"Room service!!" a much too cheerful George sang out as John, bleary-eyed, pajama-clad, and still very much asleep trudged into the kitchen. As the rhythm guitarist joined the younger boy at the large rectangular-shaped table located at the center of the dining room, his barely present awareness was suddenly drawn to an extravagant, overbearing feast that had seemed to manifest before his very eyes.

"Oy, what's this?" he asked, scrubbing at both his eyes to ensure that he was in fact seeing what he was seeing.

"Mal ordered room service!" George grinned up at him, his eyes gleaming like a child's on Christmas morning, "He figured that since it's to be our last day here, it would be our little treat."

"He did, did 'e?" John found himself absently mumbling by way of response. The rhythm guitarist frowned as he continued to take in the mounds and mounds of food that filled the tabletop. The lacy cloth that spanned its smooth surface was hardly visible beneath the revolting mess. No wonder Harrison was so happy. "There's enough 'ere to feed all of Europe and then some!" he pointed out, refusing to partake in his mate's gratitude.

"Isn't it gear?" George inquired animatedly, "Jus' what a bloke like me shall require first thing in the morning. 'M'not even sure where t'begin!"

"With yer mouth, I should hope," John quipped, his tone lacking the vigor it should've had.

"Well yes," the fellow guitarist replied, a hint of irritation momentarily dimming his excitement, "But should I start with the bacon butties first and move on next to the bread pudding? Or should I start with some ham and then follow with some apple..."

John shook his head distractedly, his incredulity only growing as his attentiveness towards George gradually diminished. What was it that had every human being on the planet solely convinced that food was a suitable form of reward? Bloody hell, it was no wonder they weren't all fat by this point of time. All human beings should be fat slobs... and then there wouldn't be room for hateful labels... in that sense anyway.

In the background, George droned on, completely oblivious to his mate's internal battle with himself. John tuned in temporarily to make sure he wasn't missing anything important. When he learned that he wasn't, his attention gravitated once more to the unbearably large selection of food in front of him. A large part of him longed to wish it all away. There was so much food at once, it was utterly sickening. It was just too much to take in let alone consume. Yet he wanted it. Every single ounce of it. He wanted nothing more than to indulge as George so freely did. He wanted to binge. He wanted to eat until he bloody well exploded, he was so hungry. However, giving in wasn't an option. He simply couldn't allow it. He couldn't. He wouldn't.

His stomach growled plaintively in contrast to his inner vow, blatantly announcing its dissatisfaction with his latest decision of foolish caliber. Figures he'd have a stomach that proved just as outspoken and commanding as he himself was. 'What are y'doing, y'bloody sod?' he could almost hear it nagging him, 'Yer blood hungry so eat! What are y'waiting for? Eat! EAT!!' It wasn't used to the kind of treatment he'd settled on giving it these past two days. It was hungry. He was hungry. Starving, really. And his stomach wasn't about to let him forget it. When was the last time he'd a true bite to eat anyway? Yesterday at that restaurant was it? And then he'd proceeded- Lennon faltered momentarily at the surfacing memory- He'd proceeded to do the unthinkable. He'd forced himself to rid himself of all traces of the enemy. He'd- Christ, even now he still had a hard time bringing himself to come out with the exact term for such a wrongdoing; for something so taboo... Try as he might, he just couldn't. That's how wrong it was. How wrong he knew it was.

"John? Are ye' even listening to me?"

John blinked as George's voice managed to permeate the heavy disarray that clouded his brain. "What?" he questioned, his blank gaze portraying an all out lack of comprehension.

George sighed and impatiently rolled his eyes, "Blimey Lennon, warn me next time if yer jus' gonna bloody tune out when I'm talking to ye'! Bloody 'ell, I could've been on the very edge of dying and y'wouldn't 'ave even taken notice!!"

John opened his mouth in attempt to fire off some form of witty response, only to find that for once in the sake of all things rare, he couldn't come up with even the simplest string of words. His mind had been doing that lately; abandoning him completely at the least convenient of times. Instead he found himself reduced to the primitive act of staring, watching with an ample mix of intent and disgust as the lead guitarist, unable to hold himself back any longer, went on to help himself to the feast; piling a plate ridiculously high with everything within reach of his fingertips. And John felt sickened with the surfacing realization that not even the biggest amount of even the most unhealthiest of it all would even begin to widen the frame of the Beatles' youngest in the slightest. It was unfair... So, so unfair. After all, he could 'eat so much yet stay so thin...' That beastly prat of an interviewer had said so herself...

"Aren't y'gonna eat something, son?"

