how soon is now? || w. a rose [i/v]

ANDY XI

ENGAGED? ROSE AND BERNOW LEAVE LONDON JEWELERS ON NEW YEAR'S DAY IN LONDON AND IT HAS RAISED SOME EYEBROWS

Guns N Roses singer Axl Rose and British model and singer Andy Bernow were seen leaving a jewelry store in London on New Year's Day even if nobody could snap a picture of what the couple bought. Though all rumors of their relationship has never been confirmed they have both been seen very close since September. Could this be the final step? Are rock's favorite couple engaged? We'll just have to wait and see! Look out for Chapel Weddings when the duo return to LA.

// People Magazine, January 1990

_______________________

w. discussion of chronic health medication, surgical detail, reference to past suicidal thoughts, reference to poor mental health, blood and injury

_______________________

Andy scowled as she pushed the small, white tablets out of the metallic foil casing. They always seemed to stick wrong in the foil, causing her to jab her nail too far and for the tiny fucking thing go flying into the sink. She was nearly at the end of the packet, thirty four out of thirty six, and she would have to rip open another box.

She'd have to get another one from the pharmacy before they returned to LA. And they would always give her strange looks when she asked for her three month supply and walked her through all the side-effects. Yes, she knew they caused nausea; yes, she knew they caused cold hands and toes; yes, she knew they caused nightmares and sleep disturbance. She's had them for years, they weren't gonna finally fuck off now.

And she had started a diuretic four months ago and that wasn't even talking about the way they pushed the Warfarin towards her. It already felt bad enough sitting in the damn waiting room around the judgemental stares of eighty somethings coughing after they smoked a pack a day for sixty years. She didn't need to take the medication they did either.

She saw the way Dr Gillian frowned and moved his jaw every time another scan came back and asked her if her symptoms had gotten any better or worse. It was a stupid question; they both knew they never got any better. The hole ripped further open every time her heart squeezed another litre of blood around her flesh and every day that passed the less pressure it could force, the more it fatigued and ached, the more it failed and the less likely she would be able to stand up for more than two hours at a time.

They wanted the surgery done before she turned twenty-five, lowering her likelihood of dying before fifty apparently but she couldn't imagine management liking it very much. Over a week in hospital and then twelve weeks of at home recovery and then a doctor submission for strenuous activity. They said no to going for a jog and picking up a box, never mind a fucking stadium tour for eighteen months.

To cut down her chest and saw through her sternum, cleave open her beating muscle and patch it closed like a bandaid before sewing everything back together, frankenstein's fucked up monster. She'd had broken ribs before, the way they squeezed all of the air out of her lungs and eating her internal muscles through laboured breaths, and that was nothing compared to a sawn open sternum tied back together with wire.

Leg swelling and nausea. Difficulty sleeping on top of her insomnia. An ugly scar right through her chest, stapled and stitched back together, another pale white jagged stripe across her skin to join all the others, to tell the world that there was indeed something wrong. She'd have to stop wearing her shirts so open and low cut dresses and v neck vests camis and...

They advised to cut back on all alcohol, so she assumed that meant no more drinking red wine with their legs crossed over each other and watching whatever shit MTV liked to play at three in the morning.