Bandom One-shots book 3

Is This The Real Life?

~July 6, 1992~

I don't know how long it's been since I last left this room. It feels like months, but who's counting? Time doesn't really exist when you're buried under a fog of emptiness. I've stopped keeping track of the days—the only thing I notice is that the light outside comes and goes. The sun rises, sets, and I'm still here, in this same spot, staring at the same walls.

I'm not sleeping much, but that's nothing new. The restless nights have stretched into weeks, and the hunger's been there too, gnawing at me from the inside, but it doesn't matter. I've hardly eaten anything. A bite here, a sip of water there, just enough to keep my body running, I guess. But the hunger's become more like an ache in my chest. It doesn't bother me anymore. I don't have the energy to care.

The food's just a distraction anyway, something to fill the silence. But the silence is too loud. My head's too loud. And it's too quiet in here, too lonely. It's been like this since Izzy left. Since the one person I could rely on, the one person I ever really trusted, turned his back and walked away. The one person I loved.

I try not to think about it too much, but it creeps in—like some shadow that follows me even in the light. The truth is, I don't want to think about it. Because if I think about it, I'll have to face it. I'll have to admit that he's gone, that I can't fix this, that I can't undo what's happened. And if I admit that, then I don't know who the hell I am anymore.

I can hear them outside—Duff, Slash, Steven. They've been knocking on the door, calling through the cracks, trying to get me to talk to them. Trying to pull me out of this cage I've built around myself. But every time I hear their voices, I just want to hide deeper.

I don't want to face anyone. I don't want to hear their pity, their concern. What's the point? They don't get it. No one does. How could they?

I feel the weight of their words, though, even through the door. "Axl, man, we're worried about you. Come on, open up. We need to talk."

But I don't have anything to say. Nothing that would make sense.

I used to be the one who stood at the front, the one who led the charge, the one who controlled everything. But now, I don't even recognize myself. I can't find the guy I used to be. I look in the mirror, and all I see is some shadow of who I was. A shell. A stranger.

I'm losing weight. My clothes hang off me, barely fitting. I feel like I'm withering away, but it doesn't matter. It's not like I want to eat. I can't seem to summon the will to care. Food has no taste anymore. The only thing that tastes real is the bitterness in my mouth. The only thing that fills me is the feeling of his absence.

I don't remember the last time I ate more than a few bites at a time. The last few days—hell, maybe it's been a week—I've barely touched anything. A cracker here, some water there, but the hunger is distant now. It's like a memory I don't care to revisit. My stomach's an empty cavern, and I'm too exhausted to even think about it.

I think about getting up, but I don't. I just lie there, in the dark, with only the echoes of my thoughts for company. What does it even matter anymore?

I hear more knocking. More voices outside the door. It's Duff again, I think. "Axl, you've gotta eat something, man. You can't keep doing this. It's not you. We need you back. Please, just come out."

I pull the covers up over my head and close my eyes, pretending like I can block it out. I can't hear them. I don't care.

But I do care. I do.

My whole body aches with something I can't name. It's more than just hunger, more than just the emptiness. It's a deep, raw kind of ache—like my bones are being pulled apart from the inside. I wish I could sleep, but every time I close my eyes, I see Izzy's face. His smile, his laugh, the way he would look at me like he understood me better than anyone ever had. But then I remember him walking away. I remember him telling me he needed to go. And that pain feels like it's tearing me apart all over again.

And still, they keep calling. I hear Slash's voice now. "Axl, open the damn door, man. Please. We're worried. Come on, just let us in."

I want to scream at them to leave me the hell alone. But I can't. Because I know they care. And I know they're just trying to help. But the help feels like a fucking joke. What could they possibly do? What can anyone do when the one person you loved more than anything is gone?

I roll over and grab the bottle of water from my bedside table, but my hands are shaking too hard to hold it properly. It slips, spilling across the floor, and I just let it be. I don't have the strength to clean it up. I barely have the strength to keep my eyes open.

Everything is starting to feel blurry. I blink, trying to focus, but the room is spinning. My body feels heavier now, like it's sinking into the bed. My chest is tight, and for a moment, I think I can't breathe. My vision goes dark around the edges, and the last thing I remember is the pounding on the door growing louder, distant, as if I'm sinking deeper into some kind of dreamless sleep.

Then everything goes black.

~A month later~

I wake up with the worst headache I've ever had in my life. My body aches in a way I can't describe, and when I open my eyes, it takes me a second to focus. I'm not in my room. I'm somewhere sterile, somewhere cold. A hospital.

I hear voices, soft murmurs, and the faint rustle of sheets. My vision clears, and I see the faces of Duff, Slash, and Steven. Their eyes are wide, their faces drawn with worry.

"Jesus Christ, Axl," Duff mutters, his voice thick with emotion. "You scared the shit outta us."

I try to speak, but my throat is dry, scratchy. I try to sit up, but my body doesn't respond like it used to. I feel weak—skin and bones.

"Take it easy, man," Slash says gently, putting a hand on my shoulder to stop me from moving too much. "You've been out for a month. A month, Axl. What the hell were you doing?"

I try to speak, but my mouth feels like cotton. I'm not sure if I'm even still here, or if I'm still locked away in my room somewhere in my own head.

A month? It feels like I've lost a lifetime.

They keep talking, but I can't concentrate. I can't focus on their words. The only thing I can focus on is the hollow feeling inside me. The same emptiness I've carried since Izzy left. It hasn't gone away. I don't think it ever will.

But now I'm awake. And I'm here. And they're here.

And for the first time in a long time, I wonder if maybe that's enough to keep me going.

~Is This The Real Life?~