Got To Get You Into My Life

One

When my eyes finally open, they're met with a cloudy grey sky and a sharp pain in my left arm. My body is sprawled out on the hard pavement like some rag doll thrown out of a car window, so I sit up. But I sat up way too fast, as another pain shot through my arm. Great. Where the hell am I and what happened to my arm?

But that's when I feel something wet, and that's when I finally look down. To my horror the inside of my arm is completely split open and thick, warm blood is seeping out, surrounding me in a huge puddle. Literally, it looked like a murder scene. And I'm not good with blood, not good at all. Just looking at a pond of my own blood made my breathing increase and my vision blurry.

Oh god, what the hell do I do? What was it that they did in those movies when someone got hurt? They put pressure on it. But what did I have to put pressure except a shirt from my bag? Eh, I guess one shirt wasted won't be bad and it'll slow my death, I guess. Pulling a white shirt out my small pull bag, I wrap it around my arm, crimson immediately soaking through the material. I look around me only to find a long abandoned road surrounded by wild trees and a barbed wire fence. What if some ax murderer just came charging out of the trees at me? I'd be dead. What if no one came and I bled out? I'd be dead. But what if no one came and I just sat curled up in a small pathetic ball? Again, I'd be so dead.

Thanks a whole lot International Past Assurances. I haven't even been awake for five minutes and I was already dying. Just as I thought my day couldn't get any worse, a small droplet of rain fell onto my cheek and all of a sudden it was like Heaven was pissing on me. I hate this. I hate Liverpool and I want to go back to 2016. So I bring my hands to my face and I sit there in the middle of the road crying with the rain. I was so royally screwed and I was gonna die out here unless I did something about it. But there was nothing to do. I feel like such a baby, sitting here curled up, hysterical crying.

It must've been an hour later easily when I heard the best noise in the world. I heard wheels screeching to a stop on wet gravel, so I lifted my gaze. Except I couldn't see anything really. My brown hair was stuck to my face, destroying the vision of my saviour. God, I hope whoever it was wasn't a creep or a serial killer.

"Um," It was a male voice, young. "Ex-excuse me miss? Are you alright?" Really kid, do I look alright? I guess I shouldn't be so hostile, someone is better than no one. Shoving strands of hair out of my eyes, I look up at him.

He was lanky, standing half on half off his bike awkwardly. His dark hair was was matted against his forehead from the rain and his brown eyes were glinted with what looked like confusion.

He was a fetas George Harrison. Oh god.

"Um yeah, no. No I'm not. I-I don't know where I am. And my arm. . ." I trailed off. I didn't know what I'm supposed to tell him. Oh you know I just slit my arm open somehow on my journey from 2016 to here. Please take me to Paul McCartney. I don't think so. I really should have thought this through.

"It's alright, miss. What's your name?" I blinked slowly, everything was still kind of blurry from crying and it was still raining down hard on us.

"V-Vitani. I'm Vitani"

"I'm George. Don't worry, I'll help you. Your arm looks really bad, my mum can help you." His voice was soothing, like he was talking to a hurt puppy. I guess I was a hurt puppy in a way. George walked towards me, lifting me up like a bride and placed me on the bicycle seat. He stood in front of me to pedal and we were off. The wind mixed with rain as it pelted me. Granted most of it was blocked by George, how did he even see where he's peddling?

The trees flew by in a daze and when I held onto his waist to peek my head out from behind him, I could see blurry houses getting closer. Thank God. I really wasn't up to dying today.

Ten minutes of peddling later the two of us halted in front of a small brown house. Blood was still oozing out of my arm and my vision was starting to get hazy. I've lost a lot of blood, I know that much. Just as George's lanky arms circled around me to bring me inside, my world turned black and my body went limp.

...

All I saw was white.

It took me about five seconds to realise my face was buried in a bed sheet and it took another five seconds to realise I was in 1958, and this was in fact George Harrison's house.

I sat up slowly from the bed and looked around. It was a small room with yellow walls and wooden dressers. Nothing more, nothing less. I bring my hands up to my face to wipe the drool off when I notice that my arm is wrapped in white gauze. I was still in my t-shirt and jeans but now they were matted with dirt and my blood. My body still felt heavy as I lifted myself up walking to the mirror.

I looked horrible.

My hair was flying everywhere and my outfit made me look homeless. But I am homeless. I have no where to go. A knock came from the door and it opened to George. "Oh, you're awake, that's gear I didn't want to wake you. My mum said to come down if you want to eat." He looked awkward standing there in the doorway. I can't blame him, he was talking to a complete stranger.

"Thank you. Really, thanks. You didn't have to help me."

"Well you looked in need of some help and that road is always empty. It's not a big deal, really." His British accent made him drawl out his vowels in the most intriguing way. George was nice, I like George.

"Um, is there somewhere I could change? I look like a total bum." He let out a small laugh.

"Yeah, the washroom is down the hall and to the right. I'll be here to take you down when you're finished." With a small nod and I grabbed my bag from the dresser and stepped around him.

Time to come up with a story for why I was out on that road.