Not a Second Time -COMPLETED-

Not a Second Time

Not a Second Time

A John Lennon (and others) fan fiction.

*****

You're giving me the same old line

I'm wondering why

You hurt me then

You're back again

No, no, no, not a second time

-Not a Second Time, The Beatles

****

John woke up with his head aching. He had had the most terrifying dream of blackness, nothing, and the ugly sound of a bullet.

He turned on his side, and found the other half of the bed cold and empty. A curious feeling went through his stomach, something like fear. This was not the place he remembered falling asleep in.

John sat up slowly, a million things racing through his mind. He was in a room, but it was not his room. The walls were white. The floor was a type of mahogany, and the bed had a white bedspread. There was a dresser directly opposite him with a mirror, and he could see his terrified face reflected in it.

There was a door to his right, propped slightly open. To his left was a window. Early morning light slanted through it, catching shafts of dust as it spilled on the floor.

When he stood up, he saw an old type of clock above the bed, but its hands were frozen and it made no sound. In fact, everything was eerily silent except for the noise of his ragged breathing.

He observed almost distractedly in the mirror that he was wearing a strange pair of blue jeans and a plain white t-shirt. He did not have his glasses and he was barefoot.

John opened the door and stepped out into a hall. It was carpeted in thick dark green. Dust rose up with every footfall. There were four more rooms in the hall, each door closed.

There were three things in the stretches of wall between each room. The first was a gigantic grandfather clock. It too was not moving, and, most curiously of all, the pendulum seemed to have halted mid-swing.

The second was a painting featuring a dark landscape with skeleton trees and a full moon. The third was a full length mirror.

To the left were the rooms and to his right was a grand staircase leading down. He took the stairs hurriedly, briefly gripping the rail before realizing that that also was caked in dust, and came out in a grand foyer with a towering front door that had stained glass set in it, letting in the soft morning light in a blend of color.

John ran to it and yanked at the handle, but it would not open, no matter how hard he tried. He moved left, desperate to find a way out of this quiet house, out of his nightmare.

There was a living room with a couch and three chairs. Through the living room was a kitchen with a modern refrigerator and other strange appliances. He came around to a dining room with a china cabinet that reached to the ceiling and a long table surrounded by straight-backed chairs.

It was lighter in here, due to the floor-length windows and the long blood-red drapes that were swept back to let it in.

He came out again in the foyer, his breath coming even quicker, close to panic.

“It takes getting used to,” said a soft female voice.

John jumped, startled, and whirled to face the staircase. There was a long-haired girl standing at the top, also wearing a pair of blue jeans and a white t-shirt, also barefoot. She had a dark, foreign complexion, and a slight accent.