"Dead?" John gripped the sheets. "NoNoNoNo..."

"John---"

"No!" He shouted. "He can't be dead, he--- he isn't dead!"

"George hit you hard in the fucking head! You were unconscious, you didn't know what was happening!" Paul's hands shook. He wiped the tears from his eyes. "Christ, he took out a gun and--- fuck, he started ranting about love and George... He pulled the fucking trigger---"

"Shut up!" John cried. "Shut up! You're lying!"

"He was psychotic! None of us knew what was going to happen----"

John began rambling like a madman. "I could've saved him I was his only hope we were going to get out he was going to be free from him----"

"John---"

"I was going to save him, Paul!" John screamed, tears streaming down his face. "I was going to fucking save him from this hell your brother built and now he's fucking dead!" And before he knew it, John started shaking all over. Sobs racked his body.

Paul bent over and placed his face in his hands. Tears slipped from his eyes and through his fingertips and down the floor.

"It's over, then?" John rasped out. "All fucking over?"

Paul bit his lip.

"I'm sorry." He whispered, voice gruff. "I'm so fucking sorry, John."

John wiped his nose with the back of his hand, his violent sobs turning in sniffles.

Paul took his kerchief from his pocket and handed it to him. John stared at it, scrutinizing it, even.

Then he took it.

"Thank you." He blew his nose.

Paul's reply was automatic, well-hearse and practiced. Like his lies.

"You're welcome."

Silence fell upon the two.

"Can we go back?" John pleaded. "I need to see, Paul. I need to see it with my own eyes."

"If you don't believe me, then maybe you'll believe the papers." Paul said, standing over to grab the newspaper.

"Papers--- Newspapers?" John spluttered. "Christ, how long have I been out?"

He watched as Paul bite his lip again.

"You've been out for a week, John."