Let It Be (A Beatles Story)

Chapter Thirty-Six

Paul's POV

It had to be later than midnight, but I was too tired to care.  The shows provided fun, but afterwards it was back to my lonely hotel room.  I would invite the lads over, but they too were exhausted.  Elle didn't say much to any of us then, and Brian always seemed quite sad.  

It could have been the rain.  It was so dark outside all the time I figured it was dampening our spirits.  

Brian wouldn't let us leave the hotel unless absolutely necessary, so the lads and I acted like caged tigers.  We paced around our rooms anxiously all day if we weren't being interviewed or flocked by fans, and it was hopelessly boring.  I didn't have the courage to talk to Elle after what had happen two nights earlier.  

Though that night I wished for her to be with me more than ever.  

We did have enough freedom to walk about the hotel, and as I was heading back to the hotel room that night, I stumbled in the hallway and dropped my coat in front of a young girl.  Feeling a embarrassed blush heat my face, I bent down to pick up my things and my wallet fell from its pocket.  And because the world hated me, everything inside the leather pouch fell out too.  

The little girl smiled and helped me pick up the coins and pounds that fell out, but she froze when she handed me one item.  It was a photograph of my mother Mary.  No one knew I had it in there.  Our eyes met for a moment when she said, "Here, sir."

"Th-thank you." I stuttered.  After I had righted myself, I asked, "Would you like me to walk you-" But then the little girl left as quickly as she came.  

Seeing the picture again had effected me in a way I had only known once before, and that was when she died.  I had forgotten it was in there.  Grief overwhelmed me.  Why was it then I had to be utterly alone?

I sat at the table from that moment on, staring at the photograph.  Mike and I were in it too, and we were so little and happy.  So naive.  

I began to cry, and I hated myself for it.  

There was only one time before I had cried like that in front of the lads.  It was the fifth year after her death, and I couldn't stop thinking of her and weeping.  John had become annoyed with me.  "Stop crying," he snapped, "It'll ruin your voice."  

That was also the first time John ever regretted snapping at someone, for he had gone through the same thing only years before.  

A soft knock on the door pushed me from my saddened state.  Wiping my eyes, I nearly shouted, "Don't come in!"  The person entered anyway.  

"Paul, what's happened to you?" Elle asked, taking in my teary expression.  After a moment, Ringo walked in too.  They must have been up talking.  "You're shaking.  Sit down."

"Elle, please, I'm fine.  I-I hit my hand..." I tried to stutter a lie, but she wasn't buying it.  Ringo noticed the photograph on the table.  Studying it, he said, "Mate, how long have you been crying?  We could hear you down the hall."

I should have been embarrassed but I was too sad to care.  "Shut the damn door then!" I demanded, frightening Elle.  "I didn't ask you to come in!"

Ringo glared at me, which was so unlike himself.  "Don't shout at her.  If it was anyone else I would have let you cry."  Then his expression softened, "I'm sorry, mate."

Elle offered me her handkerchief, but I pushed her hand away.  She fought with me though, and gently pressed it against my damp cheek.  "It's alright, Paul.  Just let it out."

She barely had time to say that before I began sobbing into her shoulder.  Kissing my forehead and stroking my hair, she was so kind, so gently.  So motherly.  Closing my eyes, I tried to force the tears and sobs back.  They came out as a pitiful whimper.  Ringo patted my shoulder.