#beatles reader

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1972,

The album had been out for a month; slowly rising to the top of the charts, slowly passing by names well-known to you. It was released to quiet celebration. Your joy in its release was tentative. The writing process had been hard and years in the making- the recording had been even tougher. A weight had lifted from your chest the moment it was off into the world, but the heaviness was never quite left behind, sticking around at the base of your throat- constricting your breathing as you slept. No amount of meditations and breathing exercises lessened the pain, and you had given in to the unyielding thoughts of it being your constant companion. 

That was until the visit of someone unexpected.

It was George! Your former bandmate whom you hadn’t seen since the break of the band nearing two years ago. He wasn’t the one to blame for the lack of meetings or correspondence during that time. In fact, he had tried very hard to reach you- through sending your letters, ringing you up, contacting your family and friends. But you had stood by in not contacting any of the former Beatles- not for reasons of animosity or anything close to it… It had just been… too much. After all that had gone down, you were scared. Scared of looking anyone of them in the eye and talking about what had happened.

And yet, here he was. And you were left with no other choice of talking to him, no other choice than to look into his soulful eyes and face the facts as they were.

He said your name in a single shaking breath as he let his eyes take you in; you hadn’t aged as visible as the others he thought. But you had changed, as well as they all had. You look dishevelled in loose-fitting clothes and unkempt hair as you stood with bare feet on the hardwood floor. He looked as wonderful as he always had the tendency to be. You croaked an attempt at a greeting, emotions clustering themselves at the centre of your heart as you looked upon him after years of isolation. 

You stepped aside, wordlessly inviting him into your apartment. His back now towards you, you took the opportunity to take a quick whiff of your day's old shirt, quickly grimacing with regret at what small it greeted you with.

In continued silence, you watched the man you admired and loved; something only known to you. The love you felt for him was yours to keep and to hold, to never depart with as it was never to be. He was married to Pattie, a woman whom you still admired. Though you had heard through the great grapevine that ran through the British music industry that their marriage was failing- it was still, as far as you could know, rumours. 

It was a strange image- him in your apartment. In a space that had previously been Beatles free, part from it being your habitat. You had slaved to remove any indications of your past. Your proud past. It wasn’t shame or embarrassment that had driven you to hide all relics of a relished past, but pain. And here a glaring monument of it stood- in the middle of a self-made mess of books and papers with indescribable writing only known to you as your old and ailing record player skipped silently in the background- the music having ended long before the appearance of George.

You swallowed harshly as you moved forward; “hey… George.”

You picked nervously at your nails, already bitten short, as you watched him look at you with a concerned look in his eyes. You hated seeing that in him and a sudden urge to do anything for a glimpse of his toothy smile pulled at your heart. You scratched the back of your neck as your anxiety grew and glanced at your feet as you asked him in a hoarse voice; “want some… some tea? I’ve… only got chamomile, sorry.”

“That’s fine,” he smiled with a nod; saving the conversation that clearly laid heavy on his mind for later. You guided him through your apartment, the wealth of your former career nowhere to be seen, to the small kitchen hiding in a far corner of the house. 

Decorated in lively colours and small plants, it was your ultimate safe haven and where you spent most of your time in the apartment. A square window gave you a view to a peaceful life of a tranquil birdnest of a familiar of four resting in a large old tree that had dominion over the small garden that was adjoined to the apartment complex. You turned on the stove and carefully watched George and his presence in your home as you prepared the tea.

Your hands started quivering, shaking, as you moved the cups to the small table against the furthest wall from the stove, to where George sat watching you. You barely managed to place the cups before the rest of your body followed and you fell to the floor with a sob.

“I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” you repeated as you felt him kneel in front of you, his hands on your shoulders pushing you into his chest as he embraced your shaking form. You had missed him. You had missed all of them, certainly, but seeing him had struck something up in you that thought had long been buried. You hadn’t handled the end of The Beatles as well as you thought you had.

He patted your hair in comforting waves as he shushed you, telling you that you had nothing to be sorry for. You spent several minutes like this; wetting his shirt, slowly regaining your breath as you enjoyed the feelings of his calloused fingers going through your hair to rest on your neck as you calmed down. You drew back slightly, enough so you could see his face but not enough for his hands to leave your body.

“If you...,” you took a deep breath, something you could feel your chest badly needed, “if you could change the past… travel back in time… would you?”

“No,” he calmly stated and wiped your red cheek of any stray tears, “whatever happened happened for a reason. As painful as it was, it was bound to happen regardless of what we could have done differently.”

“I just,” you started but come at a loss to really convey how you were feeling. You had tried your best in your album ‘Downpour’ but even then it felt like there was an open, gaping wound in your heart. Bleeding and bleeding, and you were yet to run dry. “I don’t know,” you whispered. “I just don’t know if I’ll heal from this.”

His hand rested on your cheek- the comforting coolness of it felt like pure euphoria against your burning cheek. God, you had gone too long with no human contact. You rested your head against his hand; suddenly feeling heavy and weak. 

“Of course you will,” he whispered, leaning closer to you. “’Downpour’ was your first step there. I’ve listened to it many times over, especially ‘Haunting’. You’re stronger than you think. And if you need any help, need anything, I’ll always be here for you.”