Lonely People

Nose To The Pavement

Stuart's funeral was held the day Paul, John, George, and Pete returned from Germany. Paul, George, and John went straight from the airport to the graveyard. Molly and I met them there. Pete was nowhere to be seen.

The funeral itself was short and sweet. It was a closed casket, and only Stuart's closest friends and family arrived. We all followed the hearse out to the graveyard, watched the dirt fall onto the casket, and that was the end. I felt like I had barely been there, yet, I spent a lifetime at that graveside. Grief is one of the few things that can bend time. 

The day after the funeral, I found myself not wanting to talk to anyone. I had never dealt with grief well, it was a family trait we all had. To cope, I left Molly's house without telling anyone and began to trudge down the streets of Liverpool.

I didn't have a destination in mind, all I wanted to do was walk. I kept my eyes on the ground as I did so to avoid making eye contact and being socially obliged to make light conversation. All I wanted was to trudge on and frown. People around me may have thought I was a troublemaker, a heathen, per say, but I didn't care. All I cared about was my little bubble and the sadness I was dwelling in. 

The last time I saw Stuart, I was being forcefully pulled from the bedroom we all shared back in Hamburg. The last memory I have is him looking at me with a confused expression. He wasn't smiling, he wasn't even happy, he was confused as to why two cops were dragging his youngest friends away, and why nobody could do anything about it.

I did remember the moments leading up to that. He was painting, as he often was, a beautiful portrait of a strawberry. I remember leaning over the side of the bed, mesmerized by his precise brush strokes. 

He was such an amazing artist who was meant to go on and do brilliant things. Stuart Sutcliffe was supposed to grow and be the greatest artist this world ever knew. He was going to be remembered for all time, but fate had other plans. He was gone before he even had a chance, leaving nothing but grief in his wake. 

When someone you love dies, you are left with two things; memories and regrets. The first thing I thought of was my regrets. I regret not going back to Hamburg to visit him, I regret not calling him as much as I should have, and I regret the fact that I will never see him again. I should have gone to see him and Astrid. They were dear friends of mine, I should have visited them, but I didn't. Now, I would be left with that regret for the rest of my life.

With regrets came memories. I remembered all the times we played together. I remembered watching him gently strum his guitar, tapping his foot along to the beat. I could still hear him singing from the tree we climbed back in Hamburg. If I closed my eyes, I could still remember him laughing at John's lame jokes.

I was so absorbed in my thoughts, I didn't notice the large branch blocking my path. It caught my toe, causing me to fall face first into the pavement. My forehead slammed onto the hard ground, causing me to momentarily black out. When I came back around, stars danced in front of my vision.

"Glad I'm not the only one," a familiar voice said.

I raised my head, ignoring the momentary blindness, "What?"

"We ought to stop meeting like this," he crouched in front of me, "It's Ringo, Amelia."

I sighed, "'Ello, mate."

My vision was slowly returning. I could make out his black coat and the cloud of smoke leaving his lips. I could also make out the hand he offered to help me up.

"That hurt," I muttered.

He pulled me up, "I bet. You've got a bit of red on your noggin'."

"How much is a bit?"