Find My Way (A Paul McCartney Fanfiction)

(1)

I woke up to sunlight teasing my closed eyelids.

"Ugh," I groaned as I tried to open my eyes. "What happened?"

Eventually, I got my eyes to fully open, and it was then that I realized, with quite a surprise, that I wasn't in my car at all.

In fact, I was actually back in my room, which, honestly, I was quite relieved about.

"Must have been a dream," I reasoned with myself. "A realistic-beyond-belief, weird-as-heck dream."

Thinking about it, I've always been the sort of person to have uncannily realistic dreams, so I'm actually not too surprised that it had only been a nightmare.

"It was quite real, though..." I thought. "What if I'm dead, and it really did happen..."

"No, stop it," I chided myself aloud, which, to anyone watching me, would have looked insane. "It's probably just stress from work. That's all. You're stressed, so you're having nightmares. That's it."

And with that little notion cemented into my mind, I got ready for work before I went downstairs to have a bit of breakfast, which always consisted of toast because I loathed having to eat so early in the morning.

As the toaster heated my crusty, old piece of wheat bread, I decided to get the morning paper off of my doorstep, since it was what I religiously read every morning before I left the house.

Approaching the door, I reached out to twist the doorknob, which I forgot was locked.

"Curses!" I spat whilst I unlocked the door before finally pulling it opened.

To my utter horror, though, something heavy fell to my feet, for apparently the door had been supporting it.

I nearly fainted as I instantly realized that what had fallen was not a newspaper, package or something normal people get at their doorsteps, but a person.

"Oh my gosh," I panicked, my hands flying over my mouth.

"What am I going to do?!"

After freaking out for a full two minutes, I came to the conclusion that I needed to help whoever the person was. After all, if someone is lying limp on your door step, helping them is the Christian thing to do, right?

And so, trying my hardest to keep my composure, which was threatening to crumble like a sieged castle, I bent down to the poor man, who was clad in a thick, black overcoat.

Since his face was turned away from me, I couldn't quite see who he was, but I could deduce that his skin seemed extremely pale, which bothered me. I mean, what if he was a corpse?

"Sir?" I asked him as I shook his bony arm. "Excuse me, are you okay?"

No reply.

"Sir?" I tried again, my adrenaline rushing through my veins. "Sir, could you please wake up?"

Still no reply.

Getting desperate (and cold, since it was the middle of February) I shook him a little harder.

"Sir? Please say something," I pressed, shaking him so hard his dark hair was swaying.

Even still, he didn't show any signs of waking up.

"Well, I suppose I need to phone the police," I said to no one in particular. "I never did get a good look at your face, though," I then spoke to the man as I leaned forward to tilt his head toward me.

As soon as I'd seen his face, my muscles seemed to give out, my stomach lurched into my mouth, and my tongue began to vibrate and go numb.

"No! It can't be..." I gasped as I tried to keep my breathing at a normal pace. "H-he's like seventy something...he's not...he...it just can't be. But, he looks just like him...mop top, long lashes, slanted eyelids, those perfect eyebrows...but it's only a coincidence. It has to be..." I puzzled, completely baffled by what seemed to be occurring.

Not knowing what else to do, I touched his cold hand before saying in a mere whisper, "Paul? Paul McCartney? Is that you?"

Instantly thinking that the man who looked like Paul McCartney wouldn't respond to being called a name other than his own, I was scared out of my wits when I saw his thick lashes actually beginning to flutter.

"Oh my gosh, it is him..." I thought deliriously as I watched his droopy eyes open all of the way to reveal large, hazel orbs.

"Miss?" he spoke in a confused, Liverpool accent as he blearily looked at me. "I...where am I?"

Completely speechless, I tried to answer him, but only succeeded in letting out a little squeak.

"Miss...I don't feel well," he managed to whisper before his eyes shut again and he fell back to sleep.

Witnessing him passing out, I magically got my voice back as I began to panic. "Paul! Please stay awake!" I pressed whilst I shook his limp frame.

After what felt like hours of shaking him, I succumbed to my defeat. He wasn't going to wake up. And so, I decided, with a bit of difficulty because I didn't truly know if Paul McCartney was actually who was on my doorstep, to drag him into the house.

He wasn't extremely heavy, so hauling him into the vestibule wasn't as hard as I had imagined. Once I'd gotten him propped up against the wall, I had a moment to look at him and assess the situation.

"If this is mop top Beatle Paul McCartney, then where is the Paul McCartney of today? And why is Beatle Paul lying unconscious in my home? This just can't be real..."

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted, though, for he was beginning to stir again. I knelt down to his level as I gently and awkwardly touched his shoulder.

"Paul?" I said soothingly. "Wake up."

"Ugh...mates?" he groaned, apparently coming out of a dream as his eyes cracked opened. "We're gonna miss the concert..."

"It is him!! It's got to be!"

"Paul? Paul, are you okay? What's wrong?" I pressed, desperately trying to understand what was going on in his muddled mind.

"I...Miss?" he slurred, his eyes finally focusing on mine. "W-what? Where am I? Who are you?" he then asked, panic beginning to wash over his pale features.

My caring instincts rising above my scared to death emotions, I began to pat his arm. "Shh, take it easy. You're okay."

"But...but, who are you? Where am I?" he demanded, his eyes flashing colors of shock.

"My name is Molly Wright. I live here in London, which is where we are now," I explained coolly, despite how I felt, hoping that my words would calm him down.

"But, that's impossible. I was just with me mates in Plymouth, and we were leaving for a concert. No, no this isn't right..." he mumbled worriedly as he attempted to get up, although he was stopped by yours truly.

"Stay down, Paul. I don't want you to hurt yourself," I said without thinking.

"Wait, how do you know my name? I've never met you before," he stated, suddenly seeming a bit creeped out.

Kicking myself for being so stupid in my rush of adrenaline, I winced as I tried to think of what to say next.

"Well?" he pressed bossily. "How do you know me?"

At a loss, I blurted out the first words that came to my mind, "What year do you think it is?"

Paul looked utterly flabbergasted at such a random question. It seemed to take his mind a moment to wrap around why I'd be asking him such a thing before he scoffed, "Don't play games with me, you know it's 1963!"

My heart beating out of my chest at his instant, confident reply, I realized that Paul-The Cute Beatle From The 60s-McCartney was sitting in my house at 7:00 on a Tuesday morning.

How could it be? I wake up after a bad dream, and then go downstairs to find the 1963 version of Paul McCartney at my doorstep? This just doesn't seem possible!

"Paul," I responded in a shaky, nervous tone as I picked at my fingernail, "it's 2022."

"No," he gasped before his face went two shades whiter. "You're lying...it's 1963..."

Three seconds later, he fainted...again.

Is it alright so far? I hope so! Thanks for reading, everyone! :-)