I thought about what were going to do next. "Hey, life imitates art (or was that the other way around? Oh, well), doesn't it? Why don't we sneak outta here, sort of?"

"Sneak out?" George asked.

"Oh, yeah, I get what she means!" said Paul when it just hit him. "In 'A Hard Day's Night,' the press conference scene: We sneak out after a while. I mean we're still in the vicinity, and if someone wants to find us that badly, they'll come looking fer us."

"And we could still be close by here," I added. "This hotel's got to have some other room we could stay at for now, just to stay there 'til the time passes by."

"I think that's better than hangin' around this place," Paul said. "And why not try it, eh? C'mon, let's get outta 'ere."

Carefully yet appearing casual, we walked out of the ballroom reception and went to the right. We walked down a wide hallway just a bit, turned left, and noticed the lobby.

"Argh, we can't hide there, it's open space," Ringo said. "Someone's bound to notice us."

"Okay, quick, back track," George said. "We'll walk the other way."

We quickly headed back. We turned right, saw the wide hallway again and passed the open ballroom doors to the reception that were to our left. As we breezed by it, we could still here the sound of the people and the music; the party was still going on strong. I noticed security guards standing at the doors, alert and attentive. They were probably there because of the reception.

After we passed the ballroom doors, to our immediate right was a set of ordinary glass doors. It turned out they were the doors to a little restaurant, one of those nice, sit-down ones where one has to dress up formally and all that. The lights were dimmed a little low to create the right atmosphere. Surprisingly there was no one in there; I think they closed it because the reception was in the room across the hall, and they didn't want random people coming in here and then hopping over to the reception.

"Wanna stay in 'ere instead? What were gonna do 'ere I don't know," Ringo said.

"It's much quieter, I must say. At least we can hear each other speak without 'aving to worry about the other noise," Paul said. "Let's 'ave a seat there," he added, pointing to one of the booths on the left near the wall. Paul, Ringo, and I took a seat in the booth, but George remained standing.

"I need some fresh air," he told us. "The atmosphere's chokin' me!" And he pretended to keel over while holding his neck. We had a good laugh at that. "Any of you wanna tag along?" he asked after he was done. We told him we were okay for the moment.

"All right then. I'll be back soon," he said, waving a little goodbye. There were windows making up the fourth wall of the room, facing a small street. The glass door to go outside was there too at the right end. George went out that way, and walked around outside. No one was outside, so he was safe there.

After a little while, George knocked on the door. Paul ran up to open it for him.

"Ack, the door was locked," George said as Paul took his seat next to me again. He remained standing though. "They probably don't want hotel guests entering in this way."

"Was it cold outside?" I asked. "Feelin' better now?"

"Yeah, thanks. It was a little cold, but it was nice," he said. "Anyroad, I just thought of something: I'm gonna call Brian and ask if we can leave now since we're not doin' anythin' and no one's botherin' to come talk to us."

"Good plan," Ringo said. "I'll join ya. Yer usin' the phone outside though?"

"Yeah, I don't remember the phone number for the hotel. The phone outside's got a phone book with it."

"Don't be gone too long," Paul said.

"We'll miss ya too much," I added. George and Ringo smiled and then went outside.

"So, enjoyin' yourself, luv?" Paul asked. He rested his left elbow on the table and rested his head in his hand.

"Actually, I am. I had a splendid time dancing, and just relaxing with you lads is fun enough for me. I just miss John though. I know he'll be all right. Stayin' back at the hotel was good for 'im since he's ill," I replied.

"Yeah, John's the one who keeps us awake at these things. A bit ironic, since he's the one who hates these things the most," Paul said.

"How are you though?" I asked him, placing my hand on his forehead. "You look kinda tired. I hope you're not gettin' sick."

"Heh, I hope not too!" Paul said. "Does me forehead feel warm?"

"Only slightly," I answered. "Maybe you're just worn out from all this excitement," I added sarcastically.

"Worn out? Not me!" he said with a laugh. He took my hand off his forehead, then seemed to notice something about my hand. He began looking at my palm.

"Do you believe in this sorta thing, readin' palms and d'all?" he asked me. That was a little random, but still something interesting to talk about, so I didn't mind.

"Depends on who's readin' them, I guess. I think I can't merely disregard what people foretell though; what if they just happen to be right? You don't necessarily believe it entirely, but you keep it in mind. It's good to keep an open mind."

Paul thought about it for a moment. "I like that, Paulina. I really like that," he concluded. "It's a good idea that-Oh, oh ... Hmm, most interesting," he continued as he further examined my palm. "Wait, you're left-handed--Okay, then I'm doin' it right then."

"Hm? How's that?"

"I heard from somewhere that whatever hand you write with, you read that one as the future. The other hand is read as your past."

"What if you're ambidextrous?"

"Well, if you're gonna get all technical about it," Paul said, smiling.

Suddenly, there was a loud racket across the hall. It sounded as if it came from the reception room. It didn't sound like a good racket; it sounded like something was wrong.

"Uh oh, what's that?" I asked.

