Categories > Celebrities > Guns n' Roses > First Date
A very shaken Izzy lies on the bed, skin more deathly pale than normal. Eyes wide and watery with tears are hidden behind the scraggly fringe of hair. Confident Izzy seems to have died, withered away and replaced by the terrified one who'd cling to my side every time the door creaked.
And it's scaring me.
Whatever it is, whatever's shaken him, he's unwilling to talk about it. Instead, I sit here on the bed, his head in my lap, fingers gently stroking through his silky hair as I try to coax from him what he's seen.
But he's not telling and it's beginning to annoy me. I don't want to be annoyed, really I don't, because God only knows he's been through enough shit for this lifetime. But if I don't know then I can't help and I think that's what's bothering me. He won't leave the room, and hasn't for several days now. His guitar lies in a corner, gathering dust. Even I'm not allowed to go downstairs and play it. Fine, I can go and do my job but come the stroke of closing time and I have to come back to the room, no questions asked.
"Izz." I whisper, gently lifting the hair from his eyes.
The kohl black eyes snap shut as if he's been blinded, incoherent murmurings falling from his lips.
"Izz." I quietly repeat, trying to get some, /any/, any sense from him.
Frantic head shaking follows, strands of hair whipping back and forth. The silent terror swoops through me once more and I find myself slithering back across the bed, curling into a corner as Izzy hugs himself tight. Like a child, he rocks, trying to comfort himself, trying to chase away whatever's burned itself into his mind this time. Timidly, I reach out a hand and touch his shoulder. A terrified howl rips through the room and Izzy flinches away so hard that he falls from the bed. Like a shot, I'm beside him, staring at him, my own eyes probably mirroring the terror that floods his.
"Please." he whimpers. "Slash. Please."
Confused, I screw up my face and ask, "What? Izz, talk to me."
His skinny arms lock around his skinny legs and he begins to rock again, looking at me with wide, scared eyes. He bites at his lips, specks of blood beginning to bubble to the surface. Quietly he hums as he rocks, back and forth, back and forth. The tune he hums sounds familiar, awfully familiar.
Rock a bye baby on the tree top,
When the wind blows the cradle will rock,
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,
And down will come baby, cradle and all.
I stare at him with wide eyes, my heart in my throat. Something has utterly fucked with his head. Silently, he's crying out for attention, screaming internally for someone to care. Swallowing hard, I wrap my arms around and pull him into my lap. Izzy shivers and shakes for a moment, pulling away before finally beginning to relax.
Slowly I run my hands up and down his back, hoping to soothe him as I quietly ask, "What's wrong?"
Silently he sits there in my arms, clinging to me and rocking, his voice lost somewhere deep inside of him. The beautiful voice that sings sad songs about a love that was lost. He isn't singing about me so who is he singing about?
My heart pounds as the answer pounds at my brain. Axl. He's singing those songs to the person he last saw in an ambulance. A person now a long way from us.
I bite my lip, working up the courage until the question I finally want to ask pops out, "Axl?"
Izzy stills in my arms. The only thing that tells me he's still alive is the feeling of his breath against my throat. He doesn't say anything, just sits, completely mute.
"Where is he?" I dare to ask, not wanting to know the answer.
Silence hangs around us like a blanket. I can hear my heart pounding. "Izzy speak to me."
This time he moves, shaking his head and clinging closer. Pulling him away from me, I grip his narrow shoulders and sternly look into his eyes.
"What's Axl done?" I quietly demand.
Izzy's dark eyes begin to fill with tears, sparkling softly in the candlelight. I can feel my mouth dry out, my heart freezing with fear.
"Izzy." I whisper once more, hoping for a reaction.
The reaction I get is not the one I was expecting. My boyfriend begins to scream with a voice I've never heard before. A high pitched wail that goes on and on. My eyes squeeze shut and I feel myself wince as the tiny body in my arms stiffens, letting go of everything that's inside.
"Izzy!" I yell over the noise and, as quickly as it began, it ends.
He looks at me, shaking and whimpering, his face distorted with fear. That voice, the one that he screamed with, wasn't of this world. It was of another place, a place filled with pain and anguish and despair. A place of never-ending torture. The place where Izzy's been living for God knows how many years now.
