*[22nd of November, 1963]

You weren’t like the other girls. You enjoyed old music on cylinder music boxes. Other girls listened to people like the Beatles, and other rock n roll type music. You never understood the hype.

Your alarm clock went off, signaling it’s time to get ready for school. You sigh and get up from your bed. After you get dressed, your mother calls out your name.

“Guest!!”

You rolled your eyes. You skipped downstairs, running your hand along the staircase railing. Your mum was sitting at the kitchen table smoking a cigarette. You make a face. She was playing modern pop music on the radio. Sometimes you wondered if she did it just to make you mad.

She looked tired, more so than normal. She was wearing a brand new mink fur coat. Huh. That’s new..

But that didn’t make sense! You were behind on rent.. and utilities! What was she doing spending her money on luxuries?!

You grab your bag, about to walk to your high school.

“I’m going to school, bye mum-“

She stood up dramatically from the kitchen table. Her wine glass knocked over, and so did her other liquors.

“Like hell you are!”

Your mum shouts as she approaches you.

“You think you’re sooo great! Costing me money…draining my finances..eating food..growing out of clothes..turning the volume all the way up as you play those retro phonograph cylinders.. Eighteen long years! Well guess what? You’re eighteen now. And that means..that means..”

you were taken by shock. Your school bag hanging off your shoulder. It was true. Your eighteenth birthday was just a few weeks ago..Not that she’d done anything. You’d thought she’d forgotten. Evidently not.

Your mum sighed, pouring another glass of rose.

“He’ll be here any minute.”

you look at her with a confused expression plastered on your face.

“Be here? Who?”

“Your new owner.”

Your mum answers with a scowl. You were about to speak when there was a sudden knock at the door. You were sweating. You look to your mum.

“Who the hell is that?”

Your mum sighed.

“Beatle Paul McCartney. I sold you to Paul McCartney. Paul McCartney of the Beatles.”

..WHAT?! The door swung open, a cheeky cunt on the other side.

“W-what?! Mum, you can’t be serious!”

Her gaze was as cold as it was when she first laid her eyes on you.

“But I am.”

your shaky gaze moved to the tall, handsome, sickly Englishman in the doorway. The man, who your mother said was Paul, smiled.

“Ello, luv! Looks like you’re my new property, by gum!”

He spoke in a strong Liverpool accent which made him sound kinda funny. You were at a loss for words.

“Mum!”

*your mum rolls her eyes and ignores you. You turn to look at the beatle boy, gawking. You weren’t like most girls. You did not care about pop groups, and did not care to keep track of them. You didn’t listen to “Monkees” or “Beach Boys” or “Rolling Stones” or any English or otherwise rock pop group. You were born in the wrong generation. You listened to real music like Henry Hall, Russ Morgan, and the Andrew’s Sisters. You didn’t even know the difference!

Well I'm tired of spending all my money on you for eightteen years! So you better be useful now!

He then grabbed your arm and brought u to his car.*