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

ANDY VI

Oh the VMA's, where do I even begin? Well, maybe with the main event, no not our first televised performance, no not the fact that's where the press first got a picture of me and Axl, not even Izzy getting socked, but the fact that Vince Neil broke my nose. It wasn't even that bad of a break, a small crack that didn't have to be reset, a lot of swelling and a bit of bleeding, I'm pretty sure Izzy's blackeye looked worse. Maybe it was because I was a woman, or that me and Axl were now so intertwined, that it stuck so heavily. Me and Vince have no hard feelings, he apologised, and Motley Crue sent me some real nice flowers, my nose was already crooked, nothing changed. Apart from me and Axl, that changed quite a bit, not talking about the fucking feud.

// England's finest: The autobiography of Mind the Gap, the band that saw the British invasion through brit-pop and redefined the meaning of English music, 2013. CH ADRIANNA 8

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w. descriptions of broken bone, blood and threats of death/violence, nsfw references

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"I'll fucking kill you! You fucking bastard!"

"ERIC!"

"Axl! Calm down,"

"Are you alright?"

"Ands? Where is the fucking Doctor?"

"Andy! Are you okay?"

"Andy!"

"Andy!"

"Andy!"

There was blood on the floor. The crimson drops staining down on the grey concrete, smearing through the cracks like vermillion ants. The crack had made a sickening sharp noise, but nothing really compared to the blearing pain forcing its way across her face, the immediate burn scorching around her nose and eyes.

Her ears were still screaming, ringing with the countless voices shouting while hand pressed down on her spine and shoulders, some harder than others. But there was still blood on the floor, and it wasn't washing away, only being joined by wet droplets from her eyes.

The tears didn't sting, but the thought of them did. She wasn't supposed to cry anymore, let alone to a simple fucking punch, it wasn't worth it. If it kept running the red droplets would eventually run around her shoes again, the start stage lighting mixing into the flickering light of an energy saving bulb.

She wanted to get out, she needed to leave. Why were they holding down her shoulders? Didn't they know that they needed to go too?

"How dare you pull me off you motherfucker, I'll fucking kill you, I'll glass you pretty boy," Eric's Manchester drawl was being pulled out, the northern tone encompassing his shouts, yet somehow it mixed back to his Yorkshire one, the same 'o's and 'u's.

The metallic taste had slowly dripped past her teeth, leeching under her tongue, it was more familiar than it should have been, mixing with cheap Stellar beer and muggy mould spores. They weren't in the flat anymore, so why was she still tasting the air, and why could she still hear the yelling.

The monotonous unhinged screeches and her hand immediately reached her collarbone, her fingers dipping in the pale bullet holes burned in forever, they didn't hurt but she could swear they were burning.

The world suddenly spun, her eyes becoming a mess of different colours, the thudding pain keeping a steady beat and nearly sending her earlier meal of leftover pasta on the floor. She had been turned by her shoulder, a light push between the blades telling her to get moving.