Cigarettes and Alcohol

The Cobain Family

"Who the fuck is she Kurt? You never let people stay over! Are you cheating on me or some shit?!"

I was woken up to the sound of what appeared to be a banshee coming from the kitchen. I decided not to move and just lie there to let this play out. I didn't want to be involved in an argument with a splitting headache.

"She said she didn't know where her friends were Courtney! She had no idea where she was so I thought I'd just call her a cab in the morning, I couldn't just kick her out!"
Ah, so it was Courtney. The murderer herself. Well, possibly the murderer to be.

"Fuck you Kurt, you ass! You're supposed to be in rehab for Christ's sake!"

It sounded like she was walking out to the drive through the kitchen door, slamming it as she stormed off. I heard Kurt Mutter before chasing after her.

I heard several yells, some stomping and kicking of gravel, likely on Courtney's part, and then,

"What the fuck is this new car? You need to fucking tell me about these things!"

"Fuck you Kurt! Fuck this, I'm going to Billy's."

There was some more yelling from Kurt, the sound of a car door slamming, then a car leaving the drive.

It was at this point I decided to make Kurt aware of my being awake, so, as I was getting up, I noticed a blanket had been put over me. Without giving it too much thought as this was so not the time for thinking about Kurt Cobain putting a blanket on me, I pulled it off, adjusted my dress and my jacket, and walked over to the kitchen door. Feeling around in my pockets, I decided not to address what was in there right now. Outside, Kurt was crouched outside with his head in his hands.

The door squeaked as I pushed it open and he looked over. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights, but quickly recovered and walked over, kicking some gravel and not looking at me. Pushing past me and grabbing a glass from the counter, he got some water from the tap and some Advil from the drawers below and put them on the table before pouring another glass for himself.

Still leaning on the doorframe, I asked,

"Are you.. Alright?"

He responded by tipping a few too many of the painkillers into his hand and taking them.

"Just don't go to the press, okay?"
He said, getting up.

"I'll get you to sign an NDA or something, I have a few copies in my desk somewhere I think."

Was he serious?

"You don't have to do that, it's horrible that people have all their relationship drama and problems in life smeared across gossip mags. I'd never tell anyone, it's your private business."

He turned around and stared at me, seemingly shocked.

"You don't want money or something?"

"No, god no. I'd never want to take anything from you, or blackmail you or anything. That'd be so cruel." I responded.
"Do you really have to worry about that stuff, does it happen a lot?"

"You have no idea." he responded quietly.

I guess he decided I was trustworthy, because he went back to get his glass and leant against the counter. I suppose not trustworthy enough to sit next to though. We sat in silence for a couple of minutes drinking our glasses of water. I tapped my fingers on the table while looking around the kitchen, considering my situation. This doesn't seem to be some weird dream. I'm literally in Kurt Cobain's house. He's literally not dead. What in the world am I gonna do.I could tell by the way he was looking at me he was deciding what to do with me, so I decided to break the silence.

"I don't have anywhere to go.0

There was a pause. Then,

"You told me you got baked and your friends left without you."

"Well. I'm assuming I came here with friends. Pretty much, the last thing I remember was snorting some unknown substance back in England three days ago, and I guess I blacked out and went on a three day bender and somehow ended up in the US and in Kurt Co-fucking-bain's house and I'm sorry I lied, I wasn't thinking straight, I don't have any clue how I got here and I don't know what to do-"
I stopped. I really needed to shut up.

There was a longer pause this time. I guess he was deciding whether to buy my story.

"I guess I could get you a flight back or something.."

He jumped when I hit my head on the table. What the fuck was I going to do.

'What's wrong with that?'

I decided to just give him a story that might convince him to let me stay here or something. I know I must've been sent here for a reason. I can't go back to an England I don't know and a time that I don't exist in yet. Or at least, if I am dreaming, I don't wanna leave my dreamboat celebrity idol.

"I'm gonna be honest with you."

Definitely not honest.

"My mum's dead, my dad's a drinker, and a dealer will literally hunt down and blow my brains out when they found out I have this."

I pull out 3oz of weed from my jacket pocket and put it on the table. I guess I picked it up at the squat back in England or something? Or maybe the divine Gods of fate decided to give me an excuse to stay, and give me what appeared to be some fine grass at the same time.

"I don't know how I got it, but I do know that I'm not supposed to have it. And it's enough to get me bloody slaughtered for."

He stared at me. Then at the weed. Then back at me.

"I'm sorry to put you in this position, I guess I could figure something out on my own,"
"No no, it's alright, I guess I can think of something-"

We were interrupted by the sound of a car pulling in on the gravel drive. He turned around and got up to look out at the door and I quickly snatched the ziplock bag and jammed it back into my pocket.
I got up to go and, I don't know, hide or something. Looking around at the kitchen, or the sofa, or for some cupboard or something to hide in, he put his hand out to let me know it wasn't Courtney. So I relaxed a little in my seat.

After the engine cut out, there was the sound of a car door opening and closing, then another one opening and closing. Then footsteps on the gravel.

Then a baby crying.

Frances.