This Boy

12. Tears

  Tears. Angry tears were shimmering in my eyes. I had hurt George badly and now, he was injured. I left him, bleeding, in the middle of streets. I was running as I cried, aloud, and thought about what George had said. I imagined his body, coldly lying on the wet cobbled streets, with blood streaming down house mouth and fore-head. It was raining, and as I ran, roughly down the streets and at the McCartney house, the rain came shooting at my face. My tears mixing with every drop of the rain. How could one shy guy like George do something like that to Paul? How? Why? Paul is my boyfriend. My love. I love him and he loves me! Why did George have to interrupt our invincible relation? I thought, George was a good lad. I thought he feared me. I thought, he would leave Paul as a friend. Just as he ever was... but he had to take it the next level. I'm sure Paul didn't enjoy whatever George said that he attempted on Paul, when they left for Paul's house yesterday. I didn't know that something like this could possibly happen. It wasn't even in my mind. Not a hint of it. 

  I ran and I ran. I could not hear a single thing around me other than the loud and restless, instantaneous beating of my heart. Louder than the gongs hit on top of the Great Wall of China. My tears dried and new fresh ones appeared again. My cheeks, wet and sticky. My legs would not stop moving at the speed, they were going. I sprinted roughly through the damp streets; turned every corner, that were to be turned at, sharply and impatiently. I could not wait till I saw Paul's face; his figure; his admirable contour. Yet, I was a few streets away from my lover's house. Poor boy, Paulie... I loved him dearly. My head throbbed in pain and ire. My impetiousity was bold and flaming. How dare he touch my love?!

  To my relief, the McCartney house appeared in view. Although, I was near tiredness, the sight gave me strenth and I ran faster. Almost as if the bitter Winter wind was racing with me. The powerful wind hit my face repeatedly, instantly drying the wet tears; soaring up my nose and aching my head. My fingers were frozen and soon, so was my face. My school bag jumped against my back, frequently hitting the roughness of the denim bag, with heavy contents inside, on my blazer time and again. Ultimately, I had made it up to Paul's porch.

  I knocked on the door, essentially and earnestly- prepared to face anything. I felt senseless, fearless. Only one thought remained in my head. Paul McCartney. I tapped my feet on the concrete ground and waited. I looked up at the dull and somber sky, where the clouds mourned, starting to cry. It had begun raining. Raw, hyperborean drops of lonesome rain.

  Suddenly, the door opened with a young boy before me. Mike spoke, "John?" he said in a little voice. "Aren't you meant to be in school?"

  "School, eh?" I said. "Ain't Paul meant to be in school?"

  "He's not doing well." he said promptly.

  "Well, I'm not either. I'm here to see Paulie. You got a problem?"

  "No," he said vigorously.

  "Well, move out of my way, then!" I spoke bravely, knowing that Jim wasn't at home. 

  Mike moved aside and let me in. I instantly, got inside as a burst of warm blanket wrapped around my freezing body. I quickly made my way up the narrow stair-case. I turned in the direction, where Paul's room was located. The door was closed. I walked up, silently and knocked the door. No reply. Then I spoke softly, "Paul?" No sign of him. "Paulie, you in there?"

  I helplessly pushed the door open. As soon as I came to realize that Paul was not inside the room, I heard foot-steps behind me. I spun around to find a dreading face.

  "John?" Paul's voice vibrated.

  "Paul!" I fell into his arms, hugging him tightly. "Paul, are you alright?"

  "John, why are you here?" Paul was shaking.

  "Why not? To see you, of course!" I was near tears again.

  "I'm fine. Go back to school, John. You'll be in trouble." Paul frowned.

  "I'm always in trouble, anyway."

  Paul shook his head and walked past me and sat on his bed, cross legged. "You don't understand, you must leave."

  "Why?" I sat beside him.

  "If dad finds you in my house, he'll kill me and to you also." he nervously rubbed his thumb on his palm.

  "Why did George fuck you?" I stared into Paul.

  He picked up his eyes at me and moved his lips, as if he wanted to say something but was speechless. He shook his head and stood up, walking by his windows.

  "Well?" my voice was trembling by now. I felt suspicious for the first time over Paul.

  "He didn't." Paul said in a little tone.

  "Who didn't what?"

  "George DIDN'T FUCK ME!" he screamed, turning to face me- nose to nose.

  "Then what?!" I shouted back.

  "I fucked HIM!" Paul's face was fierce and was burning.

  I could not believe his words. It seemed like a different language. I just could not imagine Paul McCartney with that expression. With those rough, ruthless words. "You drunk, Paulie?" my voice broke.

  "Oh, am I drunk?" he laughed in the least realistic way possible. "I'm serious John."

  "WHY?!" I pulled him by his collars. "WHY PAUL?! I NEVER THOUGHT YOU WOULD DO SOMETHING LIKE THAT!"

  "Well," Paul whispered in a harsh tone. "You underestimated me, Lennon."