Perfumed Secrets | Kurt Cobain

Every time that we run, we don't know what it's from

Sickness. The taste of cigarettes and bitterness lingered in her mouth. For a second, she wasn't even sure where she was.

Then it hit her.

Shooting up. Staying in California. Leaving all she knew behind, at least for now. 

Her stomach lurched, and she stumbled out of bed, rushing to the bathroom. The cold tiles under her feet sent a shock through her system as she knelt by the toilet, gagging but unable to throw up. She felt weak, her limbs heavy and uncooperative, a tangled mess of anxiety, fear, and the remnants of last night's high still clinging to her. 

Standing in front of the mirror, her reflection was a reminder of the feelings inside her. Her eyes—red-rimmed and dull—stared back at her as if searching for answers she couldn't find. The euphoria from the night before had crumbled into a sense of vulnerability. She glanced around the room, the stillness of it screaming back at her. 

The clock on the bedside table blinked 3:45 PM in bright, accusing digits. Her flight back to Seattle had long since departed and she had slept through almost the entire day. Now, the afternoon light filtered weakly through the curtains, casting the room in a soft, golden hue. It should have felt peaceful, but instead, it felt surreal—like she was standing at the edge of a cliff, and there was no way to go but forward. What now? Her job, college, hell, even Amy—they were all far away, left in limbo, along with any semblance of stability. 

She buried herself on the sheets once more, wishing that all of it would be resolved through her sleep. When she opened her eyes again, the room was bathed in a muted light. Kurt was back, sitting by the window with his guitar resting on his lap, quietly strumming a few chords. She blinked, trying to shake off the lingering grogginess.

"Kurt?" Her voice was raspy, and she felt a sharp pang of nausea. "What time is it?"

"Late," he replied, glancing over at her. "How are you feeling?"

She groaned, pressing a hand to her temple. "Not great. My stomach's been upset all day."

"I figured that might happen." He sighed, setting the guitar aside, crossing the room to sit beside her. "We need to talk about last night."

"There are more important things on my mind," she said, her voice tight. "Like the fact that I'm staying here."

"Why don't you call your mother? She's here in LA and it seems like she wants to be there for you. That could be something stable while you figure what's next."

"I don't even know what I'd say," she muttered.

"Just talk to her," he placed his guitar aside. "The sooner, the better."

She let his words sink in, feeling the weight of her decision to stay pressing down on her. The future seemed unclear, and the anxiety from the day hadn't fully subsided. But at least she wasn't alone in it. "I'll call her," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'll start there."

He leaned back against the pillows, pulling her down with him. "Everything will fall into place."

It felt strange to consider relying on her mother after all these years, but maybe Kurt was right. Maybe she was the safety net she needed, especially now that she was untethered from everything she thought she'd be returning to in Seattle. She turned to the nighstand, her hands shaking as she dialed, almost dropping the receiver. She considered hanging up, but just as her fingers hovered over the cradle, she heard a click and her mother's voice on the other end.

"Mom, it's me," Faye's voice was tight, barely keeping it together.

"Oh, Faye! I've been waiting for your call! Did you make it back to Seattle okay?"