London, England, 1963
The sound of wailing erupted from the bedroom.
A groan escaped from Joan's mouth as she lifted her head from the kitchen counter with difficulty. She hardly remembered how she had even got there. She licked her lips and smacked them. They tasted of blood.
Her eyes eventually focused and she could take the sight of her kitchen. Or what had happened to it. Around her were an array of broken cutlery. The cabinet doors were out of their hinges and thrown everywhere. There was blood on the floor.
"What happened?". She felt like a drunkard, recovering from a hangover.
Joan staggered towards the middle counter. She looked at her reflection through the toaster. She saw the same person she saw every day. Bloodied up, bruised, ugly, worthless, unworthy.
She looked at her clothes. They were stained with bloody spots from the fresh cuts in her arms and legs. She ran a hand through her short hair. She cried out in pain.
She felt like giving up. How easy it could be to give up. She had the knives from the kitchen. How easy would it be? Just to grab a knife and end it all. All she had to do was reach...
'No' she slapped herself mentally.
'No'. She told herself. She must go upstairs. She must go to her wailing daughter. Grabbing on the kitchen counter to steady herself, she swaggered to the stairs and gripping the handle with what seemed like a death grip, she slowly went upstairs, leaving bloody footprints on the carpet and tile floors.
She reached the source of the wailing. Something in her brain snapped into place. She realized where she was. That there was a wailing baby that was hers. That she was alone. That her so-called fiance had beat her up and left her on the kitchen counter. She stumbled towards the crib and picked her wailing daughter out of it. She pulled her straight to her chest. She began sobbing and frantically kissing her daughter's forehead.
Joan began to hush sweet words into her baby's ear. She breastfed her, rocked her, swaddled her. But nothing worked. She then remembered an Irish lullaby her mother sang for her.
How she wished her mother was here right now.
She rocked her baby gently and sung.
Over in Killarney, many years ago
My Mother sang a song to me in tones so sweet and low,
Just a simple little ditty, in her good old Irish way,
And I'd give the world if she could sing that song to me this day.
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral
In almost an instant, the wailing stopped. Joan sighed and brought her lips to her baby's forehead. She left soft kisses on it as her baby fell asleep in her arms. Joan felt content with her miracle in her arms. She lived for her. To give the little human she created the life she deserved. To give her a life completely opposite of Joan's. She sat on the rocking chair and rocked back and forth.
It was quiet. A good quiet.
Just as Joan began to doze off, she heard the lock click and the door open.
Her heart stopped.
***********************************************************************************************
A.N: Hope you liked this chapter. It's short but it took a hell of a lot of time to write. Comment what you think! If you liked it, vote! I love you guys. Also, Too-Ra-Loo-Ra-Loo-Ral has been one of my favourites! I still use it to help sleep!
XO,
S.
YOU ARE READING
The Answer (Paul McCartney/Beatles Fanfiction)
Romance"Love is the answer, and you know that for sure; Love is a flower, you've got to let it grow"~JWL xxxx //WARNING// This story covers topics such as Abuse (physical and mental), Rape, self-harm, unconsented drug use, and PTSD. These topics can be unc...
