Yesterday.

Liverpool was boring as usual, but our lives were just taking off. We were booked to go to Australia soon, and Asia, and everywhere else imaginable! And I thought that Germany was exciting! Jesus fuck was I wrong.

We were only here for a month, one short month, and then we were off to, well, wherever we were headed. I’d let Brian handle the details.

We were famous, really, truly famous. This is everything I’d worked for, this is what all of those long, hot, tired, and sweaty nights in Germany were all about (well, the ones where I was not fucking some tart.)

It’s not like I was different, though. I was the same ol’ Johnnyboy. I was just different in front of the cameras. It’s not like I could be a bastard to all of the little lonely 12 years old girls of the world, the dough would stop rolling in.

I laid down on my bed, and stared out of my rain-drenched window. Ah, the good old days. I missed rain, even for the short amount of time I was in America. It’s almost essential to me. Even snow was weird in comparison. I hated it; it was too, too cold. We had it over here sometimes, but very, very rarely.

My thoughts were all over the place, I wish they’d just stay still. After about five minutes, I flinched violently. The shock that I was actually not thinking about Ana caused my body to convulse. That’s not normal.

But, it was the first five moments of peace that she’d actually given my poor brain, and conscious. I hated myself for what I did to her, and Paul. But I hated myself more because I didn’t regret it. I know I’m in love with her, and I know there’s no one else in the world for me, but I fucked up, so I’ll have to live with that.

Just another disappointment.

I’m going to spend the rest of my life completely alone, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I brought this upon myself, and now I have to pay for it. God, I hate when I’m right.

I glanced up at my Bridget Bardot poser, and grimaced. Ugly. She was hideous compared to Ana, why was she even still on my ceiling? I stood on my old, squeaky bed, and ripped her off, tearing her to shreds, and throwing her at my trashcan.

I was staying at Mimi’s for a few weeks, or until the house I was paying for was ready for me. It needed a lot of renovation, and it had to be very secluded. Even staying with Mimi was disgusting, with all of the girls looking her up in the phonebook and throwing rocks at my window. I’m glad we have fans, but they get a little crazy. Our old fans were so respectful, well, most of them were over the age of 18. Now we have to deal with 12 years olds… that’s something new.

“JOHN!” Mimi yelled from downstairs. I could barely hear her over all of the rain.

“MIMI!” I yelled back in response.

I heard her little footsteps go up the wooden stairs, and stop at my door.

“Someone’s at the door for you, dear. And you should really learn to come down when I call you; I’m not getting any younger.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Oh Mary Smith, it’s good for ya’.”

She smiled, and started walking back down, I followed, freezing at the bottom of the stairs.

“Say, Mimi, it’s not some little girl, is it?”

“If you count George and Paul as little girls…” She commented slyly, walking back into the kitchen where the beautiful smell of roasted potatoes was drifting from. I smirked, and opened my front door.

There they stood, soaking wet, shivering, and covered in mud. My eyes grew.

“What did you lot do? Mud wrestle?”

“Haha.” George’s teethe were chattering, and he rubbed his arms.

“No, actually.” Paul glanced at George, “we were on our way here, and some little girls started chasing us… rabid creatures! We had to dive into a hole to get away, and the hole just happened to be a mud hole.”

I stared blankly at them for another minute, before I burst out laughing. They glared.

“Alright, lads. Come in, but take off your shoes or Mimi will skin me.” I let them in, and handed them towels from the laundry rack. They gratefully took them, drying themselves off quickly.

*
It was about an hour later when we were sitting by the fire that I had built in the fireplace, and sipping coffee, our bellies full with bangers and mash. This was always nice, just relaxing with your friends. If Ringo was here it would be a real party, but he’s with his ‘girlfriend’, a.k.a. his mum.

“So, how was your day, Johnny?” George asked, his eyes squinting from the heat of the fire.

“The same old.” I shrugged, “Did a lot of thinking.”

“About what?” Paul said those words very slowly, and though George was completely oblivious, I knew his suspicious meaning.

“Us, y’know! The famous Beatles.” I yanked out one of my strange Scottish accents to break Paul’s tension, and it work. He stifled a laugh, and rolled his eyes, a sign of forfeit. Only he and I knew what I was really talking about, and it was none of George’s business, so we would both keep quiet about it. And right on que…

“Alright, Lads. I better run home. Me mum’s having Harold over, and she wants two of her boys home tonight.”

“See you, George.” Paul and I said in unison, watching out tall, skinny friend get up and leave.

We sat in a loaded silence for a couple of minutes, one of us occasionally opening our mouths to speak, but snapping it back shut instantly.

Finally, I closed my eyes and sighed.

“How is she?”

“Why do you want to know?” He snapped.

“She’s my friend, isn’t she? Or am I not even allowed that?”

“John…”

”Just answer the question, Macca.”

“She’s fine.” He shrugged, his eyes catching mine for a quick second before scanning the floor, his dark brown hair covering his forehead, which was obviously creased in concentration, “I mean, she’s been acting a little weird, but nothing… that unusual.”

“Define weird.”

“Well, I dunno, mate. I can’t describe it.”

“Hm.” I glanced down at the floor again, my mind scattered.

“Yeah… so.” Paul glanced over at me, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at him.

“So.”