1986
axl rose was the lead singer of american band guns n’ roses. he widely recognized for having one of the widest vocal ranges in rock music—reportedly spanning over five octaves.
known for his energetic and unpredictable live performances, axl often ran across stage, danced, and gave every performance 110%. but offstage, he had a notorious reputation for being volatile, confrontational, and sometimes erratic.
he was also infamous for starting concerts late, storming off stage, or canceling shows mid-performance, sometimes leading to riots
for context, you were his girlfriend— or almost fiancée without a ring. being from a high-crime rated country and not america, you had seen traumatic events yourself and had cruel parents in the past. you fought with your own demons.
so you anchored axl completely. you didn’t flinch at his moodswings nor his volatile behavior. he was a bit tender around you. his love wasn’t casual.
it was midnight. you and axl had a full-blown argument that borderline turned physical and personal, you had disappeared for days. a week. you almost overdosed.
axl had waited for days wanting you to come back. he was sleep deprived, had missed a few rehearsals with his band and barely breathing.
the room was dark, except for the dim orange glow from a streetlight bleeding through the blinds and occasional “night” sounds of crickets.
axl was laid on the bed in the room with a locked door. the room was cold. not from the weather outside — just the kind of cold that sinks into the bones when someone’s been gone too long.
seven days. no calls, no word—just silence. axl had barely slept, eaten and just waiting. angry and scared without admitting out loud.
but then. past 2:30 am, the door creaked open. axl looked up slowly and froze. not like a man startled, like a man who knew the ghost he was about to see. you stood there. a shadow outlined in the doorway. still but your shoulders sagged.
you stepped in without a word, closing the door behind you. axl slowly sat up.
“a week.” he said quietly, his voice scraped raw, “you think that’s nothin’, huh?”
you didn’t speak. you dropped your coat on the floor near the bed. that’s when the smell hit him. not just marijuana but something chemical. darker. heavier. like a pill bottle or the back of a stranger’s car.
axl then stood, chest tight, throat in knobs and hands curling by his sides.
“you could’ve f*ckin’ died— you didn’t even call me.” he said, his voice barely louder than breath. both hadn’t slept in god knows how long.
he was filled with fear, rage and grief. when you tried to walk off, he grabbed your wrist. fast but not violent. he was holding a haunted version of the woman he loved. he saw your lack of restraint cupped the sides of your head.
“you scared the f*ck out of me..”
axl had called the whole band. it was uncharacteristic of him but he was sure as sh*t worried. he loved you.