Go To Him (A Beatles Fan Fiction)

Chapter Twelve - Ask Me Why

3rd January, 1959

Dear Diary,

I'm aware that I haven't written in you for a long time, but I just haven't had the time. I thought I'd spare a second for the new year to update you on all that's happened since when we spoke so long ago, and here it is. Well, what can I say? All's changed, changed utterly. My father is still in the rehabilitation process after his accident, and I'm not going to lie, things have been tough since he's been unable to work. The factory promised his job would be still waiting for him when he was able-bodied enough to work again and allowed him a small amount of compensation, but it wasn't near enough and faded before you could blink. My mother is taking in alterations part-time for a few bob while caring for Dad at home, but as you could imagine, it doesn't bring in a whole lot. Losing the breadwinner of the family really hit us hard and I know my father still feels completely gutted and incredibly guilty about it, even though the accident was far from his fault. If we were a lot better off, we could have taken the man operating the machinery to court and won a big fat wad of money, but of course, this is Liverpool and not the pictures, so we're not.

We all knew it wouldn't be easy, but once the joy and relief of Dad surviving the accident faded into worry and uncertainty, the atmosphere in the house became one of sheer misery, like even to be in a room with my parents was too much for me to handle as even in silence, an agonising aura could be felt rippling venomously through the air. Don't get me wrong, I feel incredibly relieved and blessed that my father didn't sustain any brain injury and will be more or less good as new with some prolonged rest, but sometimes I just had to get away from the heartache of having to look at my parents in such anguish, and that's what I did. I spent a lot of the limited free time I had from school and my caring duties at Paul's, letting his sweet compositions dissolve me from my current state of being and into an ideal, parallel world where nothing is real, but all is true. 

Paul played, and I wrote some poetry. Sometimes we could go hours without even speaking to each other, just locked away in each other's worlds, coping with our own unique stresses in our own unique ways. Every now and then, Paul would rest his chin on my shoulder and read what I'd been working on, but never commented on it, just happy to be included in what's going on in my mind. This is where Paul differs from other boys: he has this most incredible feel for my likes and dislikes; he gets me more than someone who has known me my entire life and it is absolutely undisputable that he is all that has kept me sane through this all. That is why every night at bedtime when I pray for my father's health, I thank God too for sending me a love so fine from the heavens.

Just before Christmas, I came to quite a big decision. My family had been feeling the pinch coming up to the holidays and one day, I decided that enough was enough and that I had to take action. I came home from a particularly shitty day of school and barged through the parlour door, where Mum was mending buttons on somebody's jacket.

"I'm quitting school!" I announced adamantly.

"You what?! You'll do no such thing!" she exclaimed, "what put that sort of notion in your head?"

"Mum, let's be real," I told her, "your alterations isn't going to hold us till Dad gets better and you can't take on full-time work even if you wanted to because you're taking care of Dad, so what choice do we have? I was never going to be a prodigy of any kind."