Starry I think not (terrorcest)

Dancing on glass

Nikki Sixx

"FUUUUCKKK!" I scream, slamming my head against the steering wheel. I have no other words for my predicament. Literally only fuck.

The ache in my head brings me slightly back to earth. I look around, realizing I'm still in the studio parking lot. I wonder what the press would say about "bad boy rocker" Nikki Sixx having an utter meltdown in his car.

People seem to think that being a star means that you always have to be outgoing, which I never was. Why do people think I hide behind my hair? It's a cloaking agent.

I just want to tear myself limb from limb right now. I feel like such a fucking idiot for letting Tommy go all those years ago. I was fucking dumb. I still am.

And now I'm going to have to stand there, watching him profess his love to a stupid bimbo that probably doesn't feel the same deep down inside.

I'm gonna have to watch as he falls more deeply in love every day. I'm gonna have to watch the pain on his face when she ultimately leaves him. And I'm gonna hold him, like I do every time he falls head over heels and gets his heart smashed.

I'm gonna hold him while he cries, and I'm going to wish I could tell him that I'm in love with him and I just didn't know how to admit it. But it's painfully obvious that he doesn't feel the same way.

I glance at the dashboard as I turn the car on, pulling the gearshift back. Maybe you should drive straight into a tree, get it all over with. It would look like an accident. Nobody would ever know Sixx. Nobody would ever know that you purposely did it.

I shake my head of that disturbing thought. I don't want to leave the guys behind. What I need right now is a good high. And to get the fuck out of here before any of the guys come after me.

I barely remember the drive home, but before I know it I'm stumbling into my mansion in Van Nuys. Home Sweet Hell. I haven't let anyone except my dealer and the occasional one night stand in here in over a month.

Not even Tommy, Vince, or Mick has seen whats become of my home, and me to an extent. It's almost as dark as my soul, if I even have one left.

I rip open drawers, desperately searching for an unused needle. It's always better to have a clean one, but in certain circumstances a used one will do.

I find a syringe and traipse upstairs to my bedroom. I pull out a baggie of coke and my hourly dose of heroin. I can't even say daily dose. I'm using so much it costs about 1,000$ a day, maybe more.

Good thing I'm a rockstar huh? I burn the liquid and prep my needle. Then I grab my tie-off, stained with blood and sweat. I yank it tightly around my arm as my veins begin to bulge.

The needle hovers above my arm, as I decide which lucky vein will be my victim. I pick one, injecting the glorious numbing liquid into my body. Seconds later, I start to feel the high.

Tommy may have found the love of his life in heather, but heroin is mine. It'll be my love until it kills me.

I freebase, to balance it out, and then stumble downstairs, nearly tripping as the mixture of coke kicks in.

As I think more and more about Tommy, and how I lost him, I get angrier.

GOD YOU'RE SO FUCKING DUMB

THIS WOULDN'T HAVE HAPPENED IF YOU WEREN'T SUCH A STUPID FAG.

YOU STUPID FUCKING SLUT

YOU SHOULD HAVE LISTENED WHEN I SAID DRIVE INTO A TREE.

NOW YOU'RE STUCK!!!

The voices in my head are like some sick fucking song. I can't take it, and yet I live through it. If anyone ever saw what I did, all alone, they would be terrified.

I punch the wall, trying to break a hole in it. Then I lay my eyes on one of the things that it isn't broken.

I've always made sure not to break it in my drug fueled psychosis. I did once and then cried for an hour. It's not much, just a framed photo of me and Tommy.

I know it's stupid, but it's one of my favorite photos. We're wrapped around each other smiling like the demons we are.

But today, instead of calming me down, the photo only fills me with more anger.

"FUCK YOU HEATHER!" I scream, grabbing the photo and throwing it at the wall, smashing the glass into a million pieces on the floor.

I kick at the glass, scattering it and cutting my legs. That's not enough though, so I smash the table the picture had been on, and then throw it to the ground.

My body is burning with pain and I twist and yank at my hair, wishing this fucking shitstorm I call a life would end tight now.

"FUCK!" I scream again, tears streaming down my cheeks, invisible hands choking me.

By now, I can hear other voices.

"Nikki..."

"Come on Nikki we won't hurt you."

"We just wanna talk."

"SELL US YOUR SOUL."

I scream in pure terror, my heart pounding in my chest. I shoot up the stairs, knocking artwork and awards off the walls as I go. My heart races as I slam my door shut, grabbing my shotgun, ready to kill me or anyone else who dares to come in.

I aim it at myself, but only for a second, because I can hear the ghostly voices and pounding. After a few minutes it stops, and I reach for my journal. I take a break to shoot up again, and all of the sudden, I hear another voice.

A torturous voice. One that I wish had stayed out of my delusions. Only, it wasn't a delusion.

A/N: I read that mixing heroin and cocaine often gave Nikki crazy psychotic delusions. He said that often he saw the government breaking into his house and that he would hole up in his room with a shotgun.

It's actually quite terrifying.