Categories > Celebrities > Guns n' Roses > First Date
The second the ambulance has screamed away, I race back into the house. In a frenzy, I grab everything I can; clothes, instruments, food. All of it is thrown into the battered rust bucket that we call a car. Axl may be injured but, knowing him, it won't be for long.
From raping us.
“Slash!” I yell as I collect armfuls of stuff. “Slash! I know you're not feeling great but please get up and get dressed!”
Above me, I hear shuffling and a tired voice replies with, “Why?”
“We're leaving!”
I know this is Slash's mother's house, I know he wants to stay here and mourn. But we have to move. It's essential that we do. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that it's a matter of life or death.
Moving back and forth between the house and the car, I hurriedly ferry more stuff. Already the car rides low on its springs. Now it rides even lower it's so piled high with our belongings. Stopping beside a dresser, my eyes look over the photographs. There's not many, just a few treasured mementoes that Slash's mom left behind. Reaching out, I pick up a heavy, metal frame and look at the photo trapped behind the glass. It's a happy image; a younger Slash and his mom, hugging on the porch as rain falls in the background. Slash's normally curly hair hangs limp and soggy around his shoulders. Both are laughing as they hang onto each other. I have no idea why he's wet or why they're laughing. With a small smile, I push the photo into my knapsack; it'll be something to give him when he's feeling down, a reminder of everything we've left behind.
“Slash!” I once again yell up the stairs.
From above me comes the slow sound of someone moving. Sluggish footsteps creak over the ceiling, only stopping once they get to the stairs. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, I watch as Slash supports himself, leaning against the wall as he slowly descends.
Please don't slip.
One foot after the other, he moves like a snail, getting closer and closer. His hair hides his eyes, baggy sweatpants and t-shirt hiding the marks that Axl left behind. The marks will fade. But, like myself, the memories won't. Slash will be forever tainted by what Axl did to him. I feel sick as the image plays again in my mind. The image of a completely unaware Slash being violated by the demon that I shouldn't have let back into the house. The demon that will hopefully now die a slow and painful death.
In your dreams, Isbell. He'll be back before you know it.
I cringe at the thought, snarling quietly to myself.
“What?” Slash's voice quietly asks.
My eyes focus and I see a mass of hair standing in front of me. It moves slowly as the person behind it breathes.
“Nothing,” I quietly reply. “Let's go.”
Letting my head drop to my chest, I turn and walk to the door. Looking over my shoulder, I notice Slash, head hanging, still standing at the bottom of the stairs. His sneakered feet shuffle back and forth as he studies the floor.
“What?” I quietly ask, hand on the doorknob.
“Will...” he begins, never looking up. “Will we... you know... ever be coming back?”
I sigh and drop my hand back to my side. “I don't know. I really don't know,” I lie. “Why?”
I watch him intently, wondering if he'll brush that mane of hair from his eyes.
“It's just...” He talks in slow, uncertain sentences, now a shadowy figure of what he used to be. “This is my mom's house... With my mom's stuff...”
“I know,” I quietly reply. “And I'm sorry. But we gotta get outta here Slash. Gotta get out before he comes back.”
Stepping away from the door, I walk up to him and take his hand. Sadly I tug on it, urging him forward.
“Come on. We're going somewhere better. Much better.”
The hair moves up and down. “Where?”
I shrug as I slowly edge him towards the door, trying to be as compassionate and understanding as I can. “I dunno. Where do you wanna go?”
The tired body shrugs, the dark hair swinging back and forth. “Dunno.”
“Okay,” I quietly say, sadness filling my voice. “We'll see how far the car gets us.”
It breaks my heart to do this. Hurts me to drag him away from his family home. Take him from the place that holds so many happy, childhood memories. And a few demonic ones as well.
A low sob shatters my heart as the door clicks shut behind us. Standing on the porch, I turn to see Slash looking at the house. The paint may be peeling and the windows could probably do with a little wood treatment, but this is the only safe place he's ever known. Trying to hold back my own sobs, I watch as he silently says goodbye, tears wetting his face.
He chokes once more before turning back to me, face again disappearing beneath the mourning veil of hair. Taking his hand, I slowly lead him to the car, gently seating him in the passenger seat.
