The apartment feels like a museum each time I visit it.
Nothing's changed, except for every barren closet. All the hairspray is gone. They were smart enough to completely empty the fridge before locking up for the last time. But besides that, nothing is out of place. It makes me anxious, actually.
Like any second, I'll hear them out in the hallway. Heavy boots and metal jewelry chiming. Loud laughter, expletives, the smell of cigarettes. They'll come barreling though the door, and catch me here, grieving. Make fun of me for it.
"Whatcha doin' in here, Chas?!"
My eyes burn as they shift back into focus. Pure white consumes my vision. The softness is the same color as the clouds out in the sky today. Somehow, Los Angeles is still sunny and bright, even when the entire world leaves the city limits.
I haven't gotten desperate enough to climb into the object of my desire. Not yet, at least. Although, I'm very close today. I stand where Axl did that last night-the best night. At the foot of his bed. Only I'm fully dressed, and not in his clothes today.
If I stand completely still like I do now, not even breathing, and stare, I can see two imprints still in the pillows. Axl and I. It's comforting that that moment still lives on, and I can see it now. Even if it is gone. . .
I rock back and forth, from the tips of my converse, to the heels. I can hear the hard slaps on the wooden floor boards. They creak under my weight, groaning. It finally registers in my brain that the sensation coming from the middle of my body is the pain from hugging myself too tightly. Trying to keep myself in one piece. My hands ache as I unclench them, the burn in the tips of my fingers all the way up to my shoulders.
It's been two weeks. Fourteen days and nights. Axl's called once. One time, and it lasted five minutes before he ran out of quarters. Mail is so slow that once his first week of pre-written letters ran out, I haven't had any more to occupy me.
Without thinking, my eyes flicker to the nightstand, going straight to the clock there. I have twenty minutes until I'm supposed to meet Michelle. It's time to go.
She hasn't even been able to fill my time, distract me from everything that's missing. Rolling Stone has quickly come to demand her entire schedule, and although I love how much she loves it, I miss her. It's the weekend, and she's finally got a spare four hours, so it's lunch and apartment hunting for us. She's bringing the ad-circled newspapers, and I'm supplying the transportation.
The Camaro is a gas guzzler. I had no idea Axl spent so much every week just to keep it up and running. Paul called the Tuesday after they left, and has two jobs lined up for me once I get back from New York. They're photoshoots, unlike the runway work he thinks I'm destined for. Both seem completely unattainable, but I promised not to back out. Especially when he said that the people with the power wanted to give me an advance. Which I need-for gas.
My mom had to come with me to the bank to open up a checking account so I had a place to keep all the money. Two hundred dollars between both jobs isn't hardly anything, but for me, it was more money than I'd ever been handed at once, practically for nothing. It was overwhelming. It made me wonder how Guns N' Roses felt when Geffen Records handed them a check for seventy-five thousand dollars.
It actually made me laugh out loud in that bank, remembering how Axl used to carry around his cut of the money and a knife in the same pocket, because they wouldn't let him open an account under 'Axl', and he refused to legally go by 'Will.' As I laughed to myself, my mother asked me if I was okay. I told her yes.
But I'm not, really. I'm trying to be. When the people you've spent nearly your entire life with just up and go, it's hard to find something else to do. Something else to focus on, besides the band.
