Redemption

~39~

The mist of his mind cleared with lethargic regression. He groaned, rolled and gazed at Issy. Silently watching her breath.

It was ok right now.

Right now she isn't awake, and she isn't looking at me with that look...

The look of pity.

The look of 'what did I get myself in to'...

Perhaps I will be given the pitiful look as she side eyes me as she walks her way out of my life.

***

Issy was shivering when she awoke.

Cold from the solitude; John had left the bed. Crinkled sheets held no heat as she ran a sleepy hand up and down, searching for his warmth, his body.. him.

She sleepily processed the thought of a new day with eyes closed and anticipated the worry that he would hold within...the worry of how he would think she would react.

She looked for solutions as she lay bound in the bed-sheets, still meandering toward wakefulness. Half thoughts dashed about her head in no particular order; seeking solutions to his night, to help him, to shield him from his pain.

Maybe she should tell him to move. Leave his beautiful home, find a sanctuary somewhere else. But is it her right to say 'John you need to sell this place and leave'?

It was no more her right than it was her right to shop for new cutlery or tableware for this apartment, his home. She was little more than a moment, perhaps a few more, but not his life.

Issy frowned, eyes still closed, still cold.

"You awake?" John hovered over her; having decided to do rather than don't. He had filled his morning in the kitchen working industriously on eggs, tomatoe and toast. He'd have to buy more baked beans, the shopping list on the fridge now had his all time favourite hot breakfast food scrawled over it in his indecipherable scribble.

Setting the lukewarm, hopefully palatable food, on the tray John contemplated what her face would tell when she awoke and laid fully open eyes upon him. Her recalling the pitiful person that she found pained and lain stricken, fully f'ing clothed in tuxedo, in the tub last night.

He shook the thought away. Why worry over it. She either was ok with it or not. The scales would tip and he would obey. Maybe not like it but he would let her run or let her stay, whatever she wanted to do..

Him or freedom.

Because, not only was he a caged circus act...

He was also a pained mental patient.

Who wouldn't want to run from that.

It looked ok..........the Scrambled eggs

'All my troubles seem so far away'.

That's the exact words Macca had inked in black pen all over the back of his most recent electricity bills' envelope. Unopened thus unpaid. It only felt like yesterday all those fab Beatley moments and days...

Did he go off the power? Cause sure as those scrambled eggs that envelope never made it out of the studio ever again.

They had all watched the emotions of plagiaristic worry run gauntlet over Paul's face that day.

Macca had rushed in, full of his semi annoying, and seemingly endless, vim.

After playing the tune, he was nibbling at his thumb, as was his nasty habit, and pacing the studio floor in a fluster of trepidation.