Chapter Text
November 9, 1966
Paul stormed out of the studio with annoyance on his face. He had just been recording a song when he was rudely interrupted by John, who said he was singing it wrong.
Who the hell is he to tell me what is right and wrong? Paul sneered and turned his car keys. The car wouldn’t start. He tried again. Nope. The engine grumbled and screeched as he struggled to insert and turn the keys in the keyhole. “Fuck this!” He slammed the car horn loudly then sat in silence.
Finally, he got it to work and tensely drove out of the driveway.
Driving alone wasn’t something Paul did often, he was more used to riding with his bandmates. Something about driving alone at dawn made him shiver with discomfort. Was it the silence? The feeling of another’s presence? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he was mad, driving by himself, and nothing could stop him anymore.
Driving down the eerily empty and narrow road, he reminisced on all the good and bad times with his pals. Yes, they all fought sometimes. And yes, they disagreed on many different things such as the ‘better dessert’ or the ‘cutest type of girl’. And yes, how angry he was with John right now! But maybe this argument wasn’t as big of a deal as he thought. I mean yes, John was being a bit stupid. But maybe all he needed was a little time away from them all. George and Ringo were still there with John anyway. Maybe he should turn the car around and wrap up the recording. Then he could go home for the night.
He loved his bandmates. His friends. No matter what, he would always come to them with his problems. His anger was stupid. He shouldn’t be this angry at John. He has always acted like that. John was a very picky guy, he had to make sure everyone and everything was perfect before a song was published. It wasn’t worth the fight, he should just go back.
Just as Paul was about to reverse and turn the car around, a bright white beam of light blinded his vision. Paul squinted and put a hand up to his face. “Shit!” He swore.
It was a truck.
A big one.
And it was headed straight for him.
Everything went black and stopped for a minute, and then everything became real again. Paul’s ears rang obnoxiously loud. His hands and legs shook intensely. His breathing was ragged, heavy and fast. His vision slowly came back to him then disappeared again.
He whimpered in confusion and, well, pain.
He turned his head to the left. He was on the side of the road unable to move.
Paul tried to crawl back to his car, to grab something.
Something he could feel.
Something to let him know he was still alive.
Anything at all. Please.
No matter what he tried, the pain was just too intense and unbearable. He watched, in and out of blacking out, as the blood from all over his body stained the dirty gravel road.
He tried to lift his head but the shock and weight was just too powerful. He saw blood slowly gush down and stain his suit. The only thing he could do was start wailing from the pain.
He wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. He hoped someone would come and help him. He shut his eyes hoping it would help with the pain a bit. It didn’t. He tried to stop crying. He couldn’t. Soon, Paul stopped trying to move. He stopped trying to do anything at all. Even breathing hurt. There was no denying that this was the end. He would never get to see his friends again. Even after a stupid argument that didn’t even matter. He wished he got to apologize. He wished he could’ve spent more time with them. He wished. He wished.
He wished until even wishing hurt.
Soon, everything around him was spinning and he started losing consciousness again as he watched the pile of bloodstained gravel beneath him create a bigger pool than before. Just before taking his final breath, he saw an ambulance. The truck driver must have called them. It was too late for that.
Everything was quiet and peaceful now. All the pain and suffering was gone. Just a feeling of relaxation was left.
Paul was dead, and he was never coming back.