She's A Fan

Hospital

New Years Eve came quickly, as did 1989.

Slash and I spent a lot of sleepy mornings in together, staying in bed until noon. I woke up one particular morning, and he sat at the end of the bed with his guitar in hand, strumming chords; it sounded like he was working on a new song.

He had a cigarette in his mouth and he wore a shark tooth on a chain around his neck; he was beautiful. I crawled over to him and rested my head on his bare back, drawing little hearts on his skin with my fingernail.
"Morning, babygirl."
He put his cigarette out in the ashtray, put his guitar down, and pulled me into his lap, his arms around my waist.

"You look beautiful today," he said.
"You look beautiful every day," I said, kissing his lips, and I laughed, "cigarette breath."
"Morning breath," he laughed back, pushing my messy, dirty hair out of my face.

He laid down with me, holding me tightly in his arms. My heart fluttered in my chest every time that he did this; I loved being close to him.

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Slash was in the shower. I sat in our bedroom, scribbling in my journal.

"Rosalie Hudson. Rosebud Hudson. Rose Hudson."

I was daydreaming about a rock and roll wedding. Things with Slash were perfect the way they were, but the thought of getting to marry him someday made me ecstatic; all three of my names looked even better with his last name following them. I glanced down at the promise ring he'd given me for Christmas, and took a deep breath.

He came out of the bathroom in his pajama pants, his hair in a towel to dry with a few little black curls hanging out over his forehead. He sat down on the bed beside me and kissed me, no talking, and he turned on the TV. I wrapped my arms around him and rested my head on his back; his skin smelled sweet and was soft.

"I'm so happy you're mine," I whispered.
"I'm even happier that you're mine," he whispered back, his lips meeting mine. I was at my best whenever I was with him.

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In the weeks that followed, I started feeling poorly.

This worried me because Slash would be attending and performing at the American Music Awards with Guns N' Roses on the 30th of January, and I'd wanted to go with him.

My body ached, and my throat felt as if I'd swallowed shards of glass.
"Baby, I'm worried about you. I've never seen you in such bad shape."
He gripped my hand and gave me a sad look; I was nearly incoherent because I was so sick. He laid down beside my scantily clothed body - my fever was so high that I felt trapped in my own clothes, so I was hardly wearing any - and he held me in his arms.

"No, baby. I might be contagious-"
"Don't worry about it. If I get sick then at least we'll be sick together," he said, cutting me off. He kissed my forehead, pushing my sweat-soaked hair out of my face. Ola knocked on the door and came in; my eyes were closed so I guess she thought that I was asleep.
"How's Rose?" she whispered.
"Not good. We need to take her to a doctor, Mom. I'm so worried. Just look at her."

I felt a hand on my forehead then.
"Her skin is sallow and she's burning up," Ola remarked, concerned.
"If she gets any worse we're taking her to a doctor. I've never seen her so out of it."

I dozed off not long after that, and I did not hear the rest of the conversation.

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I woke up wheezing and gasping for air in the night.

The only thing I could clearly remember was Slash carrying me downstairs and putting me in his mother's car and driving me somewhere.

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I woke up in a hospital after a long, deep sleep. I was dressed in a thin gown and I had a plastic oxygen mask over my face, and I had some sort of liquid pumping into my arm through an IV. Slash was beside me, dozing in a chair with his head cocked at an uncomfortable angle.

I stared at the ceiling, trying to remember everything that had happened in the night, but I could not.

I still felt terrible; my muscles felt achy and weak, and my throat was scratchy and dry.

Slash woke up then; he was in his pajamas, and his hair was tied back in a ponytail; he'd brought me to the hospital during the very early hours of the morning. Even when he wasn't in all his rock and roll glory, he was still beautiful.

"Babygirl," he whispered, grabbing both of my hands. He kissed my forehead and rested his lips there, and I wrapped my arms around his neck.

"I feel so bad," I croaked, my voice muffled by the oxygen mask, "please make it go away."
"I'm so sorry, baby. You'll be better soon, I promise," he assured me, rubbing his thumb over the back of my hand.
"What did they say was wrong with me?"
"Doctor said you had pneumonia."

I took a deep breath and eased back in bed. A nurse came in to check me over, decided that I was breathing okay now, and took the oxygen mask off of my face. Once she was gone, Slash kissed me on the lips, and he laid down beside me in the hospital bed.

"You're going to get sick. You have an awards show to go to next week," I reminded him.
"So what? And if you're still sick then, I'm not going. They can perform without me."
"Baby, no. I don't want you to miss that. Please get away."

"No. I want to be close to you. I love you and I want you to feel okay. I'm so worried about you," he said, holding me tighter.
"Ow! Babe, I'm sore. Let go."
He loosened his grip.
"Baby, please get away from me. I love being close to you, but I wouldn't be able to live with myself if you caught this thing. I feel like hell and I don't want you to feel this way too."

He reluctantly slid off of the bed and back into his chair, and he wouldn't even hold my hand after that.
"I'm sorry," I whimpered, exhausted. "I wasn't trying to make you feel bad. I just really don't want to make you sick."

He said nothing.

"Please don't be mad at me." Suddenly I was on the verge of sleep; my body felt like I'd been beaten and dragged and I was overall exhausted.
"I can't stay mad at you, baby," he said, kissing my cheek, "but as soon as you're better you'd better cuddle me."

I smiled, and then succumbed to deep, dreamless sleep.