𝙄𝙍𝙄𝙎

Kerry Ireland

AUGUST, 1994

The drive through Kerry was beautiful in its rugged simplicity. The narrow, winding roads that seemed to stretch endlessly through rolling green fields, the mist that clung to the hills like a memory, and the occasional farmhouse tucked away in the distance. Dave was lost in thought, his hands loosely gripping the wheel as the car coasted over the slick asphalt. The fog from the morning had not quite lifted, but it only added to the feeling of isolation he had come to embrace. The quiet, the stillness, the distance from everything that had happened back home in Seattle. It was all supposed to heal him. But every so often, a dark cloud would hang over him, an unmistakable reminder that no matter how far he drove, no matter how many miles he put between himself and the past, there was no escaping what he had left behind.

It was just before midday when he spotted him. A lone hitchhiker standing by the side of the road, thumb raised high in the air, waiting for someone to stop. His figure was small in the vast landscape, but Dave's eyes instinctively drifted to him as he neared.

Without thinking, Dave slowed down, the car coming to a near stop just meters away from the hitchhiker. The man, wearing a heavy jacket despite the mild weather, looked up at him from a distance, his face unreadable behind a scruffy beard and sunglasses. Dave didn't hesitate; it was in his nature to help, to give someone a ride when they needed it.

He was about to roll down the window when something caught his eye. The hitchhiker's t-shirt.

The soft gray fabric bore the unmistakable image of Kurt Cobain. His face frozen in time, that wild, untamed expression captured in a photo from a shoot years ago. It was the same t-shirt Dave had seen countless times in photos, at shows, in interviews. He felt his stomach drop.

For a brief moment, Dave sat frozen, his fingers on the handle of the door, his heart suddenly racing. The sight of that t-shirt, the sight of Kurt's face, so familiar, so constant in his mind— it felt like a punch to the chest. His lungs tightened, and a wave of dizziness rushed over him. He quickly turned his gaze away, trying to steady himself, but the image of the shirt haunted him.

The hitchhiker was still standing there, oblivious, his thumb still raised expectantly, beginning to notice Dave had slowed. But in that moment, it felt like Dave couldn't breathe, couldn't think. He had thought he was far enough removed from Seattle, far enough removed from the reminders of Nirvana, but it had followed him here. It was like a tether, invisible but strong, that wouldn't let him escape.

Dave slammed his hand against the steering wheel, feeling the panic surge inside him. It was like a tidal wave, coming at him too fast to control. His hands started to shake, and his vision blurred. The road seemed to stretch endlessly ahead, but it was no longer a place of solace. It felt like a trap. He hadn't come all the way to Ireland just to have this memory follow him, just to see Kurt's face in every corner of the world.

"I can't," he muttered to himself, his voice shaking.

He took a deep breath, his pulse hammering in his ears. The hitchhiker was now standing still, looking up at Dave's vehicle with slight expectance- but it was no longer about the stranger by the side of the road. It was about Dave's inability to escape the grief that followed him everywhere. Kurt's death, the band, the years they'd spent together; it was all still with him, no matter how far he ran.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't pick up the man, not like this. Not when the weight of the past had him locked inside his own head.

With a shaky sigh, Dave pushed his foot onto the gas pedal, glancing in the rearview mirror one last time. He saw the hitchhiker walking away slowly, a quiet figure against the rolling hills. Dave's chest tightened, and the familiar pang of guilt gnawed at him. But he couldn't stay here, in the quiet, in the memory of what had been. He couldn't let Kurt's face haunt him anymore. Not today.

The panic still lingered, like a bad taste in the back of his throat, but he pushed it down as best he could, focusing on the road ahead. The further he drove, the more it seemed like he was trying to outrun something that was never really going to go away.

The next morning, Dave woke with a sharp sense of clarity. It wasn't Ireland that was wrong—it was his attempt to escape, to avoid confronting the truth. He needed to go back to Seattle. Not to relive the past, but to face it head on. He needed to be in the place where it all started, to pick up the pieces of what had been lost, and to find a way to move forward.

He wasn't sure what that meant for his future, but he knew one thing for certain: running wasn't going to fix anything. He had to go back. He had to face the music.

As he packed his bags, his fingers brushing over the strings of the guitar he had nearly abandoned, Dave felt a shift inside him. It wasn't peace, but it was something else. A quiet understanding that, no matter how hard it was, no matter how much it hurt, he had to move forward.

And that meant going home.

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A/N 

true story btw !

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