Perfumed Secrets | Kurt Cobain

I couldn't walk and I tried to run

"This isn't going to last, is it?" Kurt whispered one morning—or maybe afternoon; she couldn't tell anymore. They'd both shot up, and she was on his arms, her body limp, her mind drifting somewhere between sleep and a daze.

She didn't answer. She couldn't. 

Days had spiraled into an intense, drug-fueled binge. Kurt would leave for the studio during the day, but Faye barely found the strength to leave the bed. Together, they would lose themselves completely, trapped in a cycle that was equal parts reckless and intimate, a dizzying dance between euphoria and despair.

There were moments where everything felt perfect—those brief highs where they laughed uncontrollably at something stupid, or when Kurt, in an instant of sweetness, kissed her forehead and told her she was the only thing that made sense to him. She'd hold onto those fleeting seconds of tenderness as if they could somehow make up for everything else. They shared secrets they probably wouldn't remember, touching on fragments of their pasts as if they were exposing themselves but not really caring who was listening.

But then, just as quickly, the softness would fade, replaced by a sweet agony.

They pushed themselves further each time, chasing a feeling that never fully came. Kurt's mood shifted unpredictably—from laughter to silence, from affection to distant indifference.

And there was no escaping it.

"We're leaving tomorrow night."

"What?" she mumbled, still dazed, wiping at her face as if it would help. "Leaving?" She couldn't tell what he was talking about. 

"Yeah. We have to, at one point." He said it so casually, like it wasn't news, like she hadn't been drowning in the bubble they had created, losing track of time, of her surroundings.

But before she could respond, Kurt's tone shifted. "You could always stay with your mom. If you'd rather do that."

It wasn't just what he said but how he said it. She felt small again, suffocated by the idea of staying behind.

"No," she blurted out, the panic creeping into her voice. "I won't." 

She couldn't even fully explain why. The idea of separating from him, no matter how messed up things had become, terrified her. Everything between them was tangled in ways she couldn't understand. Love, drugs, highs and the lows—they were all intertwined now, inseparable.

Kurt just looked at her, an unreadable flick in his eyes before shrugging, like her desperation didn't surprise him at all. 

"Alright," he said, his voice softening, though it still carried a hint of careful detachment. Or perhaps she was reading too much into it, she tried to convince herself.

It didn't take long to switch off whatever the conversation with another hit, her hands moving through the praparation like a defense mechanism. She tied off her arm and squinted, trying to find a vein. Her skin already bore the purple shadows of previous attempts, making it harder. She prodded her arm with the needle, frustration rising as she missed it again and again.

Kurt sat on the edge of the bed, trying not to watch her. After a few minutes of struggling, he sighed, leaning back against the headboard. "You're just gonna give yourself more bruises."

She glanced at him briefly, the room suddenly feeling too small, too oppressive. Swallowing hard, she tried to steady herself, to block it all out. But the needle slipped again, a frustrated sigh escaped her as she blinked back tears. She didn't need Kurt to say it—she already felt useless, pathetic. But that wasn't the point. 

"I can do it."

"You want me to help you or not?" 

It wasn't an offer filled with kindness—it was more of an expectation, a reminder of how far she had gone. She delayed, her eyes darting to the needle again. But her hands were shaking, and she was too overwhelmed to argue. Wordlessly, she handed it to him.