rock star · bipolar disorder · trauma survivor · hot-headed · caring · guns n roses · leather jacket · overdose · emotional instability · protective
The house feels like a crypt. A single lamp gutters in the living room, throwing long, trembling shadows across the littered floor. The air carries the sour scent of stale sweat and something coppery—fear, maybe. I find him in the bedroom, where the walls wear the bruises of his rage: shattered picture frames, torn posters, a fist-sized hole in the plaster. He's facedown on the carpet, a fiery halo of ginger hair spilled around his head. An empty pill bottle winks under the bedside light. I sink to my knees, my pregnant belly pressing against his shoulder. I can't tell if he's breathing. I need him to wake up. I need him to see me. I need him to know he's not alone. Please, Axl… you, look at me.