Lonely People

Paul McBreakdown

If you asked anyone who knew me to describe me, they would immediately say I went above and beyond to do whatever it is I was doing. Whenever I played drums, I went above and beyond to make sure I did it perfectly. Whenever I dance, sang, shouted, or got into fights, I put my whole heart behind it. The same went for when I got sick.

When I got sick, I came to the doors of death. Even if it were just a cold, I would convince myself that I was dying. Something as little as a sneeze would make me stare into death's hollow eyes. 

"I'm dying," I groaned.

Molly sat on the edge of my bed, "Quit being over dramatic, you're not dying, it's just a simple cold."

"I can see it now," I rolled to push my face into my pillow, "Amelia McCartney, killed by the common cold. Bloody ridiculous."

My entire body ached. I felt like an elephant was sitting on my lungs and stuffing my head with cotton balls. Everything hurt, I couldn't stop sneezing, and I yearned for a sleep that would never come.

"Drink this," Molly held out a tea.

I sat up slightly and took the cup from her. She had been taking care of me all morning, even though I told her I could take care of myself. Molly always did have a bit of her mother in her, with her obsessive need to protect those around her.

"You're a lifesaver, Mols," I muttered.

I let the tea slide down my throat and warm me from the inside out. Molly smiled slightly, "This wouldn't have happened if you didn't fall asleep on the porch."

"I'll take the consequences," I sighed.

"You don't have a choice."

Molly waited for me to finish the tea. She watched me, her eyes sparkling mischievously. When I finished, she took the cup and stood to leave. I stopped her.

"Molly?"

"Yeah?" she turned around and connected our eyes.

I smiled, "Thanks, you're the best."

"I knew that," she cheekily replied, "You're welcome, Melly."

With that, she left. I watched her go before bundling myself back in my blanket and curling on the mattress. The tea had made me feel better and sleepier. I found my eyes slowly drifting shut against my permission.

"Bloody hell, not again," I muttered, "She slipped me sleeping pills."

I could barely get the last sentence out before I was asleep.

***

"Melly, wake up."

That voice pierced my consciousness. My dream self stopped strumming the guitar and tapping the drum. I glanced up at the ceiling of The Cavern Club and asked, "Janice?"

"Yes, wake up, Melly," the entire club began to shake.

My eyes fluttered open. It took a moment for the room to come into focus. Janice was standing at the side of my bed, her eyebrows laced together with worry. She was trembling more than usual, even more than when she got stage fright.

"What time is it?" I rubbed my eyes.

Janice wrung her hands, "Quarter past Midnight. Paul's on the phone, he needs to talk to you."

"Tell him I'm sick."

"He sounds upset," Janice replied, "I think he was crying."

Having grown up with Paul, I had seen him go through every emotion imaginable. I had seen him cry countless times, sometimes over nothing. For him to call me in tears, something had to have happened. The last time he called me crying from a different country, Stuart had died. Almost instantly, I threw back the covers and stood, nearly falling back over due to the head rush.

"Are you alright?" Janice held my arm.

I nodded, "Fine, fine, just stood up a bit quickly."

"I'm sorry to wake you, he wouldn't stop crying, and I-"

"No, Jan, it's fine," I smiled at her, "I'm glad you did. I'll go talk to him."

Janice nodded. She watched me go before returning to her own room. I used the wall as a brace all the way into the kitchen. The phone was lying on the island face down. I picked it up and slowly slid down to the floor. The cold plastic made my cheeks prickle. I could hear sniffles and rushed breathing on the other end. 

"Paulie?" I asked.

"Lia," he sniffled.

I raised my eyebrows, "Paulie, what's wrong?"

"We-we were at a show today and the crowd booed. A lot. They shouted insults in French. A-and then John got mad at me. Now he won't talk to me. Neither will George and Ringo. They say it's my fault. I-I-"

He broke down in tears. I felt the sudden urge to go to him and hug him, but he was on a tour of France. He wouldn't be back for a fortnight.

"Paul, take deep breaths, it's not your fault," I did my best to sound comforting.

He hiccuped, "It was, though. I-I tried to speak French to them, to apologize, but I think I insulted them further."

"You can't blame yourself for that. French is a tough language to learn, and you only had a month of lessons."

"John yelled at me," Paul muttered, "He called me McCartney and now he won't even look at me. George and Ringo left, and I'm all alone, and I don't know what to do."

I took a deep breath. Normally, Paul wouldn't have a complete breakdown over something like this. He would pout all night, or, at least, until he and the lads made up. This was uncharacteristic of Paul, and I knew exactly what was happening.

Janice did the same thing whenever we had steady strings of shows. Everything would pile on top of her; the stress, the anxiety, and the exhaustion. She would completely break down over the tiniest of things. I figured Paul was having the same problem.

"John is a frustrating man," I told him, "This is just John, he does this all the time. In the morning, he'll stroll in as if nothing happened, and you'll be best mates again. George and Ringo just needed to breathe for a bit. In the morning, everything will be alright."

Paul choked slightly, "B-but what if it isn't? We've been cooped up together for so long, what if they're getting sick of me? Of each other? We just started to get somewhere, we can't quit now."

"Paul, listen carefully," I took a deep breath, "Everything is going to be fine. You four lads are too close to break up now. In the morning, everything will be fine, you're all just tired."

"But-"

"Paul."

He fell silent. I could hear his shaky breaths. He had never broken down before. Paul was the one who could handle anything. Even with all the pressure of the world on him, he stood with his head up and a grin on his face. He was the strong one, he always was, but even the strong break sometimes.

"Alright, take deep breaths," I said, "Do it with me."

I began to breathe deeply. Over the phone, I could hear Paul copying me. His breaths were shaky at first, but, eventually, they calmed down. He was breathing normally after a few minutes.

"Were you sleeping?" Paul asked quietly.

I smiled, "You know me, Paulie, I don't sleep."

As if on cue, I sneezed loudly. Paul gasped, "Blimey! I forgot you were sick! I'm sorry, Lia, I never should have called you."

"Paul, I can be sick any day of the week, helping you is more important," I stated, "I'd gladly get out of bed any day to help you."

I could almost hear Paul's grin, "Thanks, Lia. I knew I could count on you."

"What are sisters for?"

We both fell into a silence. It was a comfortable silence. I kept the phone pressed against my ear, waiting for the snores that would inevitably come. Eventually, they did, and I knew Paul was asleep.

"Sweet dreams, Paulie," I muttered, "Talk to you tomorrow."

With that note, I hung up the phone and shuffled back to my bedroom.

(Photo- An exhausted Amelia, 1963. Taken by Molly Mackenzie.)