Categories > Celebrities > Guns n' Roses > Faithfully I'm Still Yours
Curfew.
It was the only thought running through sixteen-year-old Bill's head as he floored the gas pedal of his stepfather's '59 Jalopy. On weekdays, his curfew was ten-thirty. On weekends, it was one hour later. Bill supposed it wasn't really his fault he was late: traffic on I-65 had been shitty, and it had taken him forever to get off the Interstate and onto this back road alongside the Wabash. Bill was pushing eighty, the car was creaking and groaning as dirt and gravel sprayed up under the tires, and yet the clock had already hit eleven twenty-five. And Bill still had about ten miles to go.
He thought about Jeff's party. He'd intended to leave at ten-forty, but they'd gotten into a intense jamming session, then his girlfriend, Gina, had cornered him in the bathroom, and given him a blowjob--his first ever. That, added to the fact that he, Jeff, and Chris had been forced to help out a drunken Michelle as she emptied the contents of her stomach all over Jeff's backyard, had caused him to leave at eleven-ten P.M.
Bill crashed over a large bump in the road and heard the engine moan as if in pain. Stephen had always warned him against damaging his car--apparently it was a valuble antique.
Not like Bill gave a shit. He was already going to be beaten severly when he got home for being late and reeking of alcohol that he'd never touchd. He saw the digital green numbers change from 11:29 to 11:30 and sighed softly. He eased up on the accelerator: no point in speeding when he would never make it in a million years. Bill cranked up the volume on the radio and spent the next seven miles rocking out to Aerosmith's "Back in the Saddle" and KISS's "Detroit Rock City".
When the red-haired teenager arrived home, he turned off the headlights before he pulled into the driveway and yanked the key out of the ignition as the engine, overworked and run-down, sputtered and died. He got out of the rusty Jalopy and walked inside as quietly as he could, supposing it was too much to ask that the Reverend and Sharon already be asleep.
As Bill pased through the living room, his stepfather's voice stopped him cold.
"Willliam Bruce Bailey," he growled, "come here."
Slowly, bracing himself for the pain, Bill went to the sofa on which Stephen sat.
"You're late, " said the Reverend. "By fifteen minutes." His fist came flying out and caught Bill on the jaw. He winced but knew enough not to cry out: make noise and it lasts way longer.
Another punch, harder than the first, to the nose. As warm blood flowed out of his nostrils and pooled onto his upper lip, Bill felt the tears start. He shut his eyes as Stephen unhooked his belt and began whipping him, leather first, then buckle.
"Stephen."
Startled, Stephen dropped the belt. Sharon was standing in the doorway, her silhouette oddly forbiddding. Relief flooded Bill's battered body at the sight of his mother and he stepped away from his stepfather.
"Stephen, stop. Just...give him a break. Maybe he has a good excuse for being late."
"Don't you tell me when to beat my st--my son!" roared the Reverend, his face blazing red. He jumped up from his chair and gripped Sharon around the neck with his beefy fingers.
Bill couldn't stand this for one more second. He pinched his bleeding nose between his fingers and ran out into the still of the night, allowing the cool April air to soothe the wounds that he himself could not heal.
~~~
Sunlight streamed throgh the hotel window, piercing against Axl's eyelids. The bright light woke him suddenly from this latest nightmare and he shot straight up in bed. Immediately he was consumed by a wave of nausea. Head pounding, Axl struggled out from under the sheets and stumbled into the bathroom. He doubled over the toilet, clutching his cramping stomach as he vomited.
Hangovers are the shit, he thought, angry at himself for having drank too much. He decided to blame Slash for this, since the guitarist had been with him most of the night, and squeezed his eyes shut against a wave of pain.
Whne he was able to sit up straight again, Axl realized that Laurie had joined him sometime during his torture and was pressing one hand against his forehead, the other holding his hair back from his face. She stared at him with concern in her eyes and murmured, "You okay?"
"Yeah," Axl replied, "I'm fine."
Laurie tucked her arm under Axl's and gently helped him to his feet.
"C'mon," she coaxed him. "Let's go lie down, huh?" She led him into the hotel room again and helped him lie down on one of the beds--Axl was too disoriented to figure out which. She pulled the covers over him and gently smoothed his hair back from his face.
"I'll be in the kitchen, okay? You need me, ring the front desk. I'll be back before noon to help you pack."
Axl nodded and shut his eyes. "Laur...I had a dream..."
