Ridley: Yet another Beatle fic because why not. New OC, new story

Dragon: Same insane writer. Ridley has no affiliations with the Beatles, and that's the only time I'm gonna say that.

Ridley: Enjoy!

"Damn it!" I growled, kicking the pale yellow wall of my kitchen. My father had called me, letting me know that he was, once again, in police custody. In my sixteen years of life, he'd been arrested and incarcerated for at least half of that.

What was I supposed to do now? My mom had gotten fed up with my dad's stupidity and had left almost three years ago, leaving me behind. How was I supposed to pay the bills, or get food? Gah! I kicked the wall again in my anger, and whimpered in pain when I remember I wasn't wearing shoes. Damn it.

Well, even though Dad wouldn't be coming home tonight, I still needed to make myself some food. I walked over to the counter and stood on my tiptoes, trying to reach the overhead cabinet, to no avail. I wasn't very tall - only about five foot one - but my dad was a giant and tended to put things on the highest shelf. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Damn it!

I stood there, grumbling to myself when I finally realized that I was unable to reach the box of unopened noodles that sat on the top shelf, taunting me, and so I clambered on top of the kitchen counter to reach my prized. Victory! I grinned to myself, and almost slipped of the counter when I heard the house phone ring. Instead, I just fell onto my bum and slid off the counter ungracefully, scowling as I did so.

"Hello," I said, my voice a little tight. What can I say? I was super annoyed today.

"Hi, Alice, dear," a warm voice said, and I found myself smiling just a little bit at the sound of it. "It's Mrs. Henrickson from down the street. Honey, do you want me to bring anything over?"

If I had to describe Mrs. Henrickson in one word, it would be badass. This little old lady lived by herself because she never had kids and her husband died almost twenty years ago, so she just decided to become the neighborhood grandma. Sad to say, I was closer to her than I was to either of my own parents.

"Yes, please," I said, looking down at the box of pasta in my hand. "I don't want to actually set the kitchen on fire again."

She laughed heartily, probably remembering that the last time my dad was arrested – probably a year or so ago – I had set the stove on fire trying to grill chicken.

"Alright, sweet pea, how does some lasagna sound? I have some apple pie, too, if you want any of that."

"I do like pie," I admitted, tossing the box into the wire trashcan at my side. "Thanks, Mrs. Henrickson, you're pretty awesome."

"Believe me, sweetie, I know."

I hung up the phone and stared at my empty kitchen. Dad had taken the car this morning, which probably meant that it was in impound at this very moment. Well crap. I sat down at the table, thinking of how I was going to get to school tomorrow if I didn't have a car that I could drive. There was no way I was walking, it was the middle of January in North Dakota, and I would freeze my but off if I walked.

I drummed my fingers on the table. Well, this was a dilemma. I stood up, mentally shaking myself. I needed something to drink.

I opened our fridge and pulled out the milk. Seeing that the expiration date was three days ago, I sighed and poured it down the drain before tossing the carton into the trashcan. I returned to the fridge and grinned when I saw that we still had half a bottle of Coke laying on its side in the very back. I pulled it out and set it on the table before turning my gaze to the overhead cabinets. Damn. All the glasses were on – you guessed it – the top shelf.

I groaned in annoyance, and pulled myself onto the counter to grab a glass, my fingers lightly gripping at the shelves, as I stood on the wooden counter in my sock-clad feet. I had one hand holding onto a glass and the other still on the shelf when I heard the doorbell ring. I tried to lower myself down, but ended up falling to the floor, smacking my head quite painfully on the tile –

And then I woke up, in bed.

What in the actual hell?

I sat up slowly, wincing at the pain in my head. That was still there, then. Had I dreamed the entire thing? Was I going to walk downstairs and find my dad sitting at the kitchen table drinking a pot of coffee? As I carefully got out of bed, I realized that I was most definitely not in my room.

The light was dim, but bright enough that I could see my surroundings somewhat clearly. The décor was somewhat my taste, but it wasn't my room at home. For one, the room was too big. Two, I most certainly didn't live in a studio apartment, which is what I had found myself in. I don't think I even need to give a third reason. There was a calendar on the wall across from my – er, the – bed, and I walked over to it curiously. It wasn't anything special, not like the Elvis calendar I had got from my dad for my birthday, just a plain black and white calendar. It proclaimed the date as January 5th.

I sighed in relief. That was good; it was still the same day then. However, upon closer inspection, I saw that the year was completely wrong. Clearly printed right next to the month was the year, 1961.

Oh shit.

Had I been drugged and brought to some sicko's roleplaying fetish apartment?

I managed to calm myself down enough so that I no longer felt like I was going to vomit, but I was still pretty shaken. I slowly walked around the room, noticing the door that led to the bathroom was open, revealing no one. I was alone here.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something lying on the breakfast bar that connected to the kitchen counter in one corner of the room. I walked over, a little curious. I picked the object up, a manila envelope, how original. Inside were a birth certificate with footprints, and a driver's license and passport, the latter two bearing the same face. Narrow, with round green eyes and long blonde hair. I stared at it in utter shock.

That was my face.