HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY TO THE ONE AND ONLY JAMES PAUL MCCARTNEY <3

He's 74,, can you believe that?

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PAUL PLACED his left hand to his lips, something he always did when he was thinking. His doe, hazel eyes shut tight, lips pressed in a thin line as his ever-so-active mind raced like a car going a hundred miles per hour.

It was a Friday, and certainly there wouldn't be lots of people out in the open. School was still in progress and the adults were still busy. He could easily slip from the thick scenery of high bushes and low trees, maybe even find an unattended car and slip into it. It was so easy. Like child's play to just slip under Officer Whatshisname's pointy, beak-like nose.

Then why the fuck was he still here?

Was it guilt? Maybe even the feeling of responsibility over the poor lad who's mother seemed to be "elsewhere". Whatever it was, it kept Paul's feet rooted to the ground. Out of the all irrational things he had done (which was plenty, if you'd ask him) this would've been at least in the top five's.

If he was Ringo, he would've been more than grateful for a serial killer-slash-psycho (no pun intended) to just suddenly dissapear with no traces left.

He hissed, head throbbing under the weight of his chaotic mind. Maybe he did want to stay?

The perplexity of the thought slapped him right across the face. Paul sworn he had lost his mind years and years ago.

Then again... maybe staying a bit wouldn't hurt?