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

INTERLUDE II | IZZY

Rumored strain in Guns N Roses between Izzy Stadlin, who recently left a rehab facility in January after urinating on a plane in August, and his other bandmates alleges inside source.

There is apparent stress between Izzy Stradlin and his bandmates Slash and Steven Adler over drug usage within the band. Mr Stradlin apparently now finds his bandmates "insufferable" according to an inside source at Geffen records. Arguments can now be heard from the band's studio, something that has only increased since Mind the Gap's Andy Bernow has also been seen attending studio sessions.

Stradlin has been avoiding press coverage since his return to his LA apartment, rarely seen going outside with most sightings being at Geffen Records entrance. It seems that the photos of him once roaming the strip have disappeared along with his heroin.

// RIP Magazine, 1990

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w. reference to drug use, addiction and HIV/AIDS

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9:00 AM

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Izzy rolled over under his heavy navy comforter, banging his hand against his wooden bedside table, knocking off his sunglasses, tylenol and aftershave onto the rugged floor. He cringed and ran his hand down over his face, feeling over the shadow that was starting to grow over his shin. He sighed, he wasn't even like Henderson who had a shadow by the end of the night, but he wished he could be more like Axl who only had to shave once a week.

That was probably the only time he ever wanted to be more like Axl.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

He looked over at the green blaring LEDs, one minute past nine. He tapped off the top button, ending the blaring noise that was punishing his already forming headache. He woke up with headaches most days, but that was something that had been true for the last six years, no rehab involved.

Izzy pulled his fingers through his hair. It was getting too long and needed cutting soon, which also meant that his roots would be showing soon but he'd started to stop caring about that as much. Everybody at rehab had seen his true mousy brown strands.

They'd also seen it matted up as he'd boiled alive in his skin as his fever had skyrocketed. They'd seen him puke all over himself. They'd seen him scream about miscellaneous threats as his skin had crawled outwards and spilled out his insides to the world.

And they'd been ugly indeed. All black and putrid, the horrible black tar contorted and strangled his organs. Choking around his lungs and ribs until there was nothing left but nasty stains and painful scars. Years and years of his life were put on display for all the nurses, doctors and security staff to stare out as they all wondered how on earth his life had turned to so much shit.

And Izzy had too. Looking through the memories stuffed inside his insides, some clearer than water while others were muddied up with blood, sweat, tears. And so much damn shame. The shame that had eaten through him until there were holes through his skin, clawing up through all his bruised and battered up veins. Yelling and screaming at the world about what he really was. Just a worthless addict that had gone a bit over the deep end.

Couldn't hack the rock world anymore.

He didn't remember nearly anything from the past three years, an odd sporadic image of a stage in Chicago, the red rocks when passing through Arizona and the piles and piles of cigarettes building up on a glass ashtray. Sweat sinking through his skin as he held back tears in a New York bathroom as he frantically pressed around his arm for another vein, squeezing the muscle down to the bone with a stretched out sock.