Swinging Tire

12

Author's Note: Please be kind, it's been too long, my writing chops are rusty, so if you like it, please vote and comment!

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These days I feel like I'm living in a goddamn fucking musical.

Yes. I sing and dance and the shows are my lifeline.

But alone, at night, when all is quiet and humanity has succumbed to sweet slumber, then, then I'm awake, ghosts of love letters and unwritten confessions burning in my brain, my hands twist in agony.

I haven't seen Izzy unless it's at the shows. He's busy he says. I know too damn well what his business is. He's loaded with heroin, but I'm so desperate I call him.

"Hello?" The all familiar drawl answers .

"Slash? What...where's Izzy?"

"Hang on." I hear him pass the phone, 'Axl wants a word.'

"Sup?"

"The fuck is Slash doing at your room?" I bark, tears threatening to burst.

"What are you Billy? My fucking wife?" They don't even try to hide their snickering. "I hang with whoever I want to."

"The fuck you're doing Izz? The fuck you're doing to me?"

"Chill dude. I'm doing fuck all. Come over if you want, we aren't doing nothing but drink."

"I don't believe you." I said, not bothering to choke back my tears.

"Axl, the fuck? Don't han. .."

I didn't let him finish, and smashed the phone with my boot. Fuck Izzy and fuck Slash.

But I feel like the rejected nobody I was in school, when Izzy got to hang out with all the cool kids and I got to go sing in church.

I walk aimlessly in the strip. Got recognized a few times, wich was nice, but I wanted to drink. Drown in sorrow and self pity. My head and my body are not made for drinking, after just a few I'm drunk, unsteady and queasy.

But fuck it. I'm going to New York tomorrow, to finish the album, and if I sleep and throw up on someone, I can't give a flying fuck, because I don't even know who's coming with me, and I don't fucking care.

*****

The flight was long, and Slash, sitting a few rows away from me, didn't even bothered to say hi. He was, according to Alan, the only one interested on putting the finishing touches on the album, the others, Izzy included, thought it was good enough as it was. But I know and Slash knows that something is missing. Rocket Queen was either missing something or needed a chop.

In the studio, I was adamant that the song wasn't finished, but Slash was adamant that it needed a chop.

Arguments with each other, with the technicians, with the sound engineers, that usually ended hotly on the hotel bar.

I didn't recognize the sweet man I was in love with. Such coldness, such aggressive approach to everything, wasn't something I'd seen on him before. He either hid it very well or it was a new facet of his character I was experiencing.

We had a double room that had just about a small view of Central Park, and I have a liking for trees. I'd go for long walks while he fucked some piece of trash he would drag from the shitholes he liked to go.

One night it was so cold, that my teeth were shattering and I went to our room. A dark haired chick was riding him, her tits bouncing up and down, his hands grabbing her by the waist.