𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐰 - 𝐇𝐨𝐰 || 𝐆𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧

Chapter 32: Mystery of Love

«𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘐 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦?
𝘉𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘐𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦
𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳?»

...

12 August 1965

Intoxicated from head to toe, George crawled up to the suite. Everything was blurry and dizzy. But there was a part of him alert, aware. His velvety brown eyes burned from crying like never before, his chest ached and blaze, to kill that feeling he just drank more and more.

The room was intact, but empty, although he didn't really want to see her, deep down he hoped to do it so, to hug her once more and talk about everything. Tell her what he thought. Just be with her.

He wished his girl help him understand that bad trick, that she could explain everything, hug him and comfort him by telling sweetly that everything was going to be just right, that they were meant to be and had to be together.

But Rebecca wasn't there, she was gone. Confirming all of his theories, making George's fears come true. Just emptiness. Leaving him even more shattered and then throwing himself on the floor at the overwhelming situation.

The next morning, with his whole-body aching, the head killing him and the raw reality waking up with him, he rolled onto his side confirming Becca's absence, he sighed heavily wanting to cry again. Until an object caught his attention.

George reached out to take it awkwardly, tossing and cracking the gin bottle into the floor. It was a postcard.

"Lereci" could be read in large letters and the "Mare" sign with the blue ocean in the background. He hurried to see the rear.

"I'll meet you coming backwards
When the universe has expanded
Time will contract
You'll come back
I'll meet you coming backwards
Next time"

"Mr. Epstein's Office. How may I help you?"

"Freda love, please..." with the few strengths he'd left George said fighting the hiccups thanks to the substantial amounts of alcohol he'd been drinking during the last hours.

"George?" asked the secretary girl "You're alright?" her anguished voice came from the intercom.

"PleasesendMalforme," the boy slurred almost unintelligible words. "Send Mal for me"

"George..." she called out to him; he also heard some commotion from the other side of the line. An agitated voice demanding to know what was happening, he could picture Freda's worried face, although he honestly didn't give a shit. He loved Freda but he couldn't care less about her right now.

He just wanted to get the hell out of there, and he couldn't do it alone. He had lost all the new independence he gained during the last months, and now once more, he was the boy dependent on his manager to get out of any problem, to fix his failures, to tell him what to do. Because at that moment he didn't know what to do. He was drowning in alcohol, he stunk of cigarettes, and the drugs hadn't hit him yet.

And he had already started crying.

Crying wasn't something he liked to do. And who did? Crying was for the weak, crying wasn't the proper thing of a man, much less a Liverpudlian. Boys don't cry. The boys shut up everything they feel inside and hope it'll magically disappear. Boys don't express what how they feel no matter how intense it is. He shouldn't cry, but he couldn't help it, he had so much anger and rage, so much pain in his chest and head, pure frustration and loneliness running through every space of his body.