The morning sky blazed before him, making his already blurring vision swim. His sleep had been replaced with grief and memories he could not escape. Therefore, Paul sat alone, eyes on the small window he had taken up to be his sanctuary. He had faked sleep when asked if he was awake by Linda, whom had gone down to pick up a quick breakfast without him. Any minute now, she would be returning. Any minute now, the dreadful tears had to stop.
"Paul, remember when we first met? It was a day of wonder, a day I would never have expected and yet I will never forget it. I know that, you know that, we all know that."
"Paul? What are you doing on the floor?"
He heard Linda lower the hotel key onto the table. Her footsteps seemed to echo in the small room. They had agreed on the size of room, as it would be a distraction from - from-
"Are you alright?" Linda sat down beside him.
"I'm fine, fine, just fine."
"You're not, dear, I hate to break it to you, but you are not fine."
"No one is fine," Paul said.
"I know." He felt her hand gently touch his arm. "But you can at least eat."
"Yeah." Still, he did not move from the floor.
"They had your favorite down in the café."
"Fish and chips?" Paul asked in a somewhat joking manner, though fish and chips did not sound unappealing.
"No." He could hear her smile. "Scrambled eggs."
"You do have lovely legs," he commented.
"As random as that was, thank you." She took his hand in hers, her hand in his, and the two lifted one another to their feet.
Following breakfast, Paul had returned to the window overlooking New York City, this time with Linda beside him. He had his arm around her shoulders, holding her close. Linda had one hand on his arm. Her left hand was on his shoulder. He could still feel the presence of how near she had been to him when her own tears stained the front of his white shirt. She had cried for a short while. He had shed his own tears, had cried some more himself. Comfort had been absent. Not even a few kisses could do anything. They had cried for who knows exactly how long. One moment, the tears were there. The next, they were dried up, ready to fall still, but he time for that was not the present.
"We were supposed to be spending Christmas with him, too," Paul mused. "And, by God, that is not going to be an option, is it?"
"It could still be. As long as you and Yoko don't bick..."
"As long as she does not try to comfort me and all that sh-"
"Paul!" Linda said. "I know how you and Yoko are, but, really, she lost John, too."
"Yeah, those 'fans' at the gates had lost him as well. Doesn't mean I should comfort them or anything."
Linda's hands dropped from his torso. She stood up, and, without looking behind him, Paul knew she had left him.
"For goodness sake!" Paul rose to his knees, running a hand through his hair, present in a bed head manner nevertheless. He knew he had been stupid to have brought Yoko into the conversation. Linda knew quite well how Paul felt about John's widow. Widow...yes, that was correct. John was...dead. Dead. The word struck him funny. Paul reached up on the dresser, fingers grasping a box of cigarettes. He slipped the filter in his mouth, and lit the other end. He had not had a cigarette in a while. He needed it now, he felt, as he breathed through the light smoke. John was dead, Yoko his widow. Ah, that was right. He chuckled. The atmosphere in the room had gone grim and smoky, while his mind traveled to and from distant roads of death and grief. He did not feel the emotions, not necessarily. The emotions had become a part of him. Always there, always. They would never leave him. He dwelled on that thought as the room shifted...
...and reappeared. He was kneeling where he had been before, but the room itself was not what he recalled seeing only a second past. He stared simply. He choked somewhat on the new air the room held. It was nothing different, the same old air the room had had already. However, it was not the air that bothered him, but the fact his hand was empty.
Paul looked down to see the cigarette on the carpet. His eyes widened. Where the butt of the cigarette was lit nevertheless, the room itself was not catching flame. The cigarette did not appear as it had when he held it in his hand. It appeared transparent and less, solid. Paul bent over to pick it up, but his fingers slipped. He tried again. His fingers lightly moved, closer, closer. They approached the cigarette and reached for it -
A voice directly within his ear said, Don't.
Paul jumped. He listened for any other word. He heard none. He knew that voice. His index finger moved to the cigarette, in an almost taunting sort of way.
I said don't.
"What do you mean by that?" Paul asked.
You don't, you cannot touch anything here.
"What happens if I do?"
Fate only knows.
"Fate? Fate."
Fate, and only fate itself knows what the consequences are. Don't touch anything you are not concerned with.
Paul was silent, but could not help but wonder what was in that cigarette he had smoked.
And Paul?
He waited.
You cannot leave.
"Excuse me?"
You cannot leave.
"Please, there is a door right there." Paul pointed to it.
Try as you will.
"Fine, I will." He began walking over to the door. He knew his feet were moving, but every step he took led him farther and farther from the door. He kept at it until he realized he was going nowhere. Nowhere. "Honestly, what kind of stuff was in that cig-"
That has nothing to do with me, but I would like to inform you it was nothing but a regular cigarette, like the other dozen in the box. I am real.
"Alright, so, if you are real, the news is telling me and the rest of the world otherwise?"
Oh, those stupid reporters.
"It's true," said Paul. "You were shot, John. You - are dead. And I'm going to the Dakota right this instance."
No. Not today, Macca.
"Tomorrow then."
No, you are not going anywhere until you tell me why you believe the news more than me.
"I - for goodness sake! It's not just the news, everyone - everyone - knows. Linda knows, Ringo knows, George knows, Yoko knows."
Ah, Yoko. How is she?
"Well, enough, I suppose."
You haven't seen her, have you? Don't answer; I already know you have not. You are not that type of person.
"Indeed. Anyhow, would you like to tell me why I cannot leave?"
You can leave, I would just have to give you permission to, which I'm not willing to do so at the moment.
"Okay. Is there any reason why you are in my ear? And just me ear?"
I don't know. It's just the way I chose to express myself.
"I thought you hated your voice, John."
I do. That's why I chose it.
"It's rather scary just being in this room, unable to move a single step, with your voice and just your voice."
Great.
"I - this is bizarre. I don't think those were regular cigarettes. How are you speaking to me? You're dead, John!"
With my mouth.
"Are you invisible or something?" Paul could hear the smile in his answer:
No. I'm not here and yet I am. I don't understand what it is, what I have become, but I know if I had a say in this, I would not have chosen to have met up with you.
"John, you cannot -"
Oh, yes, I can.
"Are you enjoying this?"
I would not say enjoying. It's more like it's just a thing I have to do.
"Just let me out of this damn room!"
As you say.
A sudden burst of wind, the source nonexistent seemingly so, pressed against Paul. The room passed by in a pale tan blur. The door was approaching. He could not close his eyes in time enough. He prepared to hit the wall.
He did not. The door opened, and the wind ceased. Paul stared. Where his feet were planted was no other than the streets of New York. And up ahead, he could see.
"Lord, is that - John and Yoko?"