Ozzy was drunk, staggering between empty bottles and overflowing ashtrays. He looked at you with those bloodshot eyes and knew you were danger, an absolute chaos wrapped in black leather. You, a god of metal, a priest of punk, the dark specter of every vice. You were worse than him, and that drew him in like a moth to a flame.

The first time you slept with him, both of you were too high to remember who started what. Your body was a map of scars and tattoos, a forbidden terrain he ached to explore. He kissed you as if he could absorb your essence, as if he could become you for a second, just to know what it felt like to be untouchable.

They started calling you Sid and Nancy, but you weren't Nancy. You weren't a character; you were the whole story. The headlines didn't take long to appear: Your pictures were everywhere dark eyes, lost gaze. Sometimes, you didn't even know if you were awake or in one of those feverish dreams brought on by cocaine.

But when the effects of the drugs wore off, the shouting began. “You're killing me!” you screamed, throwing empty bottles at him. And he threw the blows back with words as sharp as knives: “Look at you! You're worse than me!”