Paul McCartney Angst/Hurt-Comfort Stories

Longing For His Mother's Embrace. Receiving His Friend's Altruism.

Okay, there's a part (no, not the actual story itself, sorry, haha) in this story that was inspired by the quote provided above from Paul, which is found in Pop Pics Magazine. Just thought you might like to know that it really was a true event. Now please, enjoy! :-)
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Paul moaned as he felt another wave of aches course through his trembling body. He stifled a sneeze, and then cursed himself for staying too late at the studio the previous night. Surely that was what had caused his blasted cold. He knew he'd been much too busy lately, but he just didn't have the heart to say no to anyone, especially Brian and the lads, and so he'd worked himself into a sickness. Just the price he had to pay for being way too nice all the time.

He felt as if he'd break if he moved too much, therefore he hadn't left his spot on the couch since morning, which meant that he wasn't eating or drinking like he should have been.

In a big house all alone, he was. No one to talk to, no one to make him soup or tea, no one to take care of him, and no one to hold him.

Hold him?

Yes, as silly as it seemed, what he wanted most of all was a warm embrace. An embrace that only one person in the entire world could give him. And it grieved him more than anything that the person he longed for wasn't in the world anymore.

She had died when he was only fourteen, and it was moments like these—moments of sickness and loneliness—that Paul longed for her more than ever. He longed to have her arms wrap around him in a band of safety and love. He longed to hear the words of wisdom and reassurance she'd whisper in his ear. He longed to see her sweet smile and bright eyes.

Holding back tears of misery and sadness, Paul unconsciously hugged himself, his cheeks burning with fever.

"Why'd ya have to go, Mum?" he muttered aloud to no in particular, his voice cracking with emotion.

Flashes of memories danced in his head, as he recalled asking the same thing of his mother when he was only a young lad of 11 years. When she was still alive.

It had been a brisk day in 1953. He'd just gotten back from scout camp, and he'd caught a little cold whilst he was there. Not thinking much of it, he chose to ignore it, but the next day, he'd woken up with a rash on his toes. Soon, it had crept to his waist, and by tea time, he was a walking mass of red. Off he went to hospital, where he was put in isolation.

Just recalling the memory sent nervous shivers down Paul's spine. There'd been nurses buzzing all around him with masks covering their worried faces. The only person he'd wanted to see, though, was nowhere to be found.

"Why'd ya have to go, Mum!" he'd cried as the nurses tried to calm him down, for fear that if he worked himself up he wouldn't be able to catch his breath again.

"She'll be here as soon as we find out what's wrong with you, dear," one of the nurses had said to him as she patted his chubby and fevered cheek.

Completely heart-broken and so very sick, he responded to the nurse with a woeful, pitiful whine, his large eyes shining with tears, as he wheezed and shivered.

He'd spent five weeks like that in hospital. The day he was released, the thing he remembered most was crashing into his mother's arms and hugging her until his heart was content. She'd done the same to him, as she was so glad that her little lad had beaten his illness and gotten better.

"My little Paulie," she'd cooed to him. "Don't you ever try and leave me again."

"I won't, Mum," Paul had wept in response, his tears soaking his mother's shoulder. "And you won't leave me either, right?"