JOHN

I watched. Watched as Paul was picked up, eyes closed, face ashen, mouth slightly open. Watched as he was carried offstage, his head hanging limply on his chest. Watched as he was taken to an ambulance, with the other two lads in tow. Watched as the doors were slammed in their faces, and the auto drove off without them. Without me.

"Well then," I said with a set face, my first words since the incident. "That's that."

I turned quickly on my heels, before George or Ringo could say anything. They stood behind me in silence as I stormed off to the dressing room.

I slammed the door, and took off my guitar, holding it by the neck.

Those girls. They were crying.

I swung the guitar, and it hit the wall. The bridge broke off and fell to the floor.

Why were they crying? Did they know him?

I slammed it against the dresser. It hit the mirror. Shards of glass flew everywhere. The strings uncoiled, splayed in all directions.

They didn't know Paul like I did. He wasn't their friend. He wasn't their brother.

I spun around, the guitar swinging me in lopsided circles.

He was their toy. Their marionette. Their puppet.

I let go of the guitar, and it flew through the air, going in slow-motion. It hit the wall, and split in half, the pieces flying on opposite paths.

He was their puppet. And his strings broke.

My knees gave out from under me, and I fell to the floor, in the center of the earthquake. I buried my head in darkness, the tears shaking me with a force I could not control.