Love and Loss

Chapter 9: Too Little Too Late

It didn't take too long for me to reach the beginning of the row of metal fences.

They were rusting and their black paint was peeling off. I had not seen them in a long time. When I last saw them, I didn't really pay attention to them. My attention was directed towards...

I take in a deep breath. 

One last memory, then it's over. Right?

I sigh.

The event started when Paul woke me up. By that time, it had been two years since Ringo's phone call, and five years since I had last seen him. It was early in the morning, so I was rather cranky at first. However, my mood quickly changed upon seeing that he had been crying.

"Paul? W-what's going on?" I asked, hugging him.

"G-George c-called..." He heaved. Taking a moment to calm down, he lifted his head to look at me.

My vision was blurry, so I reached over to my nightstand to put on my glasses.

"I-it's R-Ringo... h-he... he..."

"W-what happened Paul?" I asked, brushing my hand through his hair.

I could never forget what he said next.

"He s-shot h-himself..."

I was silent. My gaze was locked on him, comprehending his words.

"Is... is h-he..."

"H-he's dead, John. He's dead," His voice, scratchy and raw, raised as he finished the statement. His grip on me tightened as he began to sob again. 

My breath caught in my throat. Paul was crying in my arms. George was most likely crying as well.

And Ringo was dead.

For the rest of that day, we just spent our time recovering and calling George whenever we could. 

Apparently, Ringo had come home when George was asleep. Being drunk, his mind was not clear. He was able to find a revolver tucked away in a drawer. George had kept it in case there was a break in.

When we saw George the next day, he told us that Ringo had not been feeling the best for some time. 

George and Paul came to the conclusion that he had been overcome by his own gloomy nature, but I knew why he was feeling so down.

It was because of me.

About a week later, we were all in a funeral home. The weather outside was dark and gloomy, reflecting all of our emotions.

I could not stop looking at him. None of us could.

I was standing in front of the casket, staring down at him. 

He was wearing the same clothes he had been wearing when we went to Pepperland all those years ago. The red and blue striped-sweater. His long tie. The orange shirt. The grey pants with the lines of red and yellow running down the sides of them. His rings.

George figured that it was for the best for him to be buried in them.

There was a small area on his head that was devoid of hair. In its place was a scar.

The bullet had not gone through his head.

I did not focus on that area for too long. Instead, I was focusing on his face.

His eyes were closed. His mouth was set in a grim line. His hands were resting on top of each other as they rested on his stomach.

At first glance, one would assume that he was merely sleeping. But I knew better. It only took a moment of concentration on his chest to notice that it wasn't moving.

Even after all these years, the image of his body was crystal clear.

As I looked down at him, I allowed a single tear to make its way down my cheek.

This was my fault. 

I couldn't tell George or Paul then. If I had, they would have been angry at me.

Ringo's features were peaceful, and that is what killed me.

Knowing how much pain he had felt because of me, I began to realize how much I messed up. George was the one who cried the most.

I couldn't let all of my emotions out during the entire funeral. It would have seemed suspicious. 

As we sat outside in the gloomy weather, watching as his closed casket was slowly lowered into the ground, I was barely able to keep back the emotions that kept on weighing me down.

I cried, of course I did. But I wanted to cry even harder than I was.

After that day, Paul and I decided to move back in with George. Once we moved back in, George took the clothes that we wore to Pepperland and stored them away. 

We figured that it was for the best if they were kept out of sight for a while.

He ended up losing track of them, but we weren't mad. 

Sighing, I raised my hand to look at my clothing again.

I had not seen those clothes for decades. We were all surprised when George found them. 

They may have faded, but we still love how they looked.

I wonder how Ringo's looks now. 

Have they faded just like ours? Or have they decayed away along with his body?

That last thought made me shudder. 

Clearing my throat, I catch the sight of a gate that is just feet in front of me.

I'm almost there now.