𝑆𝑂𝑁𝐺 𝐼𝑀𝐴𝐺𝐼𝑁𝐸𝑆 [𝐵𝐸𝐴𝑇𝐿𝐸𝑆]

Taxman | George

[1966]
(my dearest apologies in advance)
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Newly married to the love of your life, you worked nearby at a quiet publishing company—to help make money but not be publicly seen.

The day was rather gloomy, full of thick, grey clouds that seemed to have congruity on raining sometime in the afternoon.

George was already home when you arrived, sitting on the couch, looking distressed and worried. He had on his white, canvas, dress-like shirt and stared at the wall with more hatred then ever before.

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"G-George? Are you alright,there?" You hunched your back a little and hesitantly walked over to him as if he might bite.

"No." He simply answered, his eyes still on the wall. Being curious, you walked to sit next to him—continuing to be careful. You saw him looking at his dark, ominous shadow on your yellow, daisy wallpaper.

"Why?"

"Because I'm the taxman."

"W-What?" You let out a dry and used laugh, thinking he must be on something. "Did you and John use LSD again?"

George just nodded his head, but it didn't seem like he was fully cognizant of what you had said. "No, Yeah, I'm the taxman."

You let out a groan and tilted your head back up the ceiling, cursing John for dumping George at your flat in this state.

"For them, me taking five percent appears too small, they should be thankful I don't take it all."

You placed a warm hand on his cold shoulder. "What's going on, baby?" You cooed.

His turned his head up, his now large, dark eyes swimming with a pain so deep that you felt it squeeze your heart tighter each second you looked longer.

"If they drive a car, I'll tax the street. If they try to sit, I'll tax their seat. If they get too cold," he turned his head back to the wall and laughed—almost cynically. "I'll tax the heat. and if they take a walk, I'll tax their feet."

"Georgie?" You we're starting to sweat under your chiffon black dress, your heart beating much too fast for the average person.

"Yeah, cause I'm the taxman! I can do whatever I want!" He rose up his arms, starting to act omnipotent and ambiguous, getting up from the couch. "Paul, John!"

"Honey please tell me what is going on." You slightly demanded, your hand now firmly gripping into his shoulder blade.

"Don't ask me what I want it for, if you don't want to pay some more."

You walked over to the phone in your kitchen, keeping a close eye on George who was walking around the living room, walking like he was a funambulist across the carpet.

You called John and complained, cursing into each pore on the speaker.

"Y/N, I didn't go with George. Let me hear what he is saying." You groaned but put the phone out.

"Now my advice for those who die, declare the pennies on your eyes, cause I'm the taxman...yeah, I'm the taxman." George breathed, turning his head and looking at you, slowly raising a finger. "And you're working for no one but me." He pointed at not you, but the phone.

"I'm mad, Y/N, not on drugs!" George yelled and laughed, falling into the cushions on the couch. You brought the phone back to your ear.

"You heard him!" John told you.

"Yeah, I think he's talking to you and Paul. He kept saying your names."

"He wants to tax us?" John laughed madly on the other line, and you hung up, walking back over to George.

"It's about them, y'know. Treating me like they do." He stroked back your hair and scoffed, looking over at the phone on the wall, it's spinal cord swaying.

"I'm so sorry." You wrapped your arms around his head as he brought his face into the crook of your neck.

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dear person who asked for this, I am so sorry this didn't go exactly how you interpreted it😔 I'm just not great at this right now it's ok