The bassist sat in the corner of the room; curled upon a chair with unblinking eyes, he stared at the man in the bed a few inches away. His eyes were dark, and the rings below them even darker; periodically his eyelids would droop downwards, only to have them snap wide open again, feigning alertness. He was tired as hell, weary with the burden of long-closed eyes; a night of restless sleep stood ahead of him.
Paul rhythmically picked at the callous skin on his trembling fingers, until finally he flicked his eyes away from John and saw that he had drew blood. He wiped it away on his shirt and went back to watching the sleeping Lennon.
It was three in the morning. The bassist had been watching John for two hours. No one even knew he was in here.
Paul always got a little... "odd" when he was tipsy. His sobriety had already started to return but he was still drunk as a sailor. He rubbed his left eye lazily and yawned. Maybe another bottle of no-named alcohol would let him sleep. The bassist stood clumsily from the creaky chair and stumbled down the dark hallway and downstairs, shortly arriving in the kitchen. He giggled when he knocked over a stool on the way to the cupboard and jumped when the clash echoed around the kitchen like a thunder storm.
"Let's see, let's see…" he mumbled slowly. His fingers brushed past glasses and other fragile china till he felt the thing he was looking for right at the back. "Here we are," he smiled as he pulled out two bottles of red wine. They were Brian's. Paul shrugged: Brian wouldn't mind.
Paul, one bottle in each hand, clambered up the stairs and back into John's room. His drunken voice was quiet and slandered, "A little red to drown our sorrows, eh Johnny?" Then he sat back on his chair and unscrewed the cap gently. He took as swig and winced. Then, after sitting silently for a minute thinking, he crept over to John in the bed and breathed. Slowly, the rhythm guitarist's hazy eyes peeled open and stared up at the younger man.
"P...Paul?"
The younger man shifted on the balls of his feet, slowly crouching down on his knees 'til he was eye level with John and he put the bottles on the ground and touched the rhythm guitarist's face lightly.
"How are you feeling?"
"I'm tired," John said, "how long have you been here?"
Paul didn't answer. He began to stroke John's hair like he was petting an animal. "I don't want to leave you alone ever again," he slurred.
John's eyes began to droop under Paul's soft caress. The bassist collected one of the bottles and uncapped the lid, heaving back a swig. John's breathing grew deep and he curled under Paul's touch, warm and safe. Paul felt tears spring to his eyes.
"I love you so fucking much, Lennon," he whispered. Soon he found himself climbing over the older man and clambering into bed next to him once again. He took another sip and soon fell asleep with his hand resting on John's head and the other clutching the bottle.
... ... ...
"Paul?" He felt something shake his shoulder and heard a sigh as his eyes peeled open. "You awake, mate?"
He groaned, "Now I am... What time is it?"
The two bloodshot hazel orbs finally adjusted to the light and took in the full view of the lead guitarist's face staring right at him. The brown eyes that drilled through his own were enough to sober him immediately.
"It's 11 o'clock," George answered, sitting himself on the bed.
The bed: Paul suddenly realised he wasn't in his own. "Where's John?" He started to sit up but George's strong hand pushed him down on the mattress gently.
"'E's with Ringo makin' breakfast. You might wanna take it easy; you look rough. Bad night?"
"The worst," Paul sighed as he scrubbed a hand through his unruly, dark hair. "I'm too hungover for this shit..."
The younger man nodded sympathetically. "I can't blame you... yesterday was a bloody disaster. I 'aven't slept; I feel like gettin' merry me'self just to get some decent kip."
Paul gave a small smile despite feeling like utter shit. His stomach gave a whirl and he leaned over swiftly, aimed his thumping head over the waste bin, and promptly vomited. He could hear George grimace beside him and put a comforting hand on his back.
"You don't 'andle your drink well, Paulie,"
Paul nodded and wiped the last bit of bile hanging off the side of his chin. He just wanted to sleep and wake up to how it was before.
Why did John have to step out in front of that fucking car!?
"I don't know why, Paul, he just did... we can't change what 'appened."
Had Paul spoken out loud?
The young guitarist continued sadly. "We all wish it never happened like that. We just have to keep moving or we'll never survive. John needs us. I can't even imagine 'ow 'e's feelin' about all this."
The two men heard the clatter of frying pans drifting from up the stairs like gunfire. George's head whipped around faster than a bullet and suddenly he was halfway across the room. He glanced back at Paul in the bed.
"You get some rest; we've got 'im. I'll wake you up if he wants you."
Then, he was out the door and the room fell silent. Paul pushed the hair out of his eyes, sticky from perspiration, and quickly dropped back into restless slumber.
... ... ...
"Bloody 'ell, John, you'll end up burning the house down,"
"I was only makin' toast... Ri..."
"...Ringo?"
"Ringo."
When George sauntered into the kitchen, Ringo and John both turned to look at him. The drummer smiled shortly and went back to popping the bread out of the toaster before it could burn. John continued to stare.
"How's brekkie goin', lads?" The youngest asked in a half-hearted chipper tone. He rested his two elbows on the counter and looked back at John.
Ringo murmured, "Gear. Want coffee?"
George replied, "A tea would be lovely, ta Ring."
As the drummer occupied himself with the breakfast tasks, the rhythm guitarist came round the counter of kitchen and stood next to George. Much to the lead guitarist's surprise, he felt John rest a hand on his shoulder.
