Penny Lane ~ John Lennon

prologue

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† 1958 †
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Cloud sagged grey as they let loose hails of bullets onto the tombs stones. Lined up like soldiers on the front. Crack, withered and crumpled like those men that wars swallowed and spat out. Names and dates obscured by rain and age. 'Kenneth, 1939-' it was only a week ago but the bottom date was covered by white lilies that dampened in the rain. He was next to the cobbled path which led to the old brick church.

The sonorous chimes from the bells rang out four times. Sound waves reverberated off of each stone and banged in between each velvet-lined pew.

A girl, fifteen years of age, sat at one, her head down, held between her arms with her fist squeezed together in an almost prayer-like position. She was done with prayers. The rain was battering the stain glass windows as if God was trying to enter. As if God was trying to get in through everyone's words of condolences: "He's in a better place. He's with God". And as if he was trying to reach to her. For such a holy place, to her, had felt so Godless and empty.

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The seventeen-year-old lad sat in his little bedroom. What remained of his close family were gathered downstairs, talking in hushed voices. He had fled. He'd lost count of the number of hugs he'd received that day. Everyone told him: "We're here for you." and "We need to stay strong." He didn't want to stay strong. He wanted to scream and smash his guitar. He wanted to crumble and obliterate into ash to be carried off by the wind. He wanted to be rid of his pain. A heavy pain that had settled in his heart and he couldn't even begin to describe how he felt. He wanted to punch the wall until his fists were flowing with blood and beaten to a pulp.

He walked to the church. That's where he felt close to her. He wanted to take back every cruel act and start over again from when he was a child. She forgave him. For every argument. For anything any other teenager who was angry at the world would do, she forgave. Of course, she did. "If Jesus forgave then so shall I," she said to him.
He wanted to give up.
He was outside, looking over the tops of the tombstones. He was frozen, unable to bring himself to move. A girl, two years younger than him, walked down the churchyard path. Her eyes were glazed over, bloodshot. Mascara had crept down to her jawline, forming silhouettes like the branches of the bare trees in winter, against her the ivory skin.
He watched her, cigarette clasped tightly between his teeth, smoke curling out of the tip and out into Liverpool's air. He watched her wander down the cobbles. He watched her walk past. And he watched her go.

He'd never want to hug a stranger as much as he did at that moment. Not until a year would he feel like that again.

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