Let It Be (A Beatles Story)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

"She hates me, George. I think she wishes I was dead." I said, as I looked through some more of the pictures. I secretly set aside a few of them that I would leave here for George to find. I would hide them underneath the coffee table when he wasn't watching.

George didn't reply. He just kept playing his guitar softly, like background music in a film.

I pushed some of my hair back, but tried to keep the bruises covered. "I just want Paul to be happy, and I wish I could make peace with Eleanor and be friends, but she looks at me like she wants me dead."

He looked up at me. "Why does it matter what she thinks of you?" The tone of his voice changed to one of annoyance. I went silent, letting him focus on his guitar.

After a moment he said, "I'm sorry, Elle. I know this isn't good for you."

"It's alright." My voice was almost inaudible. I sat up and brushed off my skirt. "I think I might go get my nightgown on."

But George took my hand before I could stand up. "Elle, I really am sorry." He leaned over and placed the sweetest kiss on my cheek. "I'm always here if you need me."

"I know."

I went into the bathroom to change, and as I pulled on the nightgown, I looked at myself in the mirror. I thought of what Eleanor had said that day. Why would he want someone like you when he could have me? Was it of what I looked like on the outside? Or was it because of what I was inside?

What did George see?

But as I looked down to button up my nightgown, I saw a flash of movement in the mirror. And it wasn't from me. I examined it for awhile before I began to finish buttoning it, but then I saw it again. I leaned closer to the glass surface, and what I saw stopped my heart.

George's POV

I was working on some new chord progressions when I heard Elle scream.

"George! Help me!"

"Elle!"

"He's got me! Please!"

I set down my guitar as gently as I could in this situation, and ran to the bathroom. Thankfully, she left the door unlocked, or this would have been an even bigger mess.

"George!" She kept screaming my name, even though I was right in front of her. "George! He's got me!"

"Look at me! It's me! There's no one else!" I took her head in my hands and forced her to look at me. Elle pushed away from me, and scrambled to the corner of the bathroom.

"He came from the mirror! George, please! It hurts!"

I touched the mirror. "Elle, look. There's nothing there."

"George, help me!" She held her head like it was in excruciating pain.

In all of my frantic scrambling to calm her, I turned off the lights and she stopped screaming. Her shouts turned to sobs. I could hear her breathing incredibly hard.

"George? Help, please, I can't-" She took in another sharp and hallow breath. "Help." I crawled over to her crumpled form in the darkness and took her hands.  I was so close to her I was looking down at her, and I tried not to notice the fact that I could see down her dress.  

"It's fine. Now relax, and just breathe."

"George-"

"Don't talk. Breathe." I cooed, though she still was breathing hard.

Her cries were hard to bear. "George, I think he's coming back."

"No, he's not," I told her, "Now, breathe with me."