John jumped at the unexpected added presence of Ringo's voice. The drummer, as he sometimes would, seemed to have materialized out of the blue. Yet John was unsurprised to find that his question was aimed at him. Certainly, it wasn't the type of question one would direct to a healthy, fully-functioning George. "Uh... yeah... 'm'working on it," the rhythm guitarist responded slowly, trying to instill as much casualness into the sentence as he could readily muster, "What's the hurry, anyway?"

"The fact that we're due in Los Angeles in less than two hours," Brian piped up from across the table, his stern voice indicating the fact that he was in no mood to deal with any setbacks.

Again, John blinked in surprise. When had he gotten here? And... he paused taking the time to look around finally... The same went for Paul... and Mal... and... Blimey, seconds ago it had simply been only him and George. He entered his head for two seconds and suddenly the entire hotel had joined in on their breakfast. It was possible he may have to start questioning his own sanity for failing to take proper notice...

"Enough fannying around, John," Epstein warned, "Eat."

"I said 'm'getting to it!" John snapped, his fleeting anger masking an irrational panic that had begun to creep over him. He reached up a shaky hand and grabbed a plate, the ceramic disk nearly slipping from his suddenly clammy fingertips in the process. It was strange, really. Strange how a mere action such as preparing to eat; an action that should've been so normal, could suddenly warrant such an overreaction from his department of nerves. Just plain unreal.

"Yer hand looks like it might fancy a bit of antiseptic," Ringo murmured from beside him, glancing meaningfully to his slaughtered hand only visible to him from the angle he was seated at.

John relaxed only slightly. Maybe his nerves weren't as visible as he'd thought or Ringo would be noticing that over something as minor as his stupid hand. Nonetheless, he pretended he didn't hear him. If he dared to speak, he feared his apprehensions may find a way out through his mouth jumbling up his words in a quavering, fretful, uncharacteristic mess. How would he even begin to address such a mishap then?

As the guitarist subsequently proceeded to reach for various things across the table, intentionally seeking out the edibles that seemed the healthiest; he found himself frowning as the feelings of discomfort not only prevailed, but increased. He'd never eaten in such a way before, and he suddenly felt as though everyone was inwardly questioning his antics. It seemed as if all eyes were on him, projecting forth their disapproval of what he was doing. He felt like they knew. All of them. They knew that he knew he was fat and was trying desperately to correct the problem. And it embarrassed him beyond belief.

The actual act of eating had been no easier. Each tiny bite sat heavy in his belly like bricks crafted from the world's toughest cement. And he felt worse and worse all the time in a manner suggesting that he was somehow betraying himself. He felt... strangely unworthy... like a failure... and all because he was doing what should've come natural to him to begin with... eating. Just how far did he wish to take this whole ordeal anyway? How much weight did he wish to shed? He'd never actually taken the time to think of it; to really analyze his feelings on the matter. At what point did a fat pig uncomfortable in his own skin begin to feel comfortable once more? Perhaps that was part of the mission. He'd simply have to wait and find out.

"Aren't y'hungry?" George asked, cutting abruptly into his once more swarming thoughts, "Yer hardly eating!"

And of course as expected, such a comment brought with it all the attention in the world. Attention that just never seemed far enough away where Lennon was concerned. He just couldn't escape it these days it seemed. "Not everyone's as bloody ravenous as ye' always seem t'be," John retorted, locating his mate with a glare for opening his big mouth in the first place, "Can't yer live up to the press' standards fer once and keep quiet?!"

"You don't even live up to those standards, Lennon," Ringo chimed in, "They called ye' fat and yer not-"

John bristled; the dreaded, verbalized 3-letter word coupled with the meager amounts he'd eaten, burning a hole within his stomach. It didn't even matter what the drummer had been about to say... He'd said it. He'd brought it up for all to hear... Fat. It was one thing to be aware of one's fatness. But when it was carried about in casual conversation like so, it just... it just... "I need the loo..." John mumbled, speaking up without warning.

Ringo looked stunned. "I jus'-"

"I'm fine!" John snapped, anger erupting once more without recognizable rhyme or reason, "I jus' need to pee. That all right with you?"

Ringo's mouth fell shut and he was suddenly unsure of how to even carry on the conversation. "Of course..." he relented, his voice full of uncertainty.

"Well jolly good then." And John stood and abandoned his audience, his mind continuing to swarm with all the negative thoughts in the world. His mates were even treating him differently... or so it seemed. They were right up there with the public... and the media. God, how he hated the media. As much as it hurt to liken his mates to such an unforgiving group, he just couldn't seem to shake the fact that there was no way around it.