His voice held a slight odour of coffee and medication. "Why were you crying yesterday?" He asked gently.
George was a little taken back, "Can't you remember, John?"
John frowned.
"In the bath? You were unconscious, nearly bloody froze to death."
"In the bath? I was outside... I remember." The older man assured. He had a slightly desperate look in his dark, sleep deprived eyes. His voice raising slowly in volume attracted the attention of Ringo setting down the plate of bacon and eggs on the side.
George shook his head. "No you weren't, John-"
"Are you bloody tellin' me what I do and don't know, Harrison? I remember."
"John," Ringo called quietly, as if to try and stop the oncoming meltdown he knew was about to commence.
But John continued. "The woman hit me and I... I hit her-"
"You hit a woman, John?" George repeated, mouth agape in slight shock.
"Stop it," the drummer warned, edging closer. He could see this ending badly and no one was listening to him. "George, John, stop it."
"She hit me first-"
"What the bloody 'ell's the matter with you, Lennon?"
"George," Ringo snapped like an angry parent.
"She tried to kill me... they tried to kill me-"
"Whom? Did you hit them too!"
The rhythm guitarist looked panicked all of a sudden. He raked a hand through his hair and, when Ringo tried to touch him gently from across the counter, he yelped wildly.
"Come on, mate, it's not worth worrying over-" Ringo sighed.
"Those fuckin' cars! What do they want with me; what have I done!?" John was now over the other side of the room. He had a tear streamed face and his fists twitched and trembled by his waist. The two other men stood silent in shock both behind the kitchen counter now- almost as if for protection- and they watched John rage. His voice was loud and angry with hysteria; he had wide eyes that burned back at the other men like they were complete strangers to him. He said it over and over again:
"The cars,"
It was mantra-like, psychotic, almost. John paced back and fourth like a hungry tiger until he snapped again and screamed. It ricocheted around the silent room and shook the house like an earthquake. His tense hands found Paul's idle bass guitar resting against the sofa.
"John, no!" George yelled but it was too late.
The bass came down on the carpet with a thud. John's body rippled with rage-fuelled strength under his dressing gown as he brought down the instrument again and again like it was a simple mallet hammering in a nail, until finally the neck snapped and the bass guitar lay in two pieces on the floor.
John's laboured breathing turned into sobs. Slowly, a figure emerged from the doorway and all but tackled the older man to the floor. The two men landed on the carpet with a groan. John flailed beneath Paul's hold.
His hazel eyes glanced up at George in haste. "Call Doctor Robert. Now."
... ... ...
"I've administered a light sedative. He shouldn't be asleep but he may feel drowsy and confused for a while, but calm."
Brian Epstein, Paul, and the doctor closed John's bedroom door quietly and made their way downstairs into the living room. They were joined by Ringo and George, waiting anxiously.
"Why did this happen, Doctor?" The manager asked. He looked beyond rundown. His blue eyes were bloodshot and heavy, his skin looked to be limp and sagging slightly, his usually neat hair was without its normal, healthy sheen and life.
"A traumatic brain injury can bring on further complications, including this slight psychotic episode John suffered-"
The drummer piped up and suddenly all eyes were on him. "Well, on the back of this 'ere bottle," he held up the medication tube, "it says: 'side effects may include mania'. Could it be this that's causin' the problem?"
Paul had a feisty tone, "You mean you've been givin' him pills that makes 'im worse?"
Doctor Robert stuttered, "No, of course not, Mr McCartney. Everyone reacts differently to medication; how was I supposed to know John would suffer psychosis because of it. These delusions seem to stem further from the Phenelzine. I'm not a psychiatrist but I could arrange one to visit John from home if you feel it's necessary."
The Beatles and Brian exchanged a glance. Then, Brian nodded.
"Very well,"
... ... ...
The door creaked open and John's foggy head turned to the noise.
"Hello, Lennon," Paul smiled sadly.
John smiled slightly in return. He looked rather comfortable and relaxed in his bed and Paul envied his stress-free, drug-induced demeanour for a minute before sitting just beside the lump under the cover that was John's feet.
"Brian's here to see you," he turned his head and the manager entered and sat on the other side of the mattress so he could reach John's loose hand in his own.
"John," Brian began, "we thought that it would be good to get someone you can talk to about your... worries: a psychiatrist. Is that alright with you?"
"Psych'trist?" Lennon slurred.
"Yes, John. Just until you start to feel well again. Do you feel okay about someone coming here?"
Paul felt a tight knot form in his throat as John nodded. It hurt just to breathe. His eyes watered but he refused to cry again.
"Good lad," Brian smiled. Paul saw that his eyes were glassy too. "Well I'll let you relax, John." The manager swiftly left the room.
John's head bobbed in Paul's direction. "Am I mad, Paulie?"
Paul wiped a lone tear that dribbled down his cheek and he smiled.
"Of course you aren't mad, John,"
... ... ...
(Hello friends, how are you? I'm sorry for the gap in updating; I've been very busy with school and Christmas preparations and recently I've been quite ill too. Also, my older sister was admitted to hospital due to illness so that's also been on my mind. But enough about me!
How was this chapter? Poor John. Nothing is going right for him. Maybe this psychiatrist will be good for him but only time will tell...
Thank you so much for sticking with me and reading this chapter! Please leave a review telling me what you thought. :)
See you soon.)