⇾ 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 | 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐋𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧 𝐈

Chapter Eighty-Four: How Does it Feel? Being in Love With a Psycho?

August 14, 1962

The band was branching out and playing at more venues outside of Liverpool. I still didn't know what they were going to do about Pete, though. They didn't seem to either. We'd told them what George had said after arriving back in Liverpool the day after meeting with him. Pete had looked like his whole world was falling. He was horrified. The others didn't really know what to say. They were all upset, though, it had seemed.

Surprise, surprise, Brian had been stressing about it.

I took frequent breaks from traveling with the band now, having had the same dream about my parents nightly ever since the day before we left to meet George Martin. No one other than John knew for the most part, until the night it finally worsened, showing past the initial collision, and I woke up completely sick and screaming in fear. That had been the night Paul and Pete finally found out about the anxiety I had. The night I couldn't hide it anymore. I had scared everyone. And I felt guilty about it.

Brian had decided it was stress and limited how much I traveled in the following time. Despite missing a lot of their away shows, I was still a usual at all of their Cavern performances.

Pete began to withdraw from the group, perhaps feeling like he wasn't enough. He was constantly told that he was, but I could tell the others were getting antsy over it all. As the time for their first real recording session drew nearer, it all amplified.

I rarely saw Pete anymore. I saw him when I traveled with them to gigs and I saw him when they played at the Cavern, never in between anymore. I could tell the axe was going to fall soon.

While the band was on their way home from a performance they'd had in Cheshire the following day, I dedicated my time to seeing a psychiatrist, under the orders of Brian. I didn't want to. I was only doing it because I had to. It didn't feel like it'd help anything. I obliged anyways so he'd stop talking about it.

My psychiatrist ended up being an elderly lady by the name of Mary. She was very nice, I couldn't deny. It took a good thirty minutes for me to explain exactly why I was there. I knew that every word that came out of my mouth made absolutely no sense, but Mary just listened along patiently with an inviting smile, encouraging me to go on with her eyes.

According to her, I was a number of things. I didn't realize I was screwed up to the extent I actually was. She prescribed me with some sleeping pills I'd never heard of. I walked away confused as ever, only to be surprised by John at the door, having not realized they'd be home by then.

"Alright, love?" he asked, studying my face intently. "Yer pale."

I snapped out of a trance. "No, I'm fine," I stammered, looking down at the prescription in my hand.

"What's that then?" he asked skeptically, almost worriedly, moving closer to see.

"Sleeping pills," I grumbled. "Sleeping is what makes the dreams come," I whined.

John gave a lopsided grin. "Maybe it'll help. Ye never know."

I nodded. "I dunno, maybe."

"How about we go out for some dinner?" he asked, securing his arm around my waist and leading me down the road. "We haven't been out alone in a while."

It was true. I couldn't remember the last time it had been just us together. The band was away so much now I could barely remember the last time that we'd done something together other than put on a concert.

I nodded with a smile. "That's the best thing I've heard in a long time."

~~~

"How does it feel? Being in love with a psycho?" I leaned my head on my hands, studying John up and down quizzically.

John gave a frown, setting his fork down to look into my innocent eyes. "Well, you're anything but that."

"You keep telling yourself that, love," I mumbled bitterly, picking at the food in front of me.

"Besides," he said, disregarding my comment. "You can't help it, so why should I worry about it." He gave a sincere smile.

I shook my head and took a sip of my drink. "Sleeping pills," I uttered. "I sure feel like a psycho."

John gave another smile at me, taking my hand across the table. "You're not, though. Maybe it'll get better."

I nodded, feeling at home in his grip. "I love you," I whispered blankly, spacing out as I fumbled with his hand.

"Well, I love you too," he replied in a sarcastic whisper. "Love, you've got to finish your food. Ease your grip." I didn't realize I'd been squeezing his hand quite so hard.

"Right," I said, jerking back to reality and letting go of his hand, resuming nibbling on my chicken.

"Feeling okay?" he asked.

I nodded, taking a glance outside. The sun had set over the city and all that remained was a blanket of stars and a looming darkness, eerily reminiscent of my life at the moment, the darkness being everything wrong, the beautiful stars being the band and John and Brian, the only things keeping me sane.

I looked back at John, his eyes curious and slightly concerned. "What's wrong?" I asked him.

He shook his head. "You seem off," he said bluntly.

I nodded indignantly. "I've heard that before."

"No, Donna, not like that—." He reached his hand out, but I reached for my drink instead.

"I know," I said with a sigh, giving a smile. "I'm just tired."

He nodded, looking down. "I'll take you home after this." He smiled.

"Heaven-sent," I mused, sitting my fork down and leaning back. "I'm done."

"But, love, you barely ate anything."

"Not hungry," I responded, looking down at my fiddling hands in my lap sheepishly. He nodded, taking the check and looking it over.

I instinctively reached for my purse, but he stopped me with a wave of his hand. "I've got it today."

I frowned. "But—."

He shook his head, smiling. "I've got it today," he insisted again simply.