Help! | McLennon

For John

"Paul, it's breakfast time already!"

"I'm not going, just go without me."

"Oh okay... See you later, then?"

"Yeah, sure."

After his roomate finally left him alone, Paul exhaled in relief. Andrew, that was his roomate's name, seemed quite alright at first, but after three weeks he became nothing but ridiculously irritating.

It had been three weeks since Paul checked into rehab. Three weeks, which seemed like three years. The time was passing so slowly there that every second would feel like another hour.

Paul loathed it all almost as much as he loathed himself. He couldn't figure out a way to somehow make the time flow easier. Everyone else around seemed to had found it already. Some folks had chosen painting, some of them writing, but he had nothing. He couldn't write songs or play music anymore, because it would remind him too much of the old times and make him feel absolutely heartsick.

Paul opened his eyes, only to shut them right back a second later. It was way too bright outside. The morning light had already spilled in through the huge window that was placed next to the bed where he slept. Fucking Andrew always had to open the bloody curtains early in the morning. Too bad Paul couldn't resign from having a roomate, he would much rather have a room all to himself. The only thing he actually liked about Andrew was that the lad had never been too fond of The Beatles, so he wouldn't lose it every time Paul looked at him, like some people at the rehabilitation center would.

Finally his eyes fluttered open again, but this time he didn't close them. He made himself sit up instead and gazed outside, ignoring the throbbing pain in his skull. After two minutes of staring out the window he rubbed his sunken eyes and went to the bathroom to change.

The routine which he was stuck in was driving him mad. He hated everything about that place, literally everything. The people, the food, the room where he was staying... everything.

He missed his mates a lot too. They had spent the last few years together, being around eachother from day to day. Now all they could do was write letters or talk over the phone. Paul didn't feel comfortable whilst being on the phone though, because he felt as if everyone around was listening. However, he wasn't completely paranoid. People would often eaves drop, because they wanted to hear something they could turn into a funny anecdote later... 'Guess what I've heard Paul McCartney say today!'

The only thing keeping him in that dreadful place was John. Paul couldn't remember much of the time when he was locked inside their house or from John's visit, but there was one thing he could recall perfectly. John had said that if Paul went to rehab and got clean, it would change their relationship. Paul kept replaying those words over and over again in his head whenever he felt like jumping off the roof and ending the nightmare that was his life.

Now was one of those moments. He needed to hear John's voice so badly. He thought of calling him despite all the inconvenience. Then he reached under his pillow and pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper. It was one of the letters John had sent him. It was a funny poem, which could make Paul smile regardless of how shitty he was feeling. Boy, did he miss John's humour.

He pushed himself off the bed with dread and started wandering around the room aimlessly. The sweater he was wearing was causing an iching sensation on every inch of his skin. His head was pulsating with pain so much that it felt as if it could explode any second. Each one of his muscles was still throbbing horribly.

He wasn't aware of it, but every next step he took was followed by another, faster one. His breathing became more rapid and before he could fully acknowledge that it was about to happen, he broke into tears.

He fell into the corridor, tripping over his own legs. Luckily there was no one around, because they were all still at breakfast. He nearly ran to the nearest place where he knew there was a phone and typed in the number. He waited and waited, but no one picked up.

"Fucking hell!" he cried, slamming the phone down. Why didn't John pick up? Was he staying somewhere else or maybe he just felt that it was Paul calling and didn't want to talk to him. Was he still upset with him? Paul couldn't fucking remember what happened exactly.

"You okay, man?" He heard someone's voice behind him.

"Yeah, of course..." he mumbled, quietly, and fled the room as quickly as possible.

His head was spinning and the floor seemed as if it was a deck of a boat on a stormy day. Despite having serious trouble to walk straight, Paul ran back to his room. When he got there he dragged his suitcase out from underneath his bed and began to throw his clothes out of his wardrobe. Then he started putting them all in the suitcase sloppily, ignoring the tear stains that he was leaving on them. He struggled a little with zipping it all up, but as soon as he managed to do it, he dashed off.

People would start whispering among themselves as he raced by them, which only made him more sure that escaping was the right thing to do. He was sick to death of being 'the Paul McCartney.

He ran until he was outside, and a little bit after that too. Eventually he had to slow down to catch up with his breath. His suitcase was far from being light and Paul fell to the ground, breathing speedily. He looked around and realized that he was still only a few meters away from the building. However, he decided that for now it was far enough. He had no strength to try to stand up.

He had talked with some other patients and most of them said that the physical withdrawal was the worst during their first week. It's what the doctors and therapists had promised too. Yet there he was, three weeks clean and still feeling like utter shit. He felt way worse than he had after quitting for the first time almost four years before. Maybe there was no way out for him at all?

He needed to talk with somebody, but not his therapist or some doctor. He wanted a friend. But his best mate, perhaps not anymore, didn't pick up the phone.

Paul felt more tears collecting in his eyes and it was causing everything around him to turn into a blurry mess. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. John's words kept ringing in his ears, making his headache worse.

Staying at rehab was his only chance to get John back. Maybe if he stayed just one more week... maybe it would get better. It was all just a huge 'maybe' but it did make Paul reconsider everything.

He ran his shaky, bony fingers through the green grass around him, letting his mind wander. Some time later, he couldn't tell how much exactly, he cought himself thinking about The Beatles' Hamburg era. They were all so happy and excited about playing there, including Paul. He longed to feel that way again... What if it wasn't completely out of reach?

Paul rose from the ground and looked around once more. He had panicked, but now he was calmer. He realized he could try and give rehab one more chance. John would want him to do that, so would the rest of his mates. No matter how much he despised that place, he was willing to come back. With happy memories of the band and the idea of being able to kiss John again in the back of his head, he headed back.

Before taking the first step back into the building, he hesitated. Seeing the grey walls again wasn't something he was looking forward to.

"For John," he repeated in his head for the hundreth time."For John..."