As we pull away, I let out a sob as I look at Slash. He has a hand pressed against the window and in the reflection of the glass, I can see the tears that are still running freely down his cheeks.
From raping us.
“Slash!” I yell as I collect armfuls of stuff. “Slash! I know you're not feeling great but please get up and get dressed!”
Above me, I hear shuffling and a tired voice replies with, “Why?”
“We're leaving!”
I know this is Slash's mother's house, I know he wants to stay here and mourn. But we have to move. It's essential that we do. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that it's a matter of life or death.
Moving back and forth between the house and the car, I hurriedly ferry more stuff. Already the car rides low on its springs. Now it rides even lower it's so piled high with our belongings. Stopping beside a dresser, my eyes look over the photographs. There's not many, just a few treasured mementoes that Slash's mom left behind. Reaching out, I pick up a heavy, metal frame and look at the photo trapped behind the glass. It's a happy image; a younger Slash and his mom, hugging on the porch as rain falls in the background. Slash's normally curly hair hangs limp and soggy around his shoulders. Both are laughing as they hang onto each other. I have no idea why he's wet or why they're laughing. With a small smile, I push the photo into my knapsack; it'll be something to give him when he's feeling down, a reminder of everything we've left behind.
“Slash!” I once again yell up the stairs.
From above me comes the slow sound of someone moving. Sluggish footsteps creak over the ceiling, only stopping once they get to the stairs. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, I watch as Slash supports himself, leaning against the wall as he slowly descends.
Please don't slip.
One foot after the other, he moves like a snail, getting closer and closer. His hair hides his eyes, baggy sweatpants and t-shirt hiding the marks that Axl left behind. The marks will fade. But, like myself, the memories won't. Slash will be forever tainted by what Axl did to him. I feel sick as the image plays again in my mind. The image of a completely unaware Slash being violated by the demon that I shouldn't have let back into the house. The demon that will hopefully now die a slow and painful death.
In your dreams, Isbell. He'll be back before you know it.
I cringe at the thought, snarling quietly to myself.
“What?” Slash's voice quietly asks.
My eyes focus and I see a mass of hair standing in front of me. It moves slowly as the person behind it breathes.
“Nothing,” I quietly reply. “Let's go.”
Letting my head drop to my chest, I turn and walk to the door. Looking over my shoulder, I notice Slash, head hanging, still standing at the bottom of the stairs. His sneakered feet shuffle back and forth as he studies the floor.
“What?” I quietly ask, hand on the doorknob.
“Will...” he begins, never looking up. “Will we... you know... ever be coming back?”
I sigh and drop my hand back to my side. “I don't know. I really don't know,” I lie. “Why?”
I watch him intently, wondering if he'll brush that mane of hair from his eyes.
“It's just...” He talks in slow, uncertain sentences, now a shadowy figure of what he used to be. “This is my mom's house... With my mom's stuff...”
“I know,” I quietly reply. “And I'm sorry. But we gotta get outta here Slash. Gotta get out before he comes back.”
Stepping away from the door, I walk up to him and take his hand. Sadly I tug on it, urging him forward.
“Come on. We're going somewhere better. Much better.”
The hair moves up and down. “Where?”
I shrug as I slowly edge him towards the door, trying to be as compassionate and understanding as I can. “I dunno. Where do you wanna go?”
The tired body shrugs, the dark hair swinging back and forth. “Dunno.”
“Okay,” I quietly say, sadness filling my voice. “We'll see how far the car gets us.”
It breaks my heart to do this. Hurts me to drag him away from his family home. Take him from the place that holds so many happy, childhood memories. And a few demonic ones as well.
A low sob shatters my heart as the door clicks shut behind us. Standing on the porch, I turn to see Slash looking at the house. The paint may be peeling and the windows could probably do with a little wood treatment, but this is the only safe place he's ever known. Trying to hold back my own sobs, I watch as he silently says goodbye, tears wetting his face.
He chokes once more before turning back to me, face again disappearing beneath the mourning veil of hair. Taking his hand, I slowly lead him to the car, gently seating him in the passenger seat.
As we pull away, I let out a sob as I look at Slash. He has a hand pressed against the window and in the reflection of the glass, I can see the tears that are still running freely down his cheeks.
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