"I don't know, luv," Paul answered, looking up and taking hold of my hand tighter.

What we heard next frightened us beyond belief ... Gun shots. Then screams.

"We've gotta get outta here!" Paul yelled.

"I'm scared, Paul ..."

"You don't have to be with me around," he answered bravely. We literally leaped out of the booth, Paul leading the way, holding my hand so tight it hurt. The noise seemed to surround us. It would not die down ... It was frightening.

A rattling at the window. The both of us stopped and quickly glanced over to see what it was.

George was pounding on the window with the most horrified look on his face. He was screaming something, pointing to something behind us.

Too late. A bullet shot over our heads and penetrated the window. We ducked as soon as we heard the sound. We were safe even if we were standing since the bullet was shot so high ...

Then in the opposite doorway, a distance away, I saw a figure.

I could tell it was still holding up the gun.

I stared, horrified, right at the gun and at what was about to happen.

I knew what was coming ... And I was so stricken with fear I couldn't even brace for it ...

Suddenly, my eardrums went deaf. A high pitched, blood-curdling sound seemed louder and more overwhelming than a screeching airplane.

The cacophonous sound shattered the tense air, slashed the throat of silence, bled into my ears.

It was a scream.

Immediately, something struck me. Something forced itself against me.

And time suddenly slowed ..............

I felt like a car slammed into me, slammed itself into my left side. I felt it use all its power to push me away, almost like how a bomb repels its closest victims light years away from the point of explosion. I could not resist against the object that crashed itself into me. It sent me to the ground, sent me to where gravity wanted me. I felt myself falling, falling, falling ...

Then came the other sound. It was much more abrupt than the scream. It was much shorter, insanely brief, yet it spoke with a cold, depraved, loud, resounding hate that pierced my heart.

And pierced my heart it did.

The gunshot rang out.

I knew that was it. The last sound I would ever hear in my life.

But the force of the overpowering push still sent me falling still while the gunshot rang out.

Before anything else could occur, my head came into direct contact with the indifferent, sharp edge of a table.

I hit the ground. Dizziness oozed into my mind, enveloping me in nebulous confusion. I could feel the pain pounding the inside of my head, a million fists banging from the inside of my mind, demanding their freedom.

And they were freed; I could feel a trickle of blood flowing from the laceration I received as a vicious gift from the table.

I tried to move, but I couldn't. Something was crushing me. I was under something that immobilized me. It was terrifying, being paralyzed with fear and paralyzed physically ...

Finally catching the fleeting notion called tranquil sense, I breathed in, fell into deep concentration, and gathered strength. The crushing weight became lighter. I only felt the weight, but it was an ironically comfortable weight, which I could handle. I feared that if I moved anymore however, I would become weaker; my head was already in pain, and although my mind told me to forget it, my brain forced me to remember the laceration's existence.

Immediately, an entire fleet of realizations struck me. The first thing I realized was that ...

I was still alive. Dizzy, in a bit of pain, but alive.

I could not believe it. It wasn't true--was it?--It couldn't have been true ... What happened?

Wait, that object that pushed me. I felt it push me, force me down, down to the ground, into the table ...

I played the scene as best I could through my mind. I heard the gunshot, but somehow a third sound had forced itself into the scene.

The first sound, the scream, had continued throughout, but when the shot rang out, it drastically changed to a sickening cry of anguish and ultimate pain. Although brief, it hurt my heart to hear that sound.

That meant the weight I felt, the weight I was under, was the weight of the object that pushed me.

It was silent, save an almost inaudible groan escaping from it.

The weight shifted, rolled off of me, and landed with a cruel thud and out emanated another cry of extreme pain. After being relieved of the weight, I did my best to sit up and turn to look at what pushed me, find out what the weight was.

The next sight seared itself on my brain. I knew I would never, ever forget it.

What forced me to the ground had saved my life.

He saved my life. He saved my life, and risked his own to save mine.

My knight in shining armor could not prevent his valiant heart from doing its duty.

Paul, my knight, was now lying on his back on the ground in insurmountable pain. His eyes were glued shut, his teeth clenched together, his right hand not in use and laid there motionless. His left leg was stiff and straight. His right knee, however, was bent and made an angle against the air, his right boot perfectly flat on the ground, as if to take a stand against the pain.

He was helplessly holding his left side, his penetrated, pierced, bleeding left side that took the villainous, speeding, metal rocket to protect me. His left hand was covered in the life-supporting liquid that slowly flowed from the wound; life was literally slipping away between his crimson fingers, and blood was seeping through his suit onto the floor ...

I felt my face, heart, soul surrender to fear, terror, horror.

Trying to comprehend the literal insanity of the situation, I came up with only one vile solution.

This was a nightmare.

It was a nightmare. An ambient, inescapable nightmare that depravedly sparked to life. I couldn't wake up to destroy it. I was stuck in this world, this hideous, alternate reality.

What I was seeing couldn't be true! It had to be an illusion! Destiny and fate aren't supposed to go this way! It was wrong, so wrong. The world had turned itself inside out, upside down, white to black. It was wrong, all wrong!

