Categories > Celebrities > Guns n' Roses
If I apologized, it wouldn’t make it all unhappen.
Slash was on his bed, a near-empty bottle of Jack in his hand, his top hat long-since discarded. It was one of those nights. They didn’t happen often, but when they did, they put him through Hell.
It started off innocently enough. The frizzy-haired man would be in his room, listening to old Guns n’ Roses tapes. A memory would surface, usually light-hearted and happy. He would realize how much he missed the old days, so Slash would open up a bottle of Jack Daniels and begin the long night he had ahead of him. As he drank and as the tapes played on, more memories would surface. He would pull out his old photo albums and peruse the pages. The memories would grow more intimate as the night wore on.
We’re on first, unrehearsed.
Soft, pale skin, glowing in the moonlight. Fiery red hair spilling out on the pillow. And those gorgeous blue eyes, dancing with mischief and uncertainty.
“Go slow,” he’d whispered.
“I always did,” Slash murmurs to the empty room.
Tears are starting to fall from his eyes. He wipes them away angrily, taking a long pull from the bottle. The memories twist and contort, and his beautiful redhead becomes something wholly unfamiliar.
If I apologized, it wouldn’t mean I was forgiven.
He remembers the night he left. It’s as vivid as if he were physically reliving it. All the anger. The rage. He had had enough. He wasn’t putting up with it anymore.
And so he left.
Contrary to his beliefs at the time, his life had continued on. He’d formed another band. He’d married. He’d had two little boys. On the outside, it looked as if Slash had things together. It was as if he lived in a dream.
On the inside, however, he was in pieces.
If I apologized, I don’t suppose you’d even notice.
Slash had once gone to Axl’s house. He had had every intention of apologizing to the singer. He had wanted to mend the proverbial bridge. And of course, this had been done under the influence of alcohol.
It always seemed that the courage to apologize came hand-in-hand with his good friend Jack.
Slash glares at the now empty bottle. “Friend,” he scoffs just before chunking the bottle at the opposite wall.
I’d whisper it inside.
He sinks down onto the bed, reduced to an angry, hurt, confused mess. As he drifts off to sleep, he whispers the two words he knows he’d never be able to tell the other man face-to-face.
“I’m sorry.”
Slash was on his bed, a near-empty bottle of Jack in his hand, his top hat long-since discarded. It was one of those nights. They didn’t happen often, but when they did, they put him through Hell.
It started off innocently enough. The frizzy-haired man would be in his room, listening to old Guns n’ Roses tapes. A memory would surface, usually light-hearted and happy. He would realize how much he missed the old days, so Slash would open up a bottle of Jack Daniels and begin the long night he had ahead of him. As he drank and as the tapes played on, more memories would surface. He would pull out his old photo albums and peruse the pages. The memories would grow more intimate as the night wore on.
We’re on first, unrehearsed.
Soft, pale skin, glowing in the moonlight. Fiery red hair spilling out on the pillow. And those gorgeous blue eyes, dancing with mischief and uncertainty.
“Go slow,” he’d whispered.
“I always did,” Slash murmurs to the empty room.
Tears are starting to fall from his eyes. He wipes them away angrily, taking a long pull from the bottle. The memories twist and contort, and his beautiful redhead becomes something wholly unfamiliar.
If I apologized, it wouldn’t mean I was forgiven.
He remembers the night he left. It’s as vivid as if he were physically reliving it. All the anger. The rage. He had had enough. He wasn’t putting up with it anymore.
And so he left.
Contrary to his beliefs at the time, his life had continued on. He’d formed another band. He’d married. He’d had two little boys. On the outside, it looked as if Slash had things together. It was as if he lived in a dream.
On the inside, however, he was in pieces.
If I apologized, I don’t suppose you’d even notice.
Slash had once gone to Axl’s house. He had had every intention of apologizing to the singer. He had wanted to mend the proverbial bridge. And of course, this had been done under the influence of alcohol.
It always seemed that the courage to apologize came hand-in-hand with his good friend Jack.
Slash glares at the now empty bottle. “Friend,” he scoffs just before chunking the bottle at the opposite wall.
I’d whisper it inside.
He sinks down onto the bed, reduced to an angry, hurt, confused mess. As he drifts off to sleep, he whispers the two words he knows he’d never be able to tell the other man face-to-face.
“I’m sorry.”
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