Perfumed Secrets | Kurt Cobain

It's hard to leave when absolutely nothing's clear

Kurt acted as if he wasn't quite ready to leave, his eyes flicking over her with a blend of concern and quiet resignation.

"Did you hear what I said?" he asked, leaning a little closer, hands shoved in his pockets.

Faye had been sprawled across the bed, barely listening as he packed. Her mind drifted in the lingering haze of their last fix. She caught bits and pieces of his murmured words—directions, tour details, the loose plan he had pieced together. Whether any of it was truly sinking in was another matter.

He left her a crumpled baggie on the nightstand and scribbled a phone number on the back of a Polaroid picture—one of their blurry, late-night photos. 

"That's who you call if you... if you need anything, just like I told you," he said, watching her with that same look of worry barely covered up. He reached over to brush a strand of hair from her face. "I'll call you," he added, the places blurring in her memory as soon as he spoke them.

"Thank you," she murmured, letting the silence stretch as she stared past him, more focused on the feeling of the sheets.

He sighed, finally pushing himself away from the bed and lingering by the door. "Be careful, alright?"

She gave a faint nod. He stood there for a second before leaving without another word.

-x-

Sunlight slanted through the half-closed blinds, too bright and too harsh for whatever hour it was. Faye blinked, squinting against the glare, trying to orient herself. She didn't even know if it was the same day Kurt had left or if she'd slept through to the next. Either way, it hardly mattered. The nagging heaviness was back, settling in her bones, demanding something she couldn't shake off with sleep alone. She felt the press of the mattress beneath her at one point, a vague ache in her arm, but none of it enough to get her up.

She grabbed a cigarette, but it was half-hearted—two drags in and she flicked it into the ashtray, already leaning forward, reaching for the score Kurt had left. She stumbled to the kitchen, barely steady enough to grab a spoon and some water. The cabinets clattered shut as she gathered bleach. It was messy, uncoordinated, but she didn't care. Each step was automatic, every movement too practiced, too fast. She watched as it mixed, then pulled it up slowly, holding her breath as if savoring the moment, the relief already spreading through her nerves before she even felt the prick. It turned out to be more exhilarating than the actual hit.

A day or two bled together in a slow, drowsy haze. Faye barely left the room, moving only when necessary, eating little—just enough to keep from getting sick, but never enough to feel steady. She was vaguely aware of Amy going about her day, the apartment door creaking open and shut, voices filtering through the walls—sometimes familiar, sometimes strangers brought in by her friend. It all felt distant, like a half-forgotten dream slipping away before she could grasp it.

The piercing ring of the telephone jolted her awake, cutting through her haze and pulling her up. She staggered forward, rubbing her face, her arm sore and stiff. For a minute, she wasn't even sure where she was.

"Hello?" Her voice sounded slurred, rough.

"Faye? What's going on?" 

She could barely hear Kurt on the other end. 

"I'm here. Home."

"Are you high right now?" His question was blunt, carrying a weight that pressed down.

"No—well, maybe a little."

"God, Faye," he muttered, frustration clear in his tone. "Have you even stepped outside since I left?"