Yesterday.

There were the biggest thing Britain had ever seen. They were invincible, and it had all happened so fast. It was almost frightening, the amount of screaming girls that met them everywhere they went, the press, the fame, the money.

None of it affected John. He was still almost the same person. I was totally in love with him. It seemed that we were together forever.

The only problem; he drunk. A lot, sometimes. Sometimes he would show up on my doorstep, completely hammered, and my mom would chase him off with a broom. He was sober most of the time though. When he was, he was the sweetest human on the earth. He was funny, he was charming, he was understanding, I could get lost in a conversation with him.

But when he was drunk, he was different. He wasn’t the normal John. We’d get into arguments, and he’d usually end up hitting me. He never remembered he’d do it, and I never reminded him. I’d act like it never happened, because to me, it never did. I didn’t want something as silly as that to ruin our relationship. He meant so much to me.

I lightly rocked my foot back and fourth to my Beatles album, which was lightly playing in the background as I painted a picture. It was unlike any picture I’d ever done before, it was a scene. I usually did abstracts, or portraits, but this was different. It was just a picture of the boys on stage, playing away. But it was before Brian made them wear those gear suits.

Paul was singing into the microphone, his hair all greased into a curl at the top of his head, his eyes squinted as he screamed out a most likely out of tune note. He was stomping his cowboy boots up and down, and strumming his guitar (this was back before he played bass). John was looking down intently at his guitar, strumming some intricate notes, and walking over to the other side of the stage. George was laughing and looking into the crowd, as if he’d just said a joke and they couldn’t understand it. Stu, their old bassist, had his back facing the crowd. He was looking down, and had sunglasses on. I made him look just like Jimmy Dean, his idol. But of course, he was dead, and I’d never met him. I’d just heard many stories from the boys. Pete, their drummer before Ringo, was biting his lip and playing the drums hard, sweat flinging off of his head. I drew a couple of girls in the front reaching out to them, and one of their amplifiers was knocked over, and broken.

Once I finished every little detail, I smiled. I actually liked this one. It was rare that I liked my drawings. I usually shoved them into a drawer, and John and George would dig them up later and show them to everyone. Nothing of mine was private. I hid them in my panties drawer once, and got angry once John came running downstairs with a handful of them.

I pinned the picture to my bulletin board, and smiled proudly at it. My life hadn’t changed much, besides that fact that I couldn’t go anywhere anymore without being threatened if I didn’t leave him. ‘He’s mine, if you don’t leave him alone, we’ll get you.’ Thankfully, they’d only carried through with it 3 times. I’d once acquired a broken wrist from being slammed against a brick wall. But it wasn’t bad, and I recovered quickly.

It was odd, seeing your own face on all of the pop magazines under the head line, ‘John’s squeeze, or just a close whore?’ They didn’t bug me after a while.

Even for the past year, Paul barely spoke to me. He was closer to John than he was to me, but once at a party, he slipped past me and whispered in George’s ear, “It’s good to keep your enemies close, son.” Loud enough so I could hear.

I quickly changed out of my pajamas, and into a pair of leggings and a short, blue dress. I combed through my hair quickly, and applied a bit of make-up. John was making dinner for me tonight in his new house, and I was excited. Haley kept convincing me that this was it, he was going to pop the question. Every time I thought about it, my heart rate shot up about 20%. I wanted to marry him so bad, and then I wouldn’t have to worry about him sleeping around, or doing drugs. Marriage was a promise. I wanted it so bad.

I skipped into my room, clicking off my Beatles album, and glancing at the clock. 7:10. Damn, I was late! I shot downstairs, stepping into my shoes, and ran out the door.

I still didn’t have a car, though John kept promising he’d buy me one. I refused, wanting to buy it myself. Though he was rich and famous, I wasn’t. I needed to support myself. I didn’t want to leach off of him.

As I ran down the street, towards the bus stop, I heard a voice. It was small, and feeble, but enough to make me jump.

“Where are you off to?” I turned around, to see Paul sitting on the curb at the end of his driveway, smoking a fag. I bit my lip harshly, and shrugged.
“John’s.” I said, slightly winded.
“Ah.” Was all he said, “Have fun.”

“Paul.” Was all I could manage to get out, pain flooding over my face. I’d never really gotten over how much pain I’d caused him. I still thought about him often.

“I was hoping you’d like to come and, y’know, talk with me. But whatever. Have fun.”

“We can talk later, I promise.” I gasped out, before turning and running again. I could feel his eyes burning holes into my back the entire way down the street, my feet splashing in the left over’s of the last light Liverpool shower.