Rock n' Roll Imagines

'The Magic Pill' (Kurt Cobain)

You sat glued to the couch in your dismal apartment, just staring at the tiny bottle of opioids. Your heart was hammering against your aching ribs. The silence hung like a thick cloud in your dingy apartment. The only noise was a rhythmic tick-tock of the clock on the beaten-up coffee table. Your hands trembled as they picked up the bottle and turned it over nervously.

'What am I doing! I promised Kurt last night that I would NEVER touch these pills again. But... one more wouldn't affect me. Yeah, just one,' you thought, battling the rising guilt that bubbled within your stomach. 'Just one more pill, and then I'll stop tomorrow.'

Flashback:

"I promise Kurt I'll never again touch opioids. I swear, I'm done being a slave to these pills!" you said, handing your best friend the bottle of pills that was ruining your life.

"Promise me Y/N if you ever, and I mean at any time, day or night, are feeling tempted call me. You're my best friend, man, and it would fucking destroy me if you overdosed." Kurt's blue eyes searched yours. "Remember, I overcame my heroin addiction. It's hard, but I know you're strong enough to get through if you have the determination for it."

"I mean it this time, Kurt! I'm through with pills," you replied, giving your friend a reassuring pat on the back. "With your encouragement, I know I can get over this."

"Would you like me to stay for the week? You'll get severe withdrawals."

"Thanks, man! But I think I can handle this."

Ring, ring the telephone screeched, causing you to jump at the sudden noise. Your eyes darted from the phone to the small bottle in your hand. Sighing, you stepped over to the phone, paused, a wave of frustration raised in your chest. Your fists balled in pure rage. With one quick sweep of your arm, the telephone crashed against the apartment wall. Fragments of the phone shattered across the floor. You stomped back to the couch and flopped down onto it. Your bloodshot eyes darted back to the bottle in your hands. With trembling fingers, you twisted the cap off the bottle.

It had been hours since you last had 'the magic pill,' and all you could think of was taking that goddamn pill. Beads of perspiration formed on your forehead. Your breathing had become shaky. Slowly you poured one, then two pills into your hand. With a swift movement of your arm, you tossed the pills into your mouth. You grabbed the bottle of whiskey off the table and washed the pills down. The liquid burned down your throat. Collapsing back against the couch, you waited for that rewarding rush of pleasure.

Instead of pleasure, your head throbbed with a killer migraine. Your fingers rubbed soothingly at your temples. The pain was getting more intense. You snatched the bottle up again and poured two tablets onto the table. Reaching for your visa card, you slowly powdered the pills. With the aid of a twenty-dollar bill, you snorted up the powder. That did it. You felt the familiar sting in your nostrils and a gratifying pleasure.

The thought of Kurt's hurt face flashed into your mind but was quickly replaced with the need for another pill. Gingerly you swallowed another pill. Then it all hit you at once. The colour drained from your face. Something was wrong, the world was spinning. Your stomach lurched, you could hear a voice crying out for help. It was your voice. It sounded weak and panicked. Everything was in a haze, your hands found the floor. You tried to get up, but it was no use the world had faded away into a black blur.

Kurt's POV:

'Why isn't he answering the phone? I've called him like five times!'

"Dave! I'm going to check up on Y/N. He hasn't picked up the phone, and I'm worried about him," Kurt called, snatching up the car keys.