ℙ𝔸𝕀ℕ ⇒ 𝕁𝕆ℍℕ 𝕃𝔼ℕℕ𝕆ℕ

⋄ Ⅷ ⋄

❝𝕸𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖑 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖚𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝖆𝖑𝖜𝖆𝖞𝖘 𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖚𝖑𝖙𝖘 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖆𝖛𝖔𝖎𝖉𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖑𝖊𝖌𝖎𝖙𝖎𝖒𝖆𝖙𝖊 𝖘𝖚𝖋𝖋𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌,❞

...

| January 19th, 1963 |

The four of them arrived late to the studio, again. To say that Mr. Epstein was disappointed was an understatement. The boys got a lecture about being punctual, which they hardly paid attention to, and began working shortly thereafter. 

Charlotte arrived a few hours later when they were having a break in recordings. The five friends gathered outside, the four of them with a cigarette between their lips while the fifth leaned against the brick wall, contributing to the conversation.

"... And then I told her," Paul stopped, stifling the suspense. "Fuck off,"

The four lads burst into laughter, though Charlotte scrunched her face, confused at what was funny about whatever Paul had said.

"Why aren't ya sayin' anythin'?" George flicked the end of his ciggie.

"I just don't have anything to say," Charlotte shrugged her shoulders, watching people walk by from the opening in the thin alleyway.

Paul nodded slowly, picking apart her sentence in his thoughts.

"That reminds me, what do yer stitches look like?" 

"They're not stitches, and by the way, how does what I said remind you of my bandages, Paul?" Charlotte giggled, turning her head to meet Paul's gaze.

Paul shrugged, not knowing the answer to that question either.

"I look like Frankenstein," She dropped her gaze to the concrete ground they were standing on. She eyed the creeping weeds that grew in between the cracks.

"Why don't we take a look?" He urged, taking a drag of his cigarette.

"Nah, I dunno," Charlotte rubbed her shoulder nervously; she felt self-conscious about them.

"Why not? They can't be that bad," George bore a hole through her bandages with his steady stare.

"Yeah, they are; they look nasty," She tried deterring the boys from wanting to see her injury.

"I've seen worse, so has John," Paul prodded.

"Fine, don't laugh at them," Charlotte held out her left forearm towards the men, not wanting to unwrap the cloth herself.

The four men leaned in, intrigued by the fact that she was allowing them to unroll it themselves.

Ringo took the initiative once again and slowly unraveled the white cloth, revealing the multiple staples running down her arm.

They didn't say anything, just examined her forearm with curiosity. None of them laid a finger on her, afraid of damaging the healing process or taking out a staple.

"They're staples," Paul spoke first; the tone of his voice was stunned.

"Yes, they used staples rather than stitches because staples cause less damage and are easier to remove," Charlotte explained, looking them dead in the eyes.

"Boys, time to come back inside," Brian appeared in the doorway; luckily, the four men that hunched over covered Charlotte's arm. 

She quickly retracted her arm and rewrapped her arm tightly. They grumbled, throwing their cigarettes to the ground, and snuffed them out with their shoes. The four Beatles meandered their way to Epstein, dreading every step.