Licking my lips, I ask again, "Where's Axl?"
And suddenly my question of where the strange voice came from is answered as Izzy whispers, "In Hell."
And it's scaring me.
Whatever it is, whatever's shaken him, he's unwilling to talk about it. Instead, I sit here on the bed, his head in my lap, fingers gently stroking through his silky hair as I try to coax from him what he's seen.
But he's not telling and it's beginning to annoy me. I don't want to be annoyed, really I don't, because God only knows he's been through enough shit for this lifetime. But if I don't know then I can't help and I think that's what's bothering me. He won't leave the room, and hasn't for several days now. His guitar lies in a corner, gathering dust. Even I'm not allowed to go downstairs and play it. Fine, I can go and do my job but come the stroke of closing time and I have to come back to the room, no questions asked.
"Izz." I whisper, gently lifting the hair from his eyes.
The kohl black eyes snap shut as if he's been blinded, incoherent murmurings falling from his lips.
"Izz." I quietly repeat, trying to get some, /any/, any sense from him.
Frantic head shaking follows, strands of hair whipping back and forth. The silent terror swoops through me once more and I find myself slithering back across the bed, curling into a corner as Izzy hugs himself tight. Like a child, he rocks, trying to comfort himself, trying to chase away whatever's burned itself into his mind this time. Timidly, I reach out a hand and touch his shoulder. A terrified howl rips through the room and Izzy flinches away so hard that he falls from the bed. Like a shot, I'm beside him, staring at him, my own eyes probably mirroring the terror that floods his.
"Please." he whimpers. "Slash. Please."
Confused, I screw up my face and ask, "What? Izz, talk to me."
His skinny arms lock around his skinny legs and he begins to rock again, looking at me with wide, scared eyes. He bites at his lips, specks of blood beginning to bubble to the surface. Quietly he hums as he rocks, back and forth, back and forth. The tune he hums sounds familiar, awfully familiar.
Rock a bye baby on the tree top,
When the wind blows the cradle will rock,
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,
And down will come baby, cradle and all.
I stare at him with wide eyes, my heart in my throat. Something has utterly fucked with his head. Silently, he's crying out for attention, screaming internally for someone to care. Swallowing hard, I wrap my arms around and pull him into my lap. Izzy shivers and shakes for a moment, pulling away before finally beginning to relax.
Slowly I run my hands up and down his back, hoping to soothe him as I quietly ask, "What's wrong?"
Silently he sits there in my arms, clinging to me and rocking, his voice lost somewhere deep inside of him. The beautiful voice that sings sad songs about a love that was lost. He isn't singing about me so who is he singing about?
My heart pounds as the answer pounds at my brain. Axl. He's singing those songs to the person he last saw in an ambulance. A person now a long way from us.
I bite my lip, working up the courage until the question I finally want to ask pops out, "Axl?"
Izzy stills in my arms. The only thing that tells me he's still alive is the feeling of his breath against my throat. He doesn't say anything, just sits, completely mute.
"Where is he?" I dare to ask, not wanting to know the answer.
Silence hangs around us like a blanket. I can hear my heart pounding. "Izzy speak to me."
This time he moves, shaking his head and clinging closer. Pulling him away from me, I grip his narrow shoulders and sternly look into his eyes.
"What's Axl done?" I quietly demand.
Izzy's dark eyes begin to fill with tears, sparkling softly in the candlelight. I can feel my mouth dry out, my heart freezing with fear.
"Izzy." I whisper once more, hoping for a reaction.
The reaction I get is not the one I was expecting. My boyfriend begins to scream with a voice I've never heard before. A high pitched wail that goes on and on. My eyes squeeze shut and I feel myself wince as the tiny body in my arms stiffens, letting go of everything that's inside.
"Izzy!" I yell over the noise and, as quickly as it began, it ends.
He looks at me, shaking and whimpering, his face distorted with fear. That voice, the one that he screamed with, wasn't of this world. It was of another place, a place filled with pain and anguish and despair. A place of never-ending torture. The place where Izzy's been living for God knows how many years now.
Licking my lips, I ask again, "Where's Axl?"
And suddenly my question of where the strange voice came from is answered as Izzy whispers, "In Hell."
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