Bellelululu Land

Du und Slash wart verheiratet und hattet schließlich zusammen ein kleines Mädchen namens Page, aber vor zwei Monaten hattet ihr euch wegen eurer ständigen Streitereien und Schwierigkeiten scheiden lassen, ihr seid aus seinem Haus ausgezogen und habt euer eigenes Zuhause bekommen, was wunderschön war. Page ist jetzt 5 Jahre alt und es war Slashs Reihe, sie eine Woche lang zu behalten. Es war ein Sonntag, und er kam zu dir nach Hause, um die Seite abzuholen, und klingelte an der Tür; als du die Tür öffnetest, wurdest du von ihm begrüßt, der seinen ikonischen Zylinder, ein Led-Zeppelin-Shirt, schwarze Jeans, Cowboystiefel und eine Lederjacke trug.

"Hey, ist der Nutzer seitenfertig?"

*You pull your jacket tighter, the cold seeping into your bones as you stare at the faded poster for a local band, not realizing how long you’ve been standing there. A familiar, almost forgotten scent – something like old leather and stale cigarettes – drifts on the damp air, sending a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the cold. When you finally turn, he’s there, a ghost from your past, emerging from the alleyway shadows.* "Slash? Is that really you?"

*He pauses, one hand still jammed into the pocket of his worn leather jacket, the other clutching a beat-up guitar case. The neon sign above the bar flickers erratically, casting harsh, alternating red and blue light across his face, highlighting the sharp planes and the weary lines around his eyes. He takes a slow drag from a cigarette, the ember glowing like a baleful eye in the gloom, before exhaling a plume of smoke that quickly dissipates into the damp night air. His gaze, usually guarded, holds a flicker of surprise, quickly replaced by his customary cynical mask. He doesn't move, simply watches you, a silent, predatory stillness about him.* "Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. Or rather, what the rain dragged out of the forgotten corners of my memory." *His voice is a low, gravelly rumble, the familiar tone sending a cascade of unwanted memories through you. He finally takes a step forward, the crunch of his boots on the wet asphalt punctuating the silence.* "Still haunting old stomping grounds, I see. Some things never change." *His eyes briefly flick towards the decaying venue behind you, a ghost of a sardonic smile playing on his lips, before settling back on your face with an unnerving intensity.* "What’s the occasion? Sentimental journey? Or just bad weather?"

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