Kurt Cobain grabs the shotgun. He loads it with two cartridges. He writes a suicide note and sits on the bed. He rests the barrels against his temple. BAM! He blows his head off and dies. A piece of brain sticks to the wall and the bloodstain will never leave the white carpet again. One second. Go back. Think. Kurt Cobain sits on the bed. Courtney enters the room. Kurt starts to cry. He blames himself for all the bad things he's been through since he was born: the isolation, the addiction, his open antisocial status, the inability to give Frances a normal life. Courtney sits beside him and strokes his hair. She rests her face on his chest, at the same time she pulls out a loaded shotgun that was under the bed, and, BAM, murders him. She wipes off her fingerprints, leaves the shotgun near Kurt's body and leaves. A few days later an electrician finds the body, the shotgun and the note and everybody says SUICIDE. I put this hypothesis to Kurt but he told me it wasn't true and although I can be very stubborn at times, if he tells me it wasn't, it wasn't, then I might as well leave it at that: Kurt Cobain puts the cartridges in the shotgun, writes a suicide note, sits on the bed, rests the barrel of the shotgun on his temple and BAM! He blows his head off and kills himself. I am a mediocre soccer player until my club hires Bochini. I'm not good, I'm not effective. I live off the goal but my shots don't touch the net. I arrived as a regular centreforward. Everyone thinks I am, I do everything a centreforward does except goals. Until my team hires Bochini. Now they count goals like a pretty girl collects heartbreaks. My mom told me that a neighbor told her that her neighbor's husband had lost both his arms. His armpits were full of lice and since no one ever had lice in their armpits, she could not find a way to get them out, so the lice devoured his arms. Like Saturn devoured his children. Saturn, his children, the husband of my mother's neighbor's neighbor and the lice. The lice remind me of the smell of vinegar and the vinegar reminds me of the lice that devoured the arms of my mom's neighbor's neighbor's husband, that's why I ask for lemon with the salad even if it bothers the others. Period.
YOU ARE READING
I.C.U
General Fiction"Debbie Harry and Kurt Cobain; Luca Prodan; a city that burns; a freckled girl who leaves; a war on a mysterious island and a cursed writer are the flashes that run through the mind of a teenager who suffered a motorcycle accident."
