My Love, My Drug, My Release

Paul's Perspective

Hi, so, my dad's in the hospital right now. He's okay, he just had a fall and is in the cardiac unit right now, so that's why this chapter is coming so late. Thank you for your patience, I really appreciate it!

Monday wasn't off to a bad start, actually. I slept in late, not crawling out of bed until well past noon. Linda was waiting for me, eating some leftover Easter chocolate she'd picked up at market, snapping pictures of things around the living room. It was nice to see her getting back into photography. She'd of course been eager to document the first months of Mary's life, but her household duties had come before her artistic excitement as of late. It lit up her face in a beautiful way.

"How are you feeling, my love?" she asked when I walked into the room, scratching my chest absentmindedly.

"Fine, fine, had a nice sleep."

"That's good." 

I blinked a few times, wanting to ask something, but not able to find the question. What had happened last night before Lo wanked me off? "How did everyone like the new album."

"Ummm..." She stood up, clicking the camera off to take a picture of me there in my jockeys, the action a little more jarring than normal. Usually she could photograph people without it even registering, but, this time, it almost felt like a distraction. "I think they needed some time to process it."

"So they hated it."

"No, no, no!" Linda seemed shocked and horrified that I'd seen through her vague, glossy statement. "Everyone liked it, really liked it, I think they just didn't know how to respond in the moment."

I went into the kitchen to avoid talking to her any further. She wasn't doing anything wrong, in fact, she was probably intending to soften the blow of people not going gaga over my new LP. It didn't work. I didn't want people to have to process it. I didn't want any more heavy, avant-garde bullshit like the Beatles had done towards the end. What I wanted was an easy-listening, one-man, acoustic-guitar album. When I wrote and recorded it, I anticipated stuck-up critics saying crap about it, but I'd just flick them off, they were a bunch of stiffs anyway, but never, in my worst nightmares, did I think other musicians would hate it on the first listen.

But this wouldn't ruin my good day. I'd slept well for the first time in a while, didn't feel the need to drink or smoke or eat to calm myself, and Linda looked to me much like she had when I first met her. Nothing needed to get in the way of that. But then the doorbell rang.

After pulling on my housecoat, I opened the front door to see Robert standing there, sweat making his bald head all shiny. 

"Oh, Mr. McCartney sir, I'm so, so sorry, I don't know what happened-"

"Come in, come in," I said, confused at his disheveled appearance and the fact he'd come to the front door at all. Maybe it sounded out of touch and elitist, but I was used to not seeing the people who worked for me. "Where is Lorraine?"

"That's what I'm here about," he said, sitting down when I gestured to a chair at the kitchen table. "She never showed up; I waited for forty minutes before coming back here."

"Linda, come in here," I shouted, feeling like I was looking down from a high building.

"What is it?"

"Lo didn't show up after school."

"What?" She looked at Robert, who was dabbing at his brow with a stained, white handkerchief. "How did this happen?"

"I don't know ma'am, she just wasn't there. I parked where I always parked, and I stayed till every other student had gone. I never even spotted her."