The self-isolated Beatle located the bathroom after what seemed to be an impossible, irrational amount of time and entered it, shutting it and locking it soundly behind him. His mind continued to reel, cranking out this and that.

How could it possibly be so unpleasant to be in one's skin? The skin he was born in? How could he loathe everything that he stood for so much? It was an impossible, downright miserable experience being everything that he was... whatever that even was. Every which way he turned, whether he was in the public eye or merely in the presence of his band, he didn't feel good enough. He felt reduced; diminished as a human being. Wrongly targeted. He was no longer comfortable in the public eye he'd been eager to expose himself to ever since he'd been old enough to dream up such a lifestyle. And he couldn't help thinking that every ounce of that discomfort started from somewhere within him. He'd fallen out of love with himself. Honestly, he wasn't sure if there actually existed a time in which he actually did love himself.

Truthfully, it was hard to find security in one's self when every which way he turned, he'd felt as though someone was staring judgmentally. Hard. Ruthlessly. And to make matters worse, he was constantly parading around as a Beatle clone in a world crafted by a manager bent on ensuring that he and his band mates were all made to look identical. Brilliant. It was no wonder he stood out the most. No wonder his weight gain was so bloody obvious. Stick him in a photo next to the likes of McCartney and Harrison and watch the revelations soar. Things had never seemed so bad before he'd inadvertently let himself go. Not really anyway. Not in such a way that proved his misery blatantly obvious. He couldn't possibly be happy in the body of a fat pig and everyone knew it. So they judged. Passed assumptions. Assigned labels. Discreetly, blatantly; it was all the same. The people, the media, the public, his mates; they were all the same in antics, in mannerisms. They'd tilt their heads curiously and just sort of gaze in his direction through what they thought to be a subtle manner, though in truth, there was nothing subtle about it. And then when they were under the conviction that he wasn't the least bit tuned in, they'd speak amongst themselves. They'd laugh. They'd grin. They'd point. 'It's true,' he could almost hear from each their lips, 'He's really let himself go!' Hell, they were probably doing it right at that very moment. All of them. And why shouldn't they? He wasn't in their presence. Delusional, was he? He didn't think so. 'Let himself go?' the rhythm guitarist miserably thought as the imaginary conversation played and replayed over and over again in his head, 'He's lost himself completely.'

If he never saw another interviewer or reporter again, it would be too soon. The propaganda... true or not, was all but ceasing to make its mark; burning itself into his skin like a branding iron intent on forging and reshaping his character. Permanently. Sometimes he wished he lived in isolation. No longer would he have to live up to the standards of others. No longer would he be forced to face the ridicule and torment fame had to offer on a daily basis. He'd please himself and only himself. If only it were that simple. Was this the start of madness after all?

Feeling increasingly disoriented, the rhythm guitarist brought a hand to his chest; an uneven, rapid heartbeat having settled in since that dreaded moment in which Ringo had dared to open his mouth unleashing the terrible reminder of what he'd become. Apprehension, waiting on the wings to reclaim him, weaseled its way back into the picture and he found himself taking in a deep breath; desperate to calm his endlessly reeling mind. The apprehension began to progress even further, wrapping itself around his still pounding heart like something of a vice. His breathing quickened and all at once, a vague sensation of dizziness rushed in. Instinctively closing his eyes against it, John eased himself backwards, his back seeking out the support of the door he'd closed behind him. He laid his head back and practiced deep breaths. His heart rate seemed to accelerate even more though the dizziness subsided somewhat.

Why he'd chosen the bathroom to seek solitude, the guitarist would never know. But once the full realization of where he was dawned on him, he made a pronounced effort to approach the sink; frowning vaguely at how much energy it seemed to drain from him. Promptly, he turned on the cold water and watched for a while as cool liquid swished around the sink in a carefree fashion before spiraling down the drain. Still in a disoriented, apprehension- induced spell, he cupped his hands beneath the stream catching whatever he could before splashing it in his face. He needed to calm down, he'd long since realized. He needed to cool his head. This was the only way he knew how.

The neglected wounds of his injured hand had begun seeping a bit from a lack of care, enough to intermittently turn the water from its colorless form to a transparent reddish-pink. He wondered absently if he'd maybe need some antiseptic as Ringo had earlier suggested. Then he shrugged off the thought, his anxiety-ravaged brain dismissing it altogether. It wasn't that bad. He'd suffered far worse in his lifetime.

