A good half dozen people in front of him turned their heads to stare. He smiled back, as if nothing was wrong, (as if John was not dead), but he knew it looked much rather like a grimace. Grimacing straight into the faces of the grieving, fans whom were too young still to have been with the Beatles when they had been complete. They must have cared somewhat, though, as they had traveled to New York to stand and stare at the building where John Lennon had been -

Paul took a deep breath. It was still a difficult thought to think John had been shot. A thought he had tumbled around on the plane, it was not straight-forward, and as unbelievable as it had been the first time he read the headline. His left hand shifted into his open coat, subconsciously touching the newspaper in a light manner. His fingertips were stained black, the remains of his visual beads of sorrow smeared with the ink which declared the death of -

(He's dead, Paul told himself. The press says he's dead, but I won't believe a word until I hear it from another mouth which does not belong to a reporter of any type.)

A few rows before him, the crowd began to shift forward. Paul, mind lingering on thoughts, did not move. He could hear the people behind him scuffle; the backs of his ankles were lightly treaded on. He did not feel the mild pain, nor hear the apologies which followed. His mind was still on John. John. Would he ever stop thinking about him? The thought that followed told him he would never, not until he found out what exactly had happened. And, even then, he had not a thought as to what would occur.

Perhaps, he would never, not once, stop thinking about John. Unlikely scenarios that both amused and terrified him appeared before him: Linda speaking to him, and he replied, but, instead of calling her Linda, the name that slipped from his lips was John. Himself sharing a kiss with Linda, but the face touching his belonged to John. A phone call with Heather that turned out the voice on the other end was none other than John Lennon's.

Paul shook his head. The thoughts left him standing, eyes on the crowd which had grew in the time of his daydreams. He stepped forward to where he was a breath's length from the woman in front of him, and said,

"Excuse me, madam, but do you know why everyone is gathered here?"

She smiled at him. "You look familiar."

"Yes, I do, I get that often."

"Aren't you that Paul McCartney fellow? Well, you of all people should know what has happened! One of the most tragic events of our century!"

Of course, he knew what happened. He had the bloody newspaper in his coat for crying out loud!

He lied in a fast manner. "No, what happened?" He was not certain if he had asked for reassurance or to see if his fears (and the press) were right.

"John Lennon, a wonderful, wonderful man, was shot only a few hours ago!"

At the woman's outcry, the crowd began to talk rapidly. More murmurs of apologies for what had happened, while others bellowed curses loud enough for one to have stood on top of the Empire State Building and have heard the commotion.

Paul himself had pressed a hand to the side of his head. "No, no, he cannot be dead. He cannot!" He noticed the woman looking at him. To her, he cried, "Please tell me he is not dead! Just because he was shot, it doesn't mean he is dead, does it?"

The woman had tears fresh in her eyes when she answered in a tone that made him shiver. "I'm afraid he is...I don't believe it myself, but he's gone. They took him away."

"Who took him away?"

"An ambulance. I heard they were getting a doctor to look at him, but then I read the paper and it says he is dead, and the press doesn't lie, does it?"

"It sure as hell does," said Paul. "But this time, I'm afraid it did not."