you really got a hold on me | john lennon

CHAPTER FIFTY THREE

February 16th, 1961

I pulled the covers tighter around my trembling body as I felt the world spin around me non-stop. Sweat fell from my forehead like a steady tap even if I was feeling like I could freeze to death any moment now. A day or two ago was finally when I had run out dry of those damn Prellies, and I had no idea what was happening to me.  Yesterday I thought it was just a regular cold that I was going through...but this? This was much, much worse than anything I'd ever fucking imagined. I would rather go through anything else in my life over and over again—just as long as I'd never have to feel like this anymore.

Every part of me was radiating with a throbbing pain, not once giving me a break. It had kept me up all night and proceeded to get worse with every hour that had managed to pass by. There was no reasonable thought in my mind for why I would be feeling this way, and I would maybe even think that this was all in my head. But that idea was out the window immediately when I realized I was sober from anything in my system. No Prellies and definitely no bevvies.

John was still sound asleep next to me, having no idea what was going on. He kept on tugging our shared covers back to his side just like the both of us had been doing all night—agitated that I kept on wrapping it around me. For all that he was concerned, I was just hogging the sheets again just like any other day. I gave it another weak tug with the little strength I had left, pulling it off him completely. And that seemed to be the one thing that finally woke him up.

"Nat, for fuck's sake, do you want me to just go get another blanket downstairs? We've been playing a tug of war with it since last night." He grumbled as I felt him shift out of bed.

"Mhm," I could only manage to hum out through my continuing chills. If I had said anything else, I'm sure it would just mesh together into one incoherent sentence that would have served none of us any good—maybe even just causing more panic.

John then ran a warm, steady hand up and down my back soothingly. He was the farthest thing from an idiot, and I'm sure he could sense something was wrong when I didn't bite back with some type of insult. "Are you alright? Nat, c'mon...talk to me. You're shaking, what's the fuck is goin' on?" John's tone suddenly softened as he tried to steady my back by keeping his hand on there, but if anything it made me shake even more. Not because of how I was feeling, but because I was terrified of what John would do next. He wasn't the best at handling things like these in the slightest.

"I—I don't know," I muttered weakly through chattering teeth. Every second I lay here, the worse all this discomfort I felt went. But only God knows that I didn't have the strength to even think about going for a walk now either. I was stuck with no way out.

"Christ, Nat," John wraps his arms around me to shift me to face his direction so that he could get a better look at how I was doing. He ran his fingers through my hair and tried wiping off all the sweat he could with the hem of his pyjamas shirt. "Did you eat anything that was shite? No...that can't fucking be because you only stay here. Wait...are you bevvied up? That's the only thing I can scrape together."

You just answered your own bloody question...and then asked another damn thing that goes against what you just answered. Maybe it was the lack of sleep or all the bevvies he drank at The Beatles' gigs catching up to him, or possibly just him being a fucking idiot. Since I had been cooped up at Mendips ever since we got back from Hamburg, how could I eat anything bad if Mimi was cooking? And how could I even think of sneaking a drink here if, again, Mimi was around all the time? There was absolutely no way how I was feeling could be because of any of what John was thinking of. And even if I was bevvied up...it was bold of him to assume that I couldn't handle as many drinks as he could.