Categories > Celebrities > Guns n' Roses > Saving Me

Chapter 6: Slash

by therealgloria 0 reviews

How Sweet Child O' Mine came to be, and why Slash hates to play it.

Category: Guns n' Roses - Rating: PG - Genres:  - Published: 2013-11-10 - 1039 words - Complete

Blue eyes. Red lips. White skin. Purple bruise.
I put my head between my knees, trying desperately to get her face out of my mind. It was all I had been able to think about all week, and now this morning. I flopped back on the bed, sighing, wishing my head wasn't pounding so fucking badly. What was I gonna do? I rubbed my temples. I wasn't sure what had been in all the pot I smoked after the concert, but it was hitting me pretty hard this morning. I was almost sure it had been laced with something rougher. I reached behind me and grabbed my acoustic off the floor, needing to get my mind off of Axl's girl.
Axl's girl. I shook my head, mindlessly strumming an E minor. I don't care how much she loved him; nothing good could come of that. Every time I got near her, all I could think about was protection. I wanted to protect her from him so badly. I knew now what went on at Axl's place, and I didn't like it at all. I closed my eyes, remembering what had happened at that damned hotel. To be so close to her was like a drug. But I still felt so far away, so shut out. I could see the pain in those blue eyes. But I was closed off from it, unable to do anything to stop it. It had been a mistake to touch her, but it was nothing compared to what I had wanted to do. I rubbed my face with my hands, taking a deep breath. I would just have to try. I would have to look after her from now on. Who else was going to? With that in mind, I turned my full attention to the strings under my fingers. After fooling around for a about a fifteen minutes, I was pretty sure I had something. Fingering through it a couple more times, I grabbed my electric and plugged in, after tossing a suspicious brown paper bag off the amp. It thunked against the floor, and I glanced over my shoulder at it. Must be Izzy's. Plugged in, I liked the riff a little less, but I was still sure that me and the boys could turn it into something worthwhile. Ripping off the top of Izzy’s questionable bag and finding a pencil stub, I scribbled down the notes. I heard the door slam downstairs, but kept playing, filling in a couple more notes.
"Hey, Slash!" It was Axl's voice, coming from downstairs. I shoved down my inner annoyance and set down the Les Paul, taking the steps two at a time to the living room. Swinging around the doorway, I saw him sitting in an armchair, a folded piece of paper in his hands.
“What’s up?” I threw myself down on the sofa next to him. He twirled the little packet between his fingers, unfolding what looked to be an old envelope.
“Something I’ve been writing, poetry, you know,” he told me. “Tell me what you think.”
I took the paper curiously, skimming the scratched lines.

She's got a smile that it seems to me
Reminds me of childhood memories,
Where everything
Was as fresh as the bright blue sky.
Now and then when I see her face
She takes me away to that special place,
And if I stared too long
I'd probably break down and cry.
She's got eyes of the bluest skies
As if they thought of rain
I hate to look into those eyes
And see an ounce of pain.

I felt my stomach sinking, but I hid it, handing him the paper back and faking a grin.
“I like it. That’s great man, really nice.” He stuffed the envelope back into his pocket, looking pleased, but all I felt was dread. There was only one woman that could be about.
“Let’s hear what you were playing upstairs.” It was an order, not a request. Not wanted to set him off, I got up slowly and took the stairs again, dragging my feet. Grabbing the guitar off the bed, I hope fervently that he wasn’t going to ask me what I expected he would.
Returning to the couch, I played the riff I had come up with before he had gotten home. Raising his voice, he started weaving the poetry into the notes. It was pretty, no doubt about it, but it made me feel like a cheat, playing for those hypocritical words. Fighting the wave of anger that was slowly rising up in me, I glowered at the strings, mechanically moving my fingers along the guitar. It seemed like centuries before Axl had uttered the last word and I could mercifully stop. He gave me a small smile, and I could hear him telling me that it was something we should work on through the pounding in my head. I agreed halfheartedly, and escaped up to my room with my guitar as quickly as possible.
Throwing myself down on the bed, I glared at the ceiling. How dare he write something like that about her. I smashed a pillow over my head, groaning. She was so delicate, so beautiful. How could he destroy her like he was, and then write a poem about how much he loved her? I dug my fingernails into my palms. That wasn’t any kind of real love. I sat up again, grabbing the guitar, almost furiously this time. I picked out the riff again, staring down at it. My thoughts were whirling.
Blue eyes, red lips, white skin, purple bruise. My head pounded.
You can’t save her, you can’t save her. Great, now the riff was talking to me. I cut off the sound with my hand abruptly, almost slamming the guitar down onto the bed. I heard Axl’s voice in my head.

I’d hate to look into those eyes, and see an ounce of pain. I snarled. An ounce of pain? He was filling her up with pain, and I was watching. You can’t save her, you can’t save her.
I needed to save her.
I had to try.
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