temporary fix || george harrison

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THE AIR was stolen clean from my chest with a brutal yet crisp kickback. Was this real life? Was this another one of my daydreams?

I was indeed back in the presence of a Beatle. And not the one I expected to be in. I'd always thought I'd see George floating down the cosmic river, if he were willing to accept me once again.

Paul was smartly dressed in a large page boy cap, black trench coat and black accompanying clothing. I almost laughed at how Bond-like he'd looked. The movies were his favourite anyhow. He looked the same, those boyish cheeks and doe eyes of his didn't wear in their glamour over the years.

I suddenly became extremely aware of my pajamas and my cheeks flushed as I began to trip over my own useless legs to find something more suitable to wear.

"Might I come in? The sun's yet to thaw the night chill, it's a bit nippy." Paul asked politely, as he always had when I'd seen him last, and I nodded furiously as I attempted to restart my stalled mouth with some light conversation. Granted, I wasn't much of a small talker these days.

"Oh! Uh thank you, Paul. I can't believe you remembered my birthday." I said softly as I closed the door behind the aged version of my ex beau's best mate. I was living in an alternate reality, right? Was this real life?

Paul familiar chuckle filled my prickled ears as he walked into my small seating area beside my modest kitchen. I tracked his movements as he held onto the wrinkled wrapped brown parcel that had my name scrawled onto it... in his handwriting.

It was haunting.

My stomach violently twisted and I felt as if the world was going to swallow me whole that very second, and I had silently wished that it would so I could run from this sensation.

"We all knew your birthday as the day George started on his yearly week long bender." Paul quipped as he turned around to face me as he sat down gracefully in the pair of thrifted brown oak chairs at my breakfast nook.

Although the targeted comment stung, Paul surely meant no harm; yet it still grazed my skin as if it were a white hot brand of shame that only I'd be able to recognize.

It's been 50 years for him, 50 years of contemplation and remembrance. It was nearly a fraction of the time for me. The wound has scarred over for him, mine is still stitched together.

I followed suit with what it felt like my tail tucked between my legs, and felt my throat shrink to the size of a pin. I never thought this day would've come to pass, the very thought of Paul or ark go returning for a post-mortem had always made me a bit ill but I knew it would never happen.

"Would you like a cuppa Paul?" I offered meekly as my heart roared in my chest as I tore my eyes away from the parcel.

I thought of the dangers of the past that could possibly linger, dredged up as a cruel joke by the gods, reminding me that my perilous journey is not yet over.

"That would be a treat, darling. You know how I like it." Paul answered, his lips pursed as his analytical mind buzzed behind his hazel eyes. I used to tease him how I could hear his thoughts before he spoke them.

I nodded curtly and spun around to go put water in the kettle, my heart hammering away in my chest so fiercely I was afraid I might pass out.

"He was angry, for a very long time. It took him years before he could even talk about you. John never did. I wasn't sure if we was ever embarrassed or just simply too bereft." Paul said airily, his eyes burning burr holes into the back of my skull.

His words were scalding, as if I were holding a lighter to my wrist. Whether they were intentionally so or not, I hadn't a clue.

I kept quiet as I ambled about my small kitchen, preparing two little tea cups like a kitchen's maid, silent as a mouse. I was afraid Paul would be able to smell the perfuming scent of my frigid fear.

"Despite that anger, he made this for you with instructions to find you & when to give it to you. He wasn't angry then, only melancholy that he would be able to give it to you himself."

My heart stalled as my lungs deflated. The blood rushed to my face in a moment of realization; George gave Paul this parcel to give to me on his deathbed.

It was more than enough to ruin me forever.

"Do I want to open it?" I asked tightly, trying to silently regain my breath after it was so violently knocked from me just moments before.

The kettle began to sing slightly on the stove, but it wasn't hot enough yet. Paul liked his tea to be piping- I'd always preferred mine a just dial below boiling.

"I dunno Ju- are you afraid of the truth?" I winced at Paul's bluntness; Am I afraid of the truth, or am I just not ready?

Slowly and with tears burning like fire ants at the corner of my eyes, I nodded in confirmation.

"I'm afraid, yes. But I can't just ignore a dead man's wishes, now can I?" George felt so removed now- his love, his hope, his attachment.

It all felt one sided now- my grief. Paul all but confirmed that George hadn't given enough figs to grieve me, to mourn the implosion that was our love. He simply endured the pain of my betrayal & moved on with his life, carrying on as if we never existed. As history intended him to.

The sadness was all the more complex now, bearing the newfound knowledge that I was completely isolated in it.

Paul's expression was unreadable- it was somewhere between nostalgia & understanding, as he knew what his dear friend had experienced, and could contemplate my feelings 50 years later.

The former Beatle gently pushed the parcel towards me on the table top, and I moved through jello to grab the weathered package with trembling hands. My body was anticipating George's energy to flow through me as soon as I'd laid hands upon this box of memories, but all I felt upon contact was the widening of the hole in my soul.

George was gone from this earth, and wandering the soft grounds of another- and  this is how he'd chosen to leave his final words behind for.

I breathed heavily over the box, my finger tips tracing the familiar scrawl of my name in a featherlight motion. My lips parted in catharsis as I felt a few tears slither past my eyes and down my cheeks.

"I know this wasn't probably the present you wanted, but it was the one you needed." Paul cut the silence, commanding me to look upon him with the cold truth of his words. He was all but wrong - I couldn't deny that, even if I could live in ignorance of all the rest.

I quickly peeled back the brown covering to reveal a plain black metal box, complete with a silver clasp on the front. I almost laughed at the fittingness of the box George bequeathed to me.

Devoid of any and all decoration, spirit, identity. It was the box of a ghost who had no more than shades of memories to pass down. This box told me that in a loud volume that George was more than angry at me when I left, he was furious.

I could feel the imprint of rage when George had thrown this box together; the rage of him having to acknowledge I took up so much unnecessary space in his life.

This wasn't a gift, I realized.

This was a punishment.