SINNERS & SAINTS ⋆ nikki sixx

59. Chance Encounters.

She'd spent most of her days with Amelia and Daisy because, as it happened, those kids were the true lights in her life. Two beautiful souls--innocently so--that had the capability to veer a devastated woman, projecting light and happiness onto her during a time of such gut-wrenching anguish.

But they weren't always enough of a distraction, and she craved more. She craved something else--perhaps, she craved her freedom from whatever the fuck it was that'd been shackling her to the cold concrete since December 23rd, 1987.

He had died.

He had died, gotten resuscitated, dragged himself into his closet to shoot up--possibly, in an attempt to scramble his brains further--clawed himself out of that wretched hell-hole, encountered castigation by his manager, his label, his band, and he still didn't think that he required somebody in his life to provide a sense of decree. A sense of solace. A sense of love.

He was not dead, but their relationship was. And it maimed the pair of them to an unintelligible degree.

They couldn't do anything about it, they supposed. It was eroded beyond renewal.

Christine was the only person he had thought about the entire time. From start to finish, she was on his mind.

And maybe she was the person he yearned for all of those excruciating days, weeks, months, but she was also somewhat to blame for his hasty descent into the fiery craters of hell.

For that, he didn't know how to pardon his wife.

He craved the satisfaction of having her home, having her near, but he didn't think he was going to be able to look her in the eye--after everything--and tell her that it was okay.

Because it wasn't, was it? It wasn't okay. It was never going to be okay. And, most importantly, he was not fucking okay.

He was going to be okay, eventually--once his involuntary rehab stint had brought itself to a close--but that would take some time.

Nikki needed to heal. He needed to take some time for himself, not to be thrust straight into the studio after a fucking grueling few months at a facility that saw his every move scrutinized, judged by psychiatrists and therapists just desperate to analyze his behavioral patterns in order to tailor the program to suit his needs.

He didn't think that it was helping.

Naturally, Nikki spent the first week revolting against every single individual that vied to support him. And the therapy sessions, too, were utterly futile in his eyes.

He hated that they rationalized his mannerisms, his thoughts and feelings, by blaming his parents for neglecting him as a child.

He hated having to relive traumatic events in his life--or, even, just events that he'd rather forget--and spilling his guts to some shrink he'd met an hour and a half ago.

He hated opening up about things he had only talked to Chris about, or talking about Chris because he knew he would not be able to reign in his feelings once he had started to elucidate those sick and twisted thoughts.

He even flat out refused to talk to Tommy.

That was when he realized he needed something. Anything to get by. To get him to stop feeling these things--these emotions he hadn't felt in...God. Forever.

He hadn't been sober in forever. He didn't want to be sober--didn't need to be sober. He hadn't known the abstinent version of himself and, quite frankly, he wasn't looking forward to getting acquainted with it.