Rain

Rain.

That’s all there was. Nothing but gray clouds and gray sky and misery. I sighed as I looked out the speckled window. It was slightly dirty, but I could still see. The world was covered in water, soaked under the deluge. I brushed my hair out of my face. It was fading, but the color was still dark; it needed some more dye. The gray outside weighed heavily on my shoulders and settled in my chest like a weight.

Today, thirteen years ago, I quit. I walked away from something I helped to create after only six years of being a part of it. Seems like I turned my back on it, but no one understood. Not even him: the one person I thought would always have my back no matter what. He’d changed, but I hadn’t; he was delusional, controlling and manipulative. And I wasn’t going to be a part of that anymore. I was clean and sober, and I was enjoying my clear head. But if I reach somewhere in the corners of my mind, I can still recall little rays of sunshine: us, together, walking down a dirt road in Indiana, skipping school for the third time that week, our fingertips lightly brushing, the wind weaving through our long hair…

Everything changed. Being signed changed him. He wanted control, and panicked when he didn’t have it. He wanted his vision in total perfection and he didn’t care what it took to get it. We all suffered. He didn’t care how we felt anymore. He was being eaten alive by the parasite in his head, while we all drowned at the bottom of the bottle, or drifted away at the end of a needle. I was included in that, and I admit it. Before my revelation, I stayed as loaded as possible so I could deal with his bullshit, and it helped for a while. But after a certain point it just became too much. Getting to bed high, getting up high...and still he was a raving lunatic. What was the point of it anymore?

Everything leading up to that point was wonderful. We did everything together. I remembered hot nights with fireflies and beer cans, my head on his warm shoulder, his arm around my waist. There were long drives down the highway, blasting Jimi Hendrix and forgetting the words. Late nights in our apartment, laying on the one mattress we owned, feeling each other breathe and inhaling smoke. Even after we became a band, there were amazing moments in time that never faded from my memory. Sitting alone in the park, rolling joints and talking about our dreams. Skateboarding down the narrow alleys, dodging trash cans and parked cars. I stayed up till sunrise sitting up on the couch, his arms around me, listening to the soft beating of his heart. Mornings at the table, fighting over the coffee and whether or not cream and sugar even belonged in coffee.

We had talked for three hours, the day that I left. I called him, told him I’d had enough. He cried. He pleaded and begged me not to leave him. I stayed firm, even though I wanted to die inside. When I hung up finally, it felt like someone had cut out a piece of my heart. I cried too, but he didn’t know. I saw the sunrise through tear-soaked eyes that night. I hadn’t heard from him since; when I filled in for them, he wasn’t the one who called me. I saw him onstage and that was it. Then I walked right out again when Gilby came back, just like I had the first time. And here I am, free and thirteen years sober. Lucky me.

I missed him. I missed his face, his warmth, his smile. I missed talking to him, all the stories he told, the energy he emitted as he spoke. I missed his company. I wanted to talk to him again, just to hear his voice. But he hadn’t called me since I left. I don’t even think he had my phone number anymore; I did move around a lot and changed addresses so many times in the last couple years, going back and forth between Vegas, Cali and Indiana. I just couldn’t settle down and be happy. Not without him, I guess. I sighed. What a life the mysterious Izzy Stradlin leads.

I had just gotten into the kitchen to make some lunch when my cell phone rang. I rolled my eyes. It was probably the label, wondering why the tracks for the new album were late, and how I should be grateful for even having them in the first place and why didn’t I just go back to Guns. They’d already dropped that question on me five times in the last few years, what’s one more time? Abandoning the sandwich I was halfway through making, I crossed into the living room grabbed my phone off the coffee table and looked at it. I didn’t know the number. Probably a lawyer, calling for a signature on some Guns paperwork. Joy. I sighed heavily and answered it.

“Hello?”

“Hi Izzy.”

I almost dropped the phone. My heart jumped into my throat and I suddenly found it hard to breathe. Tears welled up in my eyes so fast it almost hurt. I knew that voice. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I took a deep breath.

“Hi Axl…”