Let It Be (A Beatles Story)

Chapter Forty-Eight

I sat back at Strawberry Fields, on the bench Paul and I nearly kissed at.  I played with some of the flowers I had picked, and smiled at the delicate blossoms in my hands.  Strong arms wrapped around me, and I smiled even bigger.  

"Elle," John nuzzled his nose into my hair.  "I've got to tell you something."

"What is it?" I giggled as he kissed my cheek.  I took his hands in mine, and he kissed them.  He was so gentle, so kind, so...unlike the man I knew.  

He rested his chin on my forehead, and whispered, "Something important."

I turned to look at him.  "Tell me then."

His beautiful brown eyes met mine, and he caressed my cheek.  Leaning down, our lips almost touched when the world went dark, and we were on a different bench, in a different place.  There were still strawberry bushes around us, but the blossoms were wilted and dark, as if they had been burned.  Someone shouted, and then shots rang out.  John leaned forward for a moment, and then swallowed silently.  He held a hand to the dark stain that was growing on his shirt.  I couldn't speak, but felt tears fill my eyes.  "John..."

Eerily, he smiled and quoted his lines from How I Won The War, "'I knew this would happen.  You knew this would happen too.'"  He slumped over, unable to hold himself up anymore.  

"John." I shook his shoulder.  

"John, wake up."

"John!  No!"

I woke up with tears in my eyes.  The dreams, though they had seemed to go away for a small part of time, had come back stronger, and even more realistic.  

As soon as my heart slowed, a pound on the door made me nearly jump out of my skin.  I kicked off my blankets and hurried towards the door.  To my surprise, it was the Beatle I would least expect to help me.  

"What are you doing here, John?" 

"I heard a shout.  I figured it must be you," His voice was unusually calm and controlled.  "Can I come in?"

"Oh, I...um...yes, please," I stumbled, moving aside to let him in.  He did, taking in the appearance of my apartment.  It was just like theirs, only smaller, with less rooms.  The tired Beatle sat down on my bed, stretching his arms for a moment before asking me why I screamed.  

I sat down in my chair.  "Just a nightmare." 

"It didn't sound very good though.  You were shouting my name.  Now that," He said, pulling a cigarette from his pocket, "could mean many things.  What do you think the meaning of these dreams are?  Let's discuss."  He spoke with a fake French accent to make fun of Doctor Baudine.  

I stood up.  "If you've come to tease me, you can leave.  Don't smoke in here either."  Reluctantly, he tucked away his cigarette.  

He looked at me, his brown eyes tired but very calm.  "I haven't come to tease you.  I wanted to know why you were shouting my name in your dream." He smiled, as if he was trying to imagine what sort of dream it was.  "Was I hurting you?  Or did this have to do with Paul, you being the object of his affection?"

"I am not the object of Paul's affection," I argued.  "I know he's long since gotten over me.  He's probably snogged countless French girls since the time we arrived here."

"Only one, I'm told," John pointed out.  "You should know that you are likable, Elle.  He's very much in love with you, though you hate to admit that someone like him would fancy a girl like you."  

Speaking without thinking, I blurted, "I dreamt you died, John."

For once in his life, he didn't seem to know what to say.  The silence between us was already unbearable by the second after I spoke.  After looking out the window for what seemed like ages, he turned to me and said, "So was it a good dream or a bad dream?"