Broken Words - Paul McCartney, John Lennon

Nowhere Man

Once John's voice had diminished, Paul could hear another person murmur something unclearly then cut into the chorus of 'Nowhere Man.'

"What the actual-" Paul smiled. It was kind of nice actually as strange as it was. Perhaps, the mourners had finished singing 'Imagine' and carried on to 'Nowhere Man.' Paul was unsure.

He continued walking until he reached the doors to the hotel. He pushed on the doors, but they refused to move. Paul tried again to find he was, what appeared to be. locked inside the hotel. He stared at them, simply thinking. It was not necessary for him to leave the hotel, but something told him he had to. Had to leave and go to the hospital and see if his thoughts were right and true.

Right and true. Everything John had not been to him. It broke his heart to know, but Paul did know that he loved John, too, still. He was certain he would always.

He thruster a shoulder into the middle of the glass pane. It shuddered in response, as closed as the stubborn thing had been before. Paul did not give up. He shoved his shoulder again. As much as the pain was, he didn't mind it. Not as much as he minded knowing John could be in the hospital, dead, but still. The thought nagged at him. It was unlikely, very so, that John would be there, but Paul needed to know. The glass shuddered again and broke. Paul put his hand in the hole in the glass and flicked his wrist to the doorknob, twisting. It opened. Paul ran outside.

His feet thundered across the pavement. He had to know. The cobblestone walls did not approach him, but stood still as a sideline. A direction to the hospital, much. He kept running. Shaking, trembling, and determined, Paul made it to the hospital doors to thrust them open.

The people in the waiting room did not turn their heads to look. They were concerned in their own businesses. Paul walked up to the secretary.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but you don't have the room number for John Lennon, do you?"

The secretary didn't look up.

Paul tried again. "The room number for John Lennon?"

No answer.

Paul scowled and walked over to the door he assumed lead to the rooms. He opened the door to no one's protest. The halls were like everything else in the hospital: white with a tint of grey. It was gloomy in its bright glory. Paul thought back to what he had heard about John's death. An ambulance had come to pick him up. A doctor was probably examining him. Had. Like John had pronounced dead.

But Paul could hope, couldn't he?

He walked down the hallway, uncertain of which room was John's, if any. He had been walking for a good three minutes when he heard his own name:

"Oh, Paul, sweet Paul, I cannot - believe it."

Dear Lord, is that Linda? Paul walked back to a room he had passed. He hesitated. What exactly had happened? He did not know, but there was certainly one way to find out. He breathed in deeply and poked his head into the open doorway.

"Oh my -" Paul stopped speaking in fear any of the present people had heard him. None of them had. Their eyes were on the man lying on the hospital bed in what appeared to be a man in a deep slumber.

"Who is that?" Paul asked in disbelief. He knew who that was, but he didn't want to believe it, though he had to. Because it was himself.

"Paul!" Linda cried out again. "I don't understand...just a few days after John, too!"

Paul longed to hold her. He walked into the room and reached out to put a hand on his wife's shoulder, but he stopped. He knew it was impossible. If they couldn't hear him, they could not feel him, either. His eyes looked at the floor, anywhere but the hospital bed.

A doctor walked into the room. "I'm sorry, Mrs. McCartney, but it appears your husband is in a coma."

"A coma?"

"Yes, a coma." The doctor was calm. "I'm afraid. He's nowhere. A true nowhere man if there ever was one."

Paul was still breathing, still awake. He was not in a coma, but his eyes could see the body - his body there on the bed in a coma. He was still breathing. That was good, jolly good.

"This isn't one of those flashes, is it, John?" Paul asked. He needed an answer quickly. He needed one now.

John's voice was distant of any emotion. No, this is something I'm not familiar with.

"Well, I'm not familiar with it either!"

Easy, Paul. I know what you see looks like you in a coma. I don't know if that is what is really being seen.

"What are you on about? I know what's going on - I'm dead. That's it, isn't it, John?"

You're still breathing, aren't you? Dead men don't breathe.

Paul realized there was truth in John's words. "Thanks, John," he said quietly. He looked at Linda one last time, her face tear streaked. He still wanted to touch her but could not will himself to do so. He stood up and left the hospital. Paul was in need of a visit to the Dakota.