Broken Words - Paul McCartney, John Lennon

The Dakota

Paul stepped into the apartment building, crossing over the carpeted lobby. He did not approach the desk, not because there was not a desk clerk; but because he had a bizarre feeling if there had been one, Paul would not have been answered. Just like at the hospital. Just like with John and Yoko. Those moments seemed to be many years away, but they were not. A few days ago at the most. Paul knew time was screwing with him, always had since John's death and the flashes or whatever they were, he was not sure. The flashes came and go, just happening without a warning, without an answer. Paul needed answers. That was why he had come to New York in the first place, earnest with the question of if John was really, truly dead. The first day he had arrived, a woman had told him the news he had already read. He had said he had believed what he had heard at the time, but he also said the press lied. He was uncertain, still, if John was dead. His visit to the hospital had not given him any answer, only adding to his confusion. Because Paul was sure as hell not in a coma. He could smell the freshness of air freshener in the air, and he thought, strangely, it must have been to cover the scent of death and grief. It was a morbid thought, but his whole damn journey had been morbid. He thought of it but nothing as another sign of grief. He hated grieving. He knew it was a loving emotion in all its morbidness. He knew he had always loved John. He was grieving, and he hated it.

Paul pushed the button to the elevator with a shaking finger. He was scared. Scared of grieving, scared of what he could find. Part of him thought he would find nothing but a dead body. He didn't have to specify whose body it was. The other thought he would find whoever had shot John, and that Paul would be shot, too. The color seemed to drain from his face at the thought. He was scared, but he brushed the thought off. He did not need to be scared and grieving. He didn't have to be either. That was the thought he recalled as he stepped into the elevator.

It was not a long journey, nor a short one. The elevator seemed to be like everything since the eighth of December: not slow, not fast, but just there. Here and there, without a cause, without a choice, without a meaning, in the strange world. It had always been a strange world, before John and after John. Paul still didn't fully believe he was dead. It was with a confusing, uncertainty that he did not believe the press with their bold headlines, nor did he believe the gatherers. At the moment, he was the only one gathered. A loner if there had every been one. But he did not feel alone. That was strange, too. He was reminded again of the flashes of moments, and Paul said aloud,

"John?"

He did not get an answer.

Paul swore. He almost jabbed the first floor button, but the doors to the elevator opened. Still, he was convinced this was a stupid, mindless idea, to just show up at what was certainly a crime scene, and call out John Lennon's name. A curious thought entered his head: John is dead. Paul shook his head. No, he did not believe it, still. He knew he was stubborn, but he also heard an assumed truth in his own words. John is alive.

He almost smiled. A thin pressing of his lips into a line, was not a smile, but it was not anything else, either; besides, perhaps, another sign of grief. Paul dismissed the thought, immediately. Being uncertain was not a thing he was used to (like grief). He hated it, too. He seemed to be hating a lot of things, lately.

But Paul certainly did not hate John. Through all and all, the fights and the laughs, Paul still felt an emotional attachment to him. It had to be the grief talking, but the single emotion had been with him for a while, now, and it had become a part of him. Many years ago, John had become a part of him. Only, it was something different, Paul realized, as his eyes stared at the hallway waiting. He took a deep breath and stepped out of the elevator.

He was more certain than ever before that John had been something more to him. John had never been just a person he could exchange the art of songwriting with; he had never been just a friend or a brother. Once upon a time, John had been his lover.