âmes pétillantes ~ classic rock imagines

• Ian Gillan (Pt. II) •

Here's the second part to my previous Ian Gillan story, as requested by EAKitty. I hope you enjoy, my love!

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When you awoke the following morning, you still had a skull-splitting headache from the previous night. As soon as you'd managed to drag yourself home, you'd collapsed straight into bed and, quite literally, cried yourself to sleep. The incessant throbbing served as a ceaseless reminder of the heartbreak you'd had to endure the night before. Not even for a second would you be able to forget it. Even your dreams had been cracked by it. Your subconscious had plagued you with ruthless images of Ian towering above you, laughing demonically as you fell further and further away from him, all the way to the darkness of the centre of your Earth, all alone.

Your nightmares pushed you to toss and turn all night long, the sheets entwining around your body, ensconcing you in the most comfortable of damning tombs.

You wanted nothing more than to spend the day in bed and allow the crispness of your old white sheets to cradle you into eternity. Unfortunately, the dawning of the sun was an excruciating reminder that you had to force yourself to go about that tricky business known as life. Breakfast, brushing of teeth, pulling freshly laundered clothes over damp skin, dashing around for keys.

Only now you had to add some unfortunate steps to your hard-learned routine. Concealing the heaviness of your eyes with slicks of make-up, swiping used tissues into the bin, sadly stopping in the hallway to hide your favourite picture of Ian and you from the shelf by your coat rack.

Your day was a befuddled mess of laborious work and numerous mistakes that you could have easily avoided. When you were lightly reprimanded before leaving, you had to duck into the bathroom to dab at your tear-stung eyes. One glance in the circular gilt mirror confirmed that your unforeseen waterworks had revealed the leftover fragments of last night on your face, and you slipped out of the building with your head hung low and lips sealed against any attempts at friendly conversation.

All you wanted was to go to bed. As you finally slid out of the unpredicted, though fitting, thick rainstorm into your tiny bottom floor flat and grappled for the light switch with bleary eyes, you scanned the shelf by the coat rack for the comforting glint of Ian's grin. Oh... You'd forgotten that you'd put that picture away. You couldn't even have that anymore.

Dejectedly, you shuffled through the grossly familiar rooms, going through the motions of the day's end so you could succumb to the mercy of your bed before the sun had finished setting. But just as you were about to turn off the last of the lights and finally fall into the welcoming embrace of sleep, a knock came at the door.

Instantly, you were ready to ignore it. You were already dressed for bed, and whoever it was wasn't to know that you weren't extremely busy. Or in the chokehold of a depressed snooze. However, the visitor was insistent. And unignorably curt. Their knocks came in aggressive bursts, quick, sharp taps that echoed around the dark room of your flat like swarms of wasps.

After deliberating in the doorway of your bedroom for several moments more, you finally plucked up the motivation to plod down the hall in your slippers and answer it. After all, you certainly wouldn't want to be stuck on a doorstep in the middle of a storm like that one.

Slowly, you pulled open the door just a crack, so you could peek out and see who it was. With plenty of surprise, you met the startlingly green eyes of her. For a moment, you stood there in the inch gap of the opened door staring at her as though you had so much to say but not the voice with which to vocalise it, and she watched your corpse-like figure with down-turned lips and a hard glint in her eye.