Tree branches tapped incessantly against the one small window above the kitchen sink, and John watched on curiously as the light above his head dared to flicker off. It was a nasty December day, but the soft pitter patters of the rain & the cat that rubbed against his leg as he leaned on the counter caused for John to feel safe inside his isolated suburban home. This day was no different than any other really - it was a bit more rainy than yesterday & the clouds in the sky were a shade grayer, but he was still John Lennon, & his tea had tasted the same, & he didn't like when Yoko had made him wake up any better than he did the day before. This day, December 8, 1984, was only but another day in what had become his stagnant lifestyle; at least, that's what he'd keep telling himself all morning.

"What to do today, Pepper?" spoke John, looking down at the black Bombay feline that sat by his leg. In one swift movement, he picked it up in his arms, cuddling it like it was a child. "Yoko's gone & Sean sleeps, the lazy boy. It's because Yoko gave him sugar today, y'know? I told her not to do that -- it'll ware him out & make him fat, I said -- but she did it anyhow, because he stuck out his bottom lip & put on a bloody good show." He smiled, "I changed the nappies, made the bottles, & cared for him so much that he almost became apart of me, but she gets to reap the benefits of my hard work. The ol' bat." 

Pepper squirmed in his arms, requesting to be let down from the position. John obliged & let the cat down carefully, his brown orbs staying on him until he rounded a corner into the hall. After that, John turned his attention back to the storm that brewed outside, wondering truly what he could actually do that day.

He didn't want to go out, not without anyone. Even his own porch had been an area he'd deemed to be too much, because the area was so open. His home was placed behind a large gate, but anyone could climb a gate if they had motivation -- he'd done it himself at Paul's home -- & John didn't want to risk anything. He had too much going on to handle life as carelessly as he did before.
The therapist he'd been seeing every week told him not to think that way, to realize that he hadn't been living life carelessly, he was just simply living life, but he couldn't help but think he was. If he'd been more strict with the fans, or more protective over himself like he had been in his youth, that man, that criminal, wouldn't have gotten as far as he had. Then he'd be alright, John would. He wouldn't fear living because the fear of dying consumed him. He wouldn't have five disgusting scars on his backside that constantly reminded him of his foolishness.

--- 'Stop thinking that way, John.'

John removed his gaze from the window after the thoughts evaporated like he hoped they would. However, the toxic thoughts had swamped the kitchen with an aura he was trying to run away from -- an aura he'd moved away to the suburbs to avoid -- so he simply did what he did best and left it behind.

He entered the adjoining room, the living room. There were four large windows in the room, which overlooked a garden he had made up with Sean earlier that year. It wasn't very pretty any more but he still enjoyed looking at the little lot of dirt where their flowers once remained. It reminded him of happy times. In front of the windows sat a TV, and to the right side of it sat a record player he hadn't used much. Two of Julian's Valotte viynls laid on top of it, one opened & one unopened. Then, to a the left side of the TV was a radio that served more of a purpose than anything else in the room. John usually always had that on when he was doing things in the house. And, in the middle of everything sat a small tan couch & a chair.

It wasn't a very full room, but he'd never liked it when things got to be too cluttered. He liked simplistic, white things that didn't cover much space.

John walked to the radio and turned the dial, allowing for a noise to fill the once silent capacity. He turned the volume down so he wouldn't wake Sean, then he took a sit in the chair placed next to it. When the song began playing, John tapped his digits on the chair, listening intently. He'd never heard the tune that boomed next to his ear before, but he liked it. He assumed it was something called 'Let Them Know It's Christmas' or perhaps 'Do they know It's Christmas?' from the amount of times it'd been reversed in the song, & he made a mental note to tell Yoko of his discovery when she got home; he figured she'd like it too.

As the song faded out, the radio personnel's voice came in to replace it. "It's December 8 & here at W.E.H.N, we take this date very seriously." John's eyebrows furrowed at this, but he made no movements. "On this day, music almost took a turn for the worst when, at 10ish o'clock, John Lennon was shot by Mark Chapman while going back to say goodnight to his son." John sat back in his chair and folded his hands, listening to the story as if he hadn't experienced it. "John fortunately overcame this tragedy, but it's put him in another one of his hiatuses. John, if you're listening out there, know that the world misses you. This is for you."

