My Little Rae of Sunshine

Track 10 - Dead Man's Ballet

Dr. David, telephone.

Dr. David, here to dispatch.

Dispatch go ahead.

We have a 49-year-old male. Unconscious, possible O.D.

Patient is not breathing at this time.

We are presently putting on the mask.

The CPR isn't pulled up.

Sixx: When I think back on this life, I guess I was doing the best I could. And to look at me from the outside, I'm sure it seems somewhat romantic. But when you've tasted excess, everything else tastes bland. Yeah, we had everything to lose, but I still lived like I was about to die. After all, I was the drug scout of America.

They were expecting to find him by a trash can or loitering by one of the many whorehouses that are scattered over the whole Strip scene. No. They had to trace back to where his tale turned twisted and eventually it was about to become a nightmare they were not ready for.

The night swirled with urgency and foreboding. James, DJ, and Rae, driven by a sense of impending doom, arrived at the chaotic scene unfolding around them. Dread weighed heavily upon them as they entered the ambulance, their hearts pounding in unison with the rapid pulse of their dying hope. They exchanged fleeting glances, unspoken words passing between them.

The ambulance doors closed, shutting out the chaos of the outside world. The vehicle lurched forward, its sirens blaring as it sped through the city streets toward the nearest hospital. Time seemed to both stand still and rush forward, a paradoxical existence in the face of life and death.

🎵

In the murky depths of his subconscious, Sixx found himself suspended in a surreal vision, a silent observer of a heart-wrenching scene unfolding before him. His bandmates—James, DJ, and a tearful Rae—stood gathering at the edge of a solemn grave. Their faces were etched with grief, aching with the weight of his absence.

Desperate to break through the intangible barrier between them, Sixx lunged forward, calling their names, screaming for their attention. He reached out to touch Rae's shoulder, craving the reassurance of connection, only to feel his hand pass through her as if he were a mere spectre.

A pang of anguish gripped him. He was an invisible onlooker in a realm where his presence had become inconsequential. No matter how loud he shouted or how desperately he sought acknowledgment, they couldn't see or hear him.

His eyes darted around the desolate space, searching for something tangible, something that tethered him to reality. His bass guitar lay inert on the ground nearby, a symbol of his identity, his passion, his lifeline. But as he reached for it, his spectral hands passed through the solid form, denying him the comfort of familiarity.

Frustration surged within him, a tidal wave of anger and helplessness crashing against the walls of his ethereal prison. His voice, now just a hollow echo in the abyss, reverberated in a futile attempt to break through the numbing darkness.

🎵

Time felt like an enemy, slipping away with each passing moment. The ambulance was a flurry of urgency as the two paramedics, one Caucasian and the other African-American, worked feverishly over Sixx's motionless body. With precision honed by years of training, they swiftly connected I.V. units into his veins, a mask covering his nose and mouth to push life-sustaining oxygen into his lungs, and fought desperately to resuscitate him.

Amidst the chaos, a piercing noise emanated from the monitor, a dreaded sound that heralded a chilling silence.

Sixx's heart ceased its rhythmic beat.

Time stuttered to a standstill as the crushing weight of impending grief, thick and suffocating, enveloped James, DJ, and Rae. The air grew heavy with the weight of an overwhelming loss, and the world became colourless in an instant. Rae's tears flowed anew, her world crumbling before her eyes.

"I can't bring him back, man!" The Black paramedic's voice quavered, his efforts to revive Sixx relentless as he pressed against Sixx's chest, seeking a heartbeat.

"Fuck. Fuck!" The white paramedic's voice resonated with despair in the tight space. "Time of death--"

But the Black paramedic refused to yield.

"Nah-ah! He's not about to die in my ambulance!" His voice carried the weight of sheer determination as he administered the first shot of adrenaline, injecting it with a second chance pulsating within the vial.

Nothing.

Rae, consumed by grief, turned away, her soul eclipsed by the agony of loss and unable to witness any more heartache. Yet, the paramedic persisted. He seized another syringe of adrenaline, plunging it into Sixx's heart with unwavering determination, refusing to surrender to the inevitable.

Like I was saying, the look in the eyes of death was intoxicating. Taking it into our lungs, laughing at ourselves where others would probably cry. And more importantly, I'm proud of this guy. Staring face to face with the demons and not back down takes a constitution that most people just don't have. A life gets soiled with sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll—

With an abrupt gasp for air, he resurfaced from the abyss, oblivious to what had transpired in the void of unconsciousness. His eyes widen, harshly gasping for air and unaware of what had happened. In a stunning twist of fate, Sixx clawed his way back from the clutches of death.

James, DJ, and Rae stood frozen, their hearts suspended between relief and disbelief and their faces etched with astonishment. They bore witness to the power of resilience, to the fragile thread that binded life and death. Sixx's gaze lowered, his vision clearing to find the two needles of adrenaline protruding from his chest.

"Ow," he groaned, a mixture of pain and disbelief colouring his voice, unaware of the miracle that had just unfolded.