Paul was going to die ... because of me.

"Paul!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, not caring if my vocal cords were to disintegrate or ignite in flames, not caring if my lungs were to collapse after the screech, not caring at all, not for the world, not for anyone at all, except for one, single, solitary person.

The only person I cared about now was Paul. Paul, my Paul, my knight in shining armor.

"No!" I could hear George's muffled shriek from outside. "Paul!" I could tell tears were about to choke him.

George read my mind. "They got 'im, security got hold of the gunman and took him away. But Ringo's callin' for help right now! Stay by his side to see if he's all right! We'll come get you two soon! Don't worry!" he tried to reassure, but seemed unsure of himself ...

"Fuckin' slow bastards! Why couldn't they catch him when they had the chance!" George yelled.

And time still slowed for all of us ............

His eyes were shut tight, shut as if Death closed and held them down with unimaginable strength. I wanted Paul's eyes to open, open up with that childlike shine, that optimistic gleam kissed with slyness. That was the only thing I asked of the world, I asked of life, I asked of fate: To have Paul's eyes open once again. It would ensure that his death would not be near, not for a long time.

Although I was almost panic-stricken and felt a void in my heart carved by helplessness, I could not collapse mentally. I could not. I wasn't allowed to. I had to stay strong.

I had to stay optimistic, just like Paul's eyes, Paul's spirit, Paul's soul.

That was the only way Paul would live.

I knelt right beside him, looked at him, my fallen knight, wanting him to awaken. My tears welled up and blurred my vision, but I blinked the tears away and they streamed down my cheeks. Quickly I took off my translucent pink vest and placed it over his wound, underneath his bloodstained left hand, to help stop the bleeding.

Paul's face--once cute, innocent, sweet, angelic--was twisted into an expression of insuperable pain, a pain I deeply wished I could wipe away. My right hand delicately stroked his hair, while my left hand remained on his chest that was barely moving up and down with his breathing. I could not believe what was happening. It was so unfair. I was supposed to take the bullet, but Paul, with the pure heart of a knight, courageously, almost unjustly, took it for me.

A few more tears managed to teeter off the edge of my eyes and roll down my cheeks. My head didn't hurt as much; it was still bleeding, I could feel blood languidly make its way down my left temple.

But somehow, my knight pulled away from the grip of the other side of reality.

Paul barely opened his eyes, doing his best to fight the pain and stay strong himself. It was just so like him.

"Paul!" I cried with so much relief and exceeding joy that I thought it would explode out of my heart. I said his name loudly, but didn't scream it, knowing another bloodcurdling scream would cause him more pain than ever.

"Pearl ...?" he said, ever so softly, looking up into my eyes.

"Paul! Oh, Paul, don't move, please," I desperately pleaded, biting back a tortured scream that was welling up inside me, biting back the force that was making me tremble, and attempting to bite back the fiery, burning tears.

I couldn't fight the tears. Paul saw this and his eyes immediately saddened.

"Oh, no, Pearl ... I made you cry ... It'll be all rig--right, luv. I'll be all right ... I'm not hurt that bad, am I?"

I couldn't and didn't respond. I continued to stroke his hair, bit my lower lip, looked away, and began sobbing. Paul's eyes lost some of its ever-present optimism, finally beginning to grasp the graveness of the situation.

"My love, d--don't cry. You know how s--sad I get when you cry. Don't cry, please ..."

I tried to stop sobbing, but tears continued to flow down my face. I couldn't help it. I smiled as best I could back to him, but then felt a great pain throbbing at the top left of my forehead. The laceration reminded me of its presence again. I moved my long hair out of the way, away from my forehead, and I tried not to let Paul see it--

"Oh, God--" Paul truncated his sentence. Oh, no, he saw it! I thought angrily to myself while more tears flowed down my face.

He closed his eyes, his face paled after seeing the blood flow down my left temple. I knew he hated seeing blood. He brought his trembling, pale right hand over as best he could, moved some of my hair away from my cut and stroked my cheek without touching the blood. "Pearl--I--I hurt you, aft--after I pushed you, you hit your head ..."

"Paul, don't say that." I ignored the pain, took my left hand and placed it on top of his hand that was stroking my cheek. "You saved my life, Paul. You'll get through this, believe me, Paul. Believe me."

"It's because y-you give me the stre-strength to go on ... Just promise me you-you'll never leave me, Pearl ..."

"Never, Paul, never," I held his right hand in my hands this time. "I could never leave you. I'll always be by your side."

Paul gave me a smile, but this time more pain was apparent in his face.

Then he gasped as his left hand covered his wound tighter. He closed his eyes, and spoke no more.

After exhaling, his head went limp.

"Paul! Don't leave me!" I said, gripping his hand even tighter. Here I was, saved by my knight in armor, and I could do nothing to save him.

Sirens penetrated the night air. The ambulance crew rushed in.

Another realization became as clear as crystal to me. Why hadn't I noticed ...?

Paul called me "Pearl" instead of "Paulina" for the first time in his life.

...