Imagine started playing, and John rested contently in his chair thinking as his fingers tapped along to the song that they'd written years before. "Imagine," he told himself, "A world where you fuggin' exist again."

When the song ended, John reached over and turned the device off. He didn't want to listen anymore; something else has struck him as important. Fingers moved the radio forward a bit and there, sitting behind it, just as he had left it the day they moved in, was his voice recorder. He hadn't used it since November, when he recorded a song and made a diary entry. That's what he did, made diary entries and baked bread. A real drag it was, but at the moment it sounded so blissful.

John grabbed the machine and placed it in his lap. He checked the cassette out and placed it back inside before a lone digit pressed the red start button. The annoying sound of the machine working in his lap was the only thing that went on the tape for two minutes, and then, suddenly he said, "I'm John Lennon."

After that it was easy. Words flowed about nonsensical things like Sean's schooling, Yoko getting back to work, and the expressing of how lonely the suburbs got sometimes. It was nothing good, nor anything he had brought the tape out to discuss, but it felt well to do it with someone other than someone he paid.

But he wanted to speak about the subject he'd been avoiding. The one every one had been working so hard to tiptoe around and pretend that didn't happened. He wanted to talk about the day he got shot.

"Decemember 8th," he began. His eyes focused on the blank TV screen in front of him. "I was shot by a man. I wish I could say I don't remember him, but I do. I remember him as clear as anyone remembers their worst nightmare, you know? You don't forget terrors that shift your life like that..."

"Everyone's asked for an interview with me, to ask about this or that but I haven't got it in me. Apart of me is scared to do this, to talk about it, but I suppose I can't avoid it for the rest of my life. I have the ugly wounds on my back to tell me this story is true, and that it's not going away. The other part of me's just afraid to disappoint the press and tell them that all I remember is a scream, a very massive amount of pain and Paul McCartney's voice. A rather upsetting column that would make wouldn't it? Sounds like the final months of The Beatles." A half smile graced his lips at that.

"What's truly important about that moment, that day...this day, as it were, is that it made me realize something. I had gone 40 years of my life hanging onto the tomorrows. I'll be his dad tomorrow, I'll record this song tomorrow, I'll apologize tomorrow, but someday tomorrow won't come. You'd think, with all the people who'd died on me, I would've gotten it but it took me almost dying myself to believe that....to believe that we don't get a tomorrow all the time."

"That's the scariest part to me, the fact that I'd gone my whole life depending on fuggin' tomorrows. That's what I've been denying myself -- what I've been avoiding saying -- but it's the truth. The scariest part of that day wasn't the screams or the ambulance or the pain that followed thereafter, but it was almost losing it all. I'm still afraid too, so fuggin' afraid---"

"Daddy?" Sean cut John off, making the elder jump in his place. John placed a hand on his heart, grinning at the silliness of his fright as his little messy haired boy looked on at him, unfazed and half asleep still. "What are you doing with that?"

John peered down to the machine. "I'm talking, Sean. Come here," he patted a spot next to him. Sean walked over and sat next to him, laying his head on his torso.

"Can I talk too?" Sean asked, pointing at the machine.

John nodded, smiling.

"My Daddy used a naughty word today, but I won't tell my Mommy." John laughed, patting his son's hair down. "I love my Daddy."

"And your Daddy loves you too," John added. "And that's what the best part of today is. I love you today, Sean; I love you and Mommy and Julian today."

"What about tomorrow Daddy? Do you love us tomorrow too?"

John grinned. "Yes, I love you tomorrow too, but Sean, todays  are better than tomorrows. Remember that will you, for Daddy?"

"Sure Daddy."

John nodded his head. He felt better, much better than he did before he'd done this.

"That's for you W.E.H.N."

With that, his nimble digits pressed stop. He told himself he'd send it out later, to them.

"Sean?"

"Yes?"

"How'd you like to go to the park today?"