𝐀𝐢𝐧'𝐭 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭

Chapter 21: He Was Trying to Knead You Like Molding Clay

18 May, 1957

Pete and Colin struggled to yank John off of Walter, whom he'd locked in a particularly tight grasp with one hand while he pummeled his jaw with the other. Walter's nose was now bleeding, he was sure to have a black eye, and after seeing John grow so hostile he was sure to have a fractured confidence.

Walter slumped off when they released him, stumbling over his feet as he struggled to regain his balance. Mumbling something about "jealous prick," he made his way off toward the larger crowd so as to effectively hide his shame.

John, meanwhile, tore off toward the bathroom, and Fiona heard the door slam as she massaged her neck where Walter had gripped it so tightly. That absolute dick. Fuck it, Walter and John had acted out of line. And why had John cared so much anyway? He was just helping a person in trouble, wasn't he? There was nothing more to it. Damn. That lie sustained her just as much as a cracker would sustain an elephant. She wouldn't be able to believe it much longer.

And anyway, she couldn't even think about that right now. She tried, in vain, to flush the images from her mind, needing to catch her breath as the weight of it sunk in. She'd never felt so disgusted in her life, never felt so ashamed as she had when she'd let that animal run his hands over her. As if she were an infinitesimally significant museum exhibit that he could pet.

Meg sauntered over to Fiona, evidently tipsy herself, and reached out her hand to comfort her friend, though she missed several times, groping through the air, before finally catching her shoulder. Fiona could smell the alcohol that laced her breath, recoiling a bit when Meg sighed.

"Don't even worry about him, Fi, John took goooooooood care of 'im... Walter's cryin' and bein' a little shit back there... have you tried the beer? You've got to..." Meg thrust the can into her hand, and Fiona, a little tipsy and disoriented herself, took another sip.

Fiona turned, uncertain, to her friend, more than a little shaken to see someone like Meg, who was usually so dignified in public, acting so carefree. Even if it was at the hands of alcohol, the great tongue-tamer itself. "Where's Jo-"

But just then, the bathroom door slammed shut behind Lennon as he marched back out to the thick of the party. Meg, sensing she wasn't meant to hear what happened next, disappeared back into the crowd, and Fiona looked around for her helplessly when she realized she'd been deserted.

As John approached her, Fiona couldn't help feeling a little afraid. She'd never seen John this worked up before, and did not want to the be the next victim to his blind rage. It was a fire that seemed to consume him as if he were a rope soaked in gasoline.

But he'd just defended her. He'd saved her. And for crying out loud, it was only John. He wouldn't hurt her.

That, unfortunately, didn't make him any less terrifying, as he cast the empty beer can in his hand against the wall behind him, which emitted a loud clang as the metal fell to its death.

"Was that your fuckin' boyfriend, then?" he roared at her, his words slurred as he shook a drunken finger in her face.

Fiona bit her tongue at the memory of the lie she'd made up. That all seemed so silly now. Why had she thought spiting him would be a good idea?

Fiona scoured for words. "I... no, of course not... I didn't-" Her face was searing with heat, her eyes brimming with tears, and there was nothing she wanted more than to leave. Somehow, the rest of the partygoers were still invested in their own conversations and dancing, which made her feel even smaller.

John ran a hand through his hair, his eyes swollen with fatigue and ruby with fury. "Well, yeh'd better tell him what yeh've been up to!"

Fiona couldn't take it, couldn't take John being so hostile with her, and before she knew it she was crying uncontrollably, barely able to breathe for all her sobs. "John, he doesn't exist, okay? I made it up."