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

Chapter 16 - Happy New Year?

Nikki -

It’s the morning of January 2nd, I think. I’ve lost all sense of time and reality. I spent the past 2 days locked up in this house, headlong into my drugs, lost in another realm, completely out of touch with the fucking brass tacks of life. I wove in and out of consciousness during the 2 days. I promised myself that I’d pull out of the jag by this morning.

As far as I know, there’s supposed to be a fucking band meeting at my house today. If anything changed, I wouldn’t know. I haven’t answered my phone in days, nor my door since Tommy was here. I don’t even know what time everyone is coming and who is coming, or maybe they’ve just given up on me. Just go find another fucking bass player.

I feel like I just got deposited back on earth by a UFO, and I can’t seem to get my brain to tell me what to do. I’m just laying on my living room rug, caught in a sunbeam, strongly shining through the front window onto my collapsed body. 

The sunbeam feels good on me. It gives me a sense that life is still continuing on outside these walls, even though I’ve been absent. I lay and bask in it for a nice, long time, while I try to collect my thoughts. I hear the phone ring again. It doesn’t ever stop. It’s interrupting my time of quiet self-reflection. Just stop!

I don’t want to move out of the sun, so I reach up and grab one of my empty heavy tumblers on the coffee table and throw it at the phone on my desk. The glass hits the receiver and knocks it off the cradle. The receiver falls towards the floor, nearly pulling the body of the phone down with it. Fuck me, I’ve just answered it with the tumbler. Now I’ve got someone on the line, shouting my fucking name. I inch my way over towards the receiver. I grab it, and yell, “What the fuck do you want!?!” 

“Hey asshole. Where the fuck have you been?” I recognize the voice as Vince’s. I tell him to fuck off. He starts yelling at me to not hang up the phone. I can’t anyway; I’m on the floor, the rest of the phone is still on the desk. If I’m not careful, I’m going to pull it down on my head and knock myself out.

He proceeds to shout at me, telling me that everyone has been trying to get in touch with me for the last several days. He tells me that everyone is supposed to be coming over at 2, but they’re all freaking out because I haven’t confirmed shit. I asked why they didn’t just move it to someone else’s fucking house. He tells me that it’s less about the location, than it is about me, and whether I’m going to be there; because if one of the four of us is missing, there’s no point; especially me because well, not only am I the fucking business manager of the band, but I assume I’m the lucky asshole who’s going to be the main topic of conversation. 

I tell him to just come the fuck over. Invite the whole damn world. I don’t care. Vince sighs and softens his voice, says, “Listen, I don’t know what the fuck you have been up to, but everyone seems to be concerned. Are you OK?” I tell him that I’m fine, and I’ll be ready at 2. He then tells me that he and Tommy and Mick want to come by earlier, so that we can discuss our own plan of action before management comes down on us. I ask what time. He said 1pm. I felt foolish having to ask what time it is now. He told me 11:20. I said, OK. See you at 1. 

Fuck all this. I should have told him no. What would happen? They can’t do shit without me. I sit up, and reach up to put the phone receiver back in the cradle. I look around my living room. Alcohol, empty glasses, empty bindles, and a mess of papers on and near my coffee table. Broken glass in the foyer. Large drops of blood on my rug. I suddenly remember that it’s from me punching Tommy in the face. I guess he’s OK. Vince would have said something if he wasn’t. 

Now that I’ve come down from my high, I feel a little badly. I’m not saying that he didn’t deserve it, but maybe I should have at least gotten him a box of tissues or something. I’m not even sure if I’m remembering correctly, or if it was part of a dream or psychotic episode, but I think after I hit him, that he may have been knocking on my bedroom door telling me he loved me. That doesn’t even make sense. I fucking clocked him good.