But she didn't answer him, and when he opened his eyes he was surprised to find she'd already gone.
It was the only thought running through sixteen-year-old Bill's head as he floored the gas pedal of his stepfather's '59 Jalopy. On weekdays, his curfew was ten-thirty. On weekends, it was one hour later. Bill supposed it wasn't really his fault he was late: traffic on I-65 had been shitty, and it had taken him forever to get off the Interstate and onto this back road alongside the Wabash. Bill was pushing eighty, the car was creaking and groaning as dirt and gravel sprayed up under the tires, and yet the clock had already hit eleven twenty-five. And Bill still had about ten miles to go.
He thought about Jeff's party. He'd intended to leave at ten-forty, but they'd gotten into a intense jamming session, then his girlfriend, Gina, had cornered him in the bathroom, and given him a blowjob--his first ever. That, added to the fact that he, Jeff, and Chris had been forced to help out a drunken Michelle as she emptied the contents of her stomach all over Jeff's backyard, had caused him to leave at eleven-ten P.M.
Bill crashed over a large bump in the road and heard the engine moan as if in pain. Stephen had always warned him against damaging his car--apparently it was a valuble antique.
Not like Bill gave a shit. He was already going to be beaten severly when he got home for being late and reeking of alcohol that he'd never touchd. He saw the digital green numbers change from 11:29 to 11:30 and sighed softly. He eased up on the accelerator: no point in speeding when he would never make it in a million years. Bill cranked up the volume on the radio and spent the next seven miles rocking out to Aerosmith's "Back in the Saddle" and KISS's "Detroit Rock City".
When the red-haired teenager arrived home, he turned off the headlights before he pulled into the driveway and yanked the key out of the ignition as the engine, overworked and run-down, sputtered and died. He got out of the rusty Jalopy and walked inside as quietly as he could, supposing it was too much to ask that the Reverend and Sharon already be asleep.
As Bill pased through the living room, his stepfather's voice stopped him cold.
"Willliam Bruce Bailey," he growled, "come here."
Slowly, bracing himself for the pain, Bill went to the sofa on which Stephen sat.
"You're late, " said the Reverend. "By fifteen minutes." His fist came flying out and caught Bill on the jaw. He winced but knew enough not to cry out: make noise and it lasts way longer.
Another punch, harder than the first, to the nose. As warm blood flowed out of his nostrils and pooled onto his upper lip, Bill felt the tears start. He shut his eyes as Stephen unhooked his belt and began whipping him, leather first, then buckle.
"Stephen."
Startled, Stephen dropped the belt. Sharon was standing in the doorway, her silhouette oddly forbiddding. Relief flooded Bill's battered body at the sight of his mother and he stepped away from his stepfather.
"Stephen, stop. Just...give him a break. Maybe he has a good excuse for being late."
"Don't you tell me when to beat my st--my son!" roared the Reverend, his face blazing red. He jumped up from his chair and gripped Sharon around the neck with his beefy fingers.
Bill couldn't stand this for one more second. He pinched his bleeding nose between his fingers and ran out into the still of the night, allowing the cool April air to soothe the wounds that he himself could not heal.
~~~
Sunlight streamed throgh the hotel window, piercing against Axl's eyelids. The bright light woke him suddenly from this latest nightmare and he shot straight up in bed. Immediately he was consumed by a wave of nausea. Head pounding, Axl struggled out from under the sheets and stumbled into the bathroom. He doubled over the toilet, clutching his cramping stomach as he vomited.
Hangovers are the shit, he thought, angry at himself for having drank too much. He decided to blame Slash for this, since the guitarist had been with him most of the night, and squeezed his eyes shut against a wave of pain.
Whne he was able to sit up straight again, Axl realized that Laurie had joined him sometime during his torture and was pressing one hand against his forehead, the other holding his hair back from his face. She stared at him with concern in her eyes and murmured, "You okay?"
"Yeah," Axl replied, "I'm fine."
Laurie tucked her arm under Axl's and gently helped him to his feet.
"C'mon," she coaxed him. "Let's go lie down, huh?" She led him into the hotel room again and helped him lie down on one of the beds--Axl was too disoriented to figure out which. She pulled the covers over him and gently smoothed his hair back from his face.
"I'll be in the kitchen, okay? You need me, ring the front desk. I'll be back before noon to help you pack."
Axl nodded and shut his eyes. "Laur...I had a dream..."
But she didn't answer him, and when he opened his eyes he was surprised to find she'd already gone.
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