Don't Go Away Mad // Nikki Sixx x Tommy Lee - Lexx

Chapter 8 - Is This Love

Nikki - 

So, Tommy wants to go out tomorrow night. I don’t know if I’m ready. I think that my body can handle it, but I’m not sure about my fucking, messed-up head. I don’t want to deal with people. As far as I know, I think that Doc has been doing an OK job keeping my overdose episode underwraps, given that I haven’t been bombarded by the press. I’ve been holed up in my bedroom a lot, so maybe I’ve had more people knocking on my door than I’m aware.

I also know that my fucking phone has been ringing and ringing. It’s not unusual for it to ring all hours of the day, multiple times a day. So, I can’t really gauge if it’s been any more than usual. I haven’t answered it once since I’ve been home. I’m sure the answering machine is full of messages from people asking if I’m OK. I know that I’m never going to listen to most of the messages, if any. 

The press may be kept back from knowing the real story, as well as the public and my fans, but I’m sure that word has gotten out on the strip. I was partying with people from other bands. I know it’s getting around. Hopefully most of it is just hearsay. I can’t imagine that my friends who witnessed me falling on my sword, are sharing the sordid details all over the strip. You just don’t do that to each other, but I guarantee, everyone has heard some version of the story. Maybe it’s better to show them that I’m up and alive, so that the rumors stop. I think I’ll call Vince tomorrow. I’m sure he’s been out and about. He must have a pulse on the situation out there. 

I’m feeling a little annoyed with Tommy around here mothering me; always asking me how I feel and now feeding me. Don’t get me wrong. I know he’s trying to lessen my burden so I can focus on getting better. And I know he cares about me. Not many people do. But the more he hovers over me, the more I kind of just want to get out of here and see some of my normal friends. Why am I such a jerk to Tommy sometimes? I guess I’m just not used to someone caring about me.

I’m feeling a bit relieved that he wants to go out to pick up a few things. I can finally have some alone time. I haven’t been completely alone since my overdose. Everyone thinks I need to be watched. Funny how I really have no desire to go back to the drugs and alcohol right now, while everyone else is busy fucking up our sobriety pact. I don’t really fucking care, and I’m pretty sure that in time, those old familiar temptations are going to start whispering my name again. But right now, I just feel like I’ve come so far, that I’m not ready or willing to fuck it up yet. I guess dying has a way of switching up some of your priorities in life. I gotta figure out how to live again, before I start wrestling with death again.

While Tommy is out, I get up to get my journal. I haven’t written much lately. I’ve tried, but nothing except bitching about my withdrawal symptoms have gotten inked on the pages. I write about my grandfather leaving, and how I’m starting to come out of the fog.

I find that I still cannot write anything down about what’s been happening between me and Tommy. I can only write about him staying here while Heather is away, how he’s annoying me with too much attention, and what we're planning tonight, with a movie and no drinking. But I cannot write anything else. I know that I’ll never be able to read these again if I did write something. I’d always be thinking about what would happen if I died, and someone found my journals. As if they’re not bad enough with all of my tales of bad behavior, and bitching and moaning about people, my past, and my problems; I couldn’t bear the thought of someone reading about my sexual encounters with my best friend. 

Tommy returns in about 45 minutes. He brings the movie and some snacks into the living room, and flops himself down on the couch. He’s stupid if he doesn’t think that I can’t smell alcohol on his breath. I know he’s just been drinking. I don’t really care right now. I just wish these motherfuckers would be straight-up with me. I know that they’ve all admitted to drinking and have fessed up, but I can’t stand that they’re all acting like they just slipped. Oops, I had a drink. Sorry. I really am looking to get cleaned up with you. We care about you. We’re here for you. How about you all just tell me that you have a fucking problem that you can’t control. It’s all bullshit. Whatever. This is their problem. Maybe they’re the ones that need to be mothered right now, not me.