Perfumed Secrets | Kurt Cobain

Waves don't die

Faye stood by the weathered picket fence, staring at the ocean, carrying memories of her upbringing in Westport, Washington. It was a typically cloudy and windy day in the Pacific Northwest, the overcast sky a canvas of gray. The small coastal town, nestled amid the rugged cliffs and serene—yet agitated, ocean waves, had been her home ever since she was born. It had been her sanctuary for as long as she could recall. Every gust of the salty breeze carried fragments of memories—the laughter of childhood, the tender moments, the echoes of distant dreams. Nostalgia wrapped around her, but filled with apprehension. The relentless crashing of waves mirrored the turmoil swirling within her. 

Her thoughts churned like the restless ocean. One week remained before she embarked on a new chapter promising escape from the stagnation of familiarity. Yet, mingled with her eagerness was a torrent of doubts—doubts about her choices, about her ability to adapt, about the void she'd leave behind.

As she gazed at the waves crashing against the shore, a profound sense of loss settled in her chest. The ocean, once a comforting constant in her life, now seemed an embodiment of change—a reminder that life, like the tides, was in a perpetual state of flux. Each passing moment felt laden with significance. She pondered the complexities of the upcoming transition. She mulled over the weight of expectations—expectations she placed upon herself, expectations others held for her—as she prepared to leave the city and embrace her new college life. An internal battle raged within her, oscillating between excitement for the new opportunities and the profound ache of leaving behind the comfort of home. The decision to leave was both liberating and daunting, a paradox that tugged at her heartstrings. But deep inside, she knew what her heart was yearning for. She just wanted to see the world for herself, on her own terms.

She was going to study English at University of Washington, in Seattle, known for its excellent programs in literature, arts, and humanities. Literature was a subject close to her heart, despite the lingering doubts that gnawed at her mind. She knew that the English program there would fulfil her wishes. Her long-term aspirations weren't limited to a career as a traditional teacher or author, but extended to a quest for knowledge, empathy, and a deeper connection with the world. She envisioned her degree as a tool—a lens through which she could embrace the richness of diverse cultures and using this understanding to shape her own narrative, a narrative woven from the threads of experiences, emotions, and discoveries.

The sun dipped towards the horizon and Faye reluctantly tore away from the familiar embrace of the beach. The breeze carried a slight chill, signaling the retreat of summer's warmth and the onset of a cooler evening. With each step homeward, her mind remained tangled in contemplation. As the last vestiges of daylight gave way to twilight, she reached the threshold of her house, turning to cast a final look back at the receding shoreline.

"Hey, Faye, how's the packing going?" Her step-mother, Catherine, inquired, her voice echoing from the living room as soon as she closed the front door.

"It's coming along," she replied, with a hint of uncertainty. It came as an automatic response, although the image of the half-filled suitcase builded up her mind after the fast replying.

"Do you need any help? I could assist you with sorting through things," her step-mother stood up from the chair, her eyes betraying a genuine concern that Faye had always found difficult to fully embrace.

Faye paused, the offer both heartening and discomforting at once. She knew her gesture was a genuine attempt to alleviate the weight of the move. Yet, beneath the surface, an inexplicable reluctance nagged at her, a reluctance to accept help, a fear of being a burden washed over her.

"No, I'm good. Thanks, though," Faye responded, her tone polite but guarded, the walls she'd spent years constructing firmly in place.

Amidst the scattered remnants of her belongings strewn across the room, Faye was wrestling with the lingering tasks of packing. A jumble of thoughts mingled within her as she meticulously folded clothes and sorted through her keepsakes—a process that seemed to stretch endlessly. Her initial enthusiasm for the journey to Seattle stood at odds with an unspoken reluctance, an unexpected anchor that stalled her progress. At times, Faye's struggle to finish packing stemmed from a concoction of procrastination and a penchant for being easily sidetracked. The act of organizing her life into suitcases became an arduous challenge. It wasn't merely the physical act of packing but the weight of attachments that made the task an uphill battle, a silent protest against the impending departure.

The weariness of the day led her into a hazy slumber, reluctant to give any more thought into her current situation. Suddenly, she was jolted awake by the clamor of voices echoing from downstairs, tearing through the fragile veil of sleep. Her heart pounded erratically as the sounds pierced through her subconscious, igniting an unsettling wave of memories. Reality intruded upon her reverie as she recognized the voices— her step-sister Elizabeth's and a few of her friends, their exuberance bouncing off the walls of the house. The torrential downpour outside seemed to have ignited the girls to run inside. The cacophony of sounds—a stark contrast to the usual serenity of the house—acted as an abrupt alarm, shattering the tranquility that enveloped her.

Startled awake, Faye found herself momentarily disoriented, the echoes of loud voices reminded her of a distant past—an era when her parents' raucous arguments reverberated through the walls. Those echoes, now morphed into joyous screams, served as a reminder of the tumultuous years before her parents' separation—a period when the tranquility she sought was eclipsed by the storms of their turbulent relationship. For a brief, disconcerting moment, she was four years old again.

With a deep inhale, she shook off the haunting reverie, determined to relegate the disquieting memories to the recesses of her mind. Steeling against the emotional surge, she refocused her attention on the task at hand. As Faye gave her all into the packing situation, she lost track of time once again. She was brought back to reality by her father's voice, drawing her attention to the doorway where he stood.

"Dinner's almost ready," she detected an undertone of wistfulness masked by his attempt to appear composed.

"I'll be down in a minute," she avoided his gaze, but could feel the tension from miles away.

Her father lingered for a moment, a moment that seemed like eternity for her, a silent acknowledgment passing between them—a silent exchange heavy with unspoken sentiments. There was a palpable hesitation, a longing to bridge the gap of those emotions, yet both seemed to falter at the threshold of vulnerability. Both of them were not very good at expressing their feelings, at least not to each other.

He cleared his throat, an almost imperceptible hint of hesitancy in his voice. "Your mother mentioned she'd like to hear from you once you're settled," he brought up casually, perhaps hoping to reignite a connection that seemed long dormant. Faye's reaction was a subtle withdrawal, a veiled attempt to skirt around the subject.

"I'll think about it," she replied softly, her voice betraying her reluctance to delve into the complexities of her relationship with her mother, who was now living down in California. Their conversation hung momentarily in the air, burdened with the weight of unresolved emotions. With a nod, her father retreated, leaving her to sit with her emotions once again. And with the rain as her companion, she carried on, one step closer to the dawn of a new beginning and a prelude to the unwritten pages awaiting Faye Carter in Seattle.