Help! | McLennon

Martha My Dear

"But the fool on the hill sees the sun going down..." Paul sang, strumming at his guitar delicately. "Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah see the world spinning round..."

He had locked himself in the only room that wouldn't remind him of his past relationship - the music studio, which was very beautiful and cosy. Paul enjoyed being there, where no one could bother him. It was only him and his music.

As much as he wished it wasn't true, John wasn't his only worry. Before he could even consider doing something to make peace with the lad or help him with his addiction, Paul should probably fix his own life first. The thought of that only was making him dizzy.

He felt absolutely zero motivation to do anything, but sit around the house and wallow. Perhaps the fact that he hadn't taken his medication since he left rehab had something to do with that. The doctor had made a point of reminding Paul not to ever stop using them without consulting him first, no matter the circumstances. He mentioned it being dangerous and possibly causing strong depression or even overwhelming suicidal thoughts. Yet, deep down Paul still thought that he never deserved the pills in the first place.

He put away his guitar and made his way to his, now his alone, bedroom. He pulled out a white bottle, which was where he was storing his pills. As he stared at it, a thought of taking one crossed his mind. Eventually he convinced himself to do it, although he felt extremely guilty and ashamed because of that.

After a week of being back on the meds there was a noticable improvement in his mood. After days spent moping around, Paul was finally getting better. George and Ringo were seeing it too and they would all glady hang out together, just like the old times. The only missing part was John, but even Paul would let that fact slip from time to time.

One day when he woke up, he felt an irresistable urge to call his father. Anxiety batter his body as he thought about hearing the poor man's voice. But Paul was finally stable enough to make things right between them. Unfortunately, the voice in his head repeating how horrible he was and how much he had let his father down had never faded away. It only became easier to ignore and Paul did just that.

He lit himself a cigarette and plopped down on the couch. His hand shook as he reached for the phone, but he did it. He dialed the number and waited for some kind of answer.

"Hello, this is Jim McCartney speaking."

Paul bit his lip, hoping that his voice wouldn't reflect on how anxious he was. "Hey, Da'. It's Paul."

"Paul... I can't believe it's you..." Jim sighed over the phone. Just as Paul was about to explode and tell him how incredibly sorry he was for everything, he was interrupted. "It's so good to hear from you! I was so worried!"

"You- You aren't angry with me?" Paul asked, full of suspiciousness.

"You're me son, Paul, and I haven't heard from you since 1966! I couldn't get a hold on you, I could only rely on what I saw on the news!"

"I know and I'm so sorry, I feel horrible for never visiting or at least calling..."

"Son, I'm not angry! Don't apologise, I love you no matter what! Bloody hell, it's so good to be able to tell you that!"

Paul breathed a deep sigh and clutched tighter onto the phone, as though he was preventing Jim's words from stopping to be true.

"Thank you so much..." he babbled. An electric pulse went through his veins and his eyes flared with excitment. He took a drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke out, enjoying how light he felt all of the sudden.

"I'd love to see you and talk to you about some things. Is that okay?" Jim questioned.

"Yeah, of course! That'd be lovely."