"WHAT THE FUCKING HELL?!" John fell over backwards, looking slightly pale. He got up and slowly looked again.
Ringo was huddled in the corner, holding a small razor. A few cuts were on his arm, and blood was on the floor. He had a cold, dead look in his eyes. "R-Richard...why?" Paul pried the sharp object out of his hand.
"He doesn't love me anymore, what's the point?" George, starting to sober up a little, looked down sadly. "What have I done?" John started cleaning up the blood while glaring at him. "You prick, look what you've done. I don't know what he ever saw in you. Scratch that, what he STILL sees in you. Bastard." Paul found some bandages under the sink and started wrapping up Ringo's wrist. "Don't ever hurt yourself again. You have so much to live for, and you'll regret it someday." He looked tired, probably from the blood loss. He staggered into his bed, letting John get in with him.
"Don't you ever fucking leave us, Richard. Or else."
"Why, George? Why? How could you break his heart like that? I thought you loved him...don't you?" Paul gripped his shoulders tightly, trying not to yell. "I...I don't know anymore...maybe I miss having a bird...it's just been so long."
"That's no excuse! Richard gave you what you wanted, didn't he? Love, compassion, and attention! Even some of the songs he wrote were about you! What more do you need?!"
"..."
"Exactly, you don't deserve him. Goodnight." George let that sink in.
I'm sorry.