After what he thought to be long enough, Lennon turned off the tap and reached for a roll of paper towel which he proceeded to wrap around his knuckles. To his annoyance, they continued to bleed freely, dotting the paper immediately with rapidly growing pinpoints of transparent pink fluid. Bloody fucking hell... Just when he was sure his stupid hand was on the mend. Stupid mirror... Stupid media... stupid Ringo... Stupid everything! His heart hadn't slowed down in the least bit... and he began to wonder if maybe he was having a heart attack. He was even a bit faint. Lightheaded. Maybe it was his punishment for allowing everything to fall out of his control in the first place.

The brunt of the interviewer's words from yesterday filled his mind right then. 'How do you stay so thin and eat so much, George?' Or whatever the bloody fuck she'd said. All Lennon had truly heard was everything concealed between the lines. 'You're the big eater, George. Why is John so repulsively fat?' And from the rest of the media, he'd heard without it actually being said: 'Poor, poor fat Beatle, John... he must be so fat, it's absorbed his bloody feelings. Mock him till he very well can't even stand the sight of himself...'

Shaking now, he forced in a deep breath, realizing that he was beginning to struggle with that as well.

"You don't even live up to those standards... They called ye' fat and yer not..." The biased opinion of Ringo in addition to the general opinions of everyone supposedly in his corner were somehow just as if not even more hurtful than the straightforward insults. Why? Every single one of his mates hiding behind the words of comfort was deliberately set on lying to his face just for the sake of sparing his feelings... and in doing so; they were consciously overlooking the elephant that was clearly in the room. They felt sorry for him... For him. Everything he'd worked so hard at constructing, including the resilient spirit that guided him through just about anything, was collapsing around him at alarming rates.... and in all honesty, he couldn't seem to do anything to right any of it. He was falling apart as the world, judging and vindictive as it was, watched. No matter which way he looked at it, it just wasn't fair. Poor, poor fat Beatle. He just can't seem to gain control of who he is...

Something wet trickled down his cheek and shaking still, the distraught musician reached up a tentative hand to wipe it away. For a brief moment of subsequent confusion, he stared hard at the back of his hand as though trying to determine whether or not it was residual water from the tap or actual tears. As more wetness replaced it, it became suddenly obvious though he didn't wish to accept it, that he was crying. Great. Another side of him, he wasn't entirely familiar with. He was changing all the time, wasn't he? And never was it actually for the better. He could hardly look at himself any longer. Even now with a mirror directly in front of him at his disposal, the thought completely repelled him. He couldn't do it. Just couldn't do it.

Completely disenchanted and growing more so by the second, John turned his head away entirely, his still shaking body rendering the should-be-simple action nearly impossible. The tremors continued to spread, invading his arms and extending down the length of his legs. He literally had to grip the edge of the sink to keep from dropping as a result. His chest ached. His lungs burned. He felt sick. He felt disgusting. He felt- Mouth suddenly full, he managed to bring his head back over the sink just in time to project its contents into it. Painfully and violently, the unforeseen act repeated itself with little warning, everything inside of him appearing before his very eyes. Stunned and still unable to comprehend what had just taken place, he staggered back a few feet only to rush forward once more as he vomited yet again. And again after that. This bout was even less forgiving as it refused to let up even as there was nothing left to bring up, there having been nothing much inside him to begin with. It fucking hurt; his ribcage, his head, everything. With each heave, he felt he was losing even more of his ability to breathe. And it grew worse all the time. As his barely functioning mind struggled to conquer this newly frightening development, the only coherent thought he was capable of producing was 'make it stop!'

It wasn't until the entire room began to grey and spin about him, that something inside of him abruptly dislodged and he found himself on his knees emitting forth deep, pathetic, wailing sobs. The dry heaves spontaneously subsided as he officially gave in to the sorrowful song of his soul and cried; his chest aching profusely with the effort. He cried until he couldn't see straight. He cried until there wasn't a tear left to spill. He cried himself into a lull. Deep, silent, and emotionless.

Seconds turned to minutes turned to half an hour... Then... in a literal blink of an eye, reality rushed in once more like a tidal wave driving away the aberrant stillness of time; making it as though it had never happened. Void of sensation, robbed of much memory, and filled to the very brim with a heavy lethargy clouding what remained of his current mentality, the fragile rhythm guitarist forced his painfully drained body to its feet. Gathering whatever amount of strength remained inside him, he managed to clean up his mess before drawing a bath finding himself in need of a full cleansing from head to toe. Unaware that he'd actually been victim to something of a nervous breakdown, he drove himself in the only direction he could go from there on. Forward.

As he absently stripped down and eased himself into the bathtub full of steaming hot water, he shut down once more as sleep crept in to claim his body and reboot his mind. In another blink of the eye, he knew no more.