⇾ 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 | 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐋𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧 𝐈

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Paul and the Snowy Interruption

December 3, 1961

"John, look! It's snowing!" I yelled happily.

"Huh?" John sat up in his bed. It was late Saturday afternoon and we were chilling about in his room until Brian was to come home. "Oh, would ye look at that?" He laughed goofily, coming up behind me.

"It's so pretty," I mused, watching happily as a flake fell against the window and melted away immediately.

John laughed. "You act like you've never seen snow in your life."

I frowned. "Hey, being locked in a prison called an orphanage doesn't do me any justice." I grumbled.

"Ah, but you said you lived with your grandparents," he noted and I turned and leaned against his desk, feeling his gaze burn into me.

I nodded. "Well, not for long."

He shrugged. "Fair enough." He paused. "When's yer birthday?" I gave him a skeptical look. "I don't wanna miss it," he explained.

I rolled my eyes. "The fifteenth," I said after trying to avoid it and until his eyes burned into my head more than I could bare.

He gave a toothy smile. "That's close."

I nodded. I always hated my birthday. Nothing special had ever happened. I had had a few special days with my grandparents, but hadn't had one in practically the past ten years. It always just made me realize how alone I was.

"I don't want anything big," I said immediately.

He frowned. "Why?" he whined.

"Because," I replied. "I don't like birthday parties."

He whimpered. "Not even mine?"

I rolled my eyes. "I meant for me, stupid." I laughed.

"I'm not stupid," he quipped with a false air of bitterness to his voice.

I rolled my eyes again. "Don't do anything rash," I said. "I don't want anything special, please?"

He frowned. "Fine. What if—?"

"No," I cut him off sternly.

"You're boring!" he said and paused, moving back away from me so I could stand up straight again. He sat back on his bed and I moved down into his desk chair. "May I ask," he began. "Where did you live with your parents and grandparents? Was it in London?"

I thought a moment, only vaguely remembering at this point. "No, it wasn't in London. It was just out of Blackpool. Maybe an hour or so from here?" He nodded, not saying anything. "I remember my grandparents always taking me to their grave-." My voice broke and I swallowed. "—Every year on my birthday, and again on the day of their death—." My voice broke again. "I never got to do that at the children's home, so it's been a long time since I've been." I chose to stop talking before I started to cry.

John didn't say anything, just nodded thoughtfully. "I'm sorry," he said. "I won't ask anymore."

I shook my head and turned to look back out at the white flakes falling from the sky. "I don't mind. I only avoid it to try and convince myself I'm okay with it, even though I'm not. Talking about it does me more good than harm, really."