OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

ninety-five.

APRIL 5th, 1994, SEATTLE, WA 

            REAGAN WAS COLD. From the inside out, her skin had frozen over and she was icy to the touch, requiring a jacket to shroud her even as she sat ramrod straight on the edge of her couch. 

Dave was standing. He was too keyed up to sit, preferring to occasionally pace before he stopped, leaning against the wall with a far off look in his eye. Gracie was down for a nap, enabling Dave to turn himself over to his thoughts. Just like Reagan was doing.

They didn't say a word to each other. Every now and then, their eyes would lock and the passage of their mutual pain would flow. Dave's jaw would tighten, his lips would purse and he'd look away. Reagan suspected that bearing witness to her torment didn't make anything easier on him.

She couldn't see an alternative. She had no choice but to be numb to anything besides the apex of her pain, a pyramid scale of worry and heartbreak that was tearing her apart. If it hadn't been for the small things, such as the air conditioning churning on and off, she would have likely forgotten that she was still a living, breathing creature.

Kurt was missing.

Just repeating those three words inside her head made Reagan curl her hand into a fist, digging her fingernails into her palm. 

She should have been accustomed to that knowledge. She'd been mentally chanting it to herself, like some kind of sick mantra, since Dave had been phoned with the news. 

Kurt was missing. Disappeared from the rehabilitation center that he'd shunted himself off too. 

A joke. A stupid, terrible bluff that they'd all bought. And yet, Reagan could not blame him.

The desire to assign Kurt blame was impossible to locate. She refused to be mad at him, to curse his name under her breath like Dave had, even though he'd done so out of fear and concern. All Reagan was capable of was remaining mute, succumbing to the sharp, probing ache that had paralyzed her body.

Kurt was missing, no one could find him, and there was no telling what would happen next. According to Courtney, he was in possession of a shotgun. 

The phone trilled from the kitchen, causing Reagan and Dave to both jerk. Dave casted an annoyed glance towards the source of the noise. The phone had been ringing off the hook for the past twenty-four hours, fielding calls from Nirvana's management, family members, friends, friends of friends. Everyone had the same two questions poised for Reagan and Dave -- where did they think Kurt was, and were they okay?

Reagan settled her gaze into her lap, staring at her hands as Dave disappeared into the kitchen to answer the call. While she examined her bony, paled wrists, she thought of the last person she'd spoken to on the phone. Ginny. Dave's mother had called that morning, softly assuring them both that everything would be okay. She was the only person who Reagan was willing to accept that lie from.

Dave's voice trailed from the kitchen where he spoke urgently. It was a brief call, ending with the rattle of the phone being jammed back onto its hook.

Don't tell me, Reagan thought. Don't tell me who it was and what they said. 

It had become a game now. As the day had grown longer, the ringing of the phone had turned into a thing to be weary of. Although they didn't say it out loud, Reagan and Dave were both waiting for the final account on Kurt's whereabouts, a message that was certain to be more bad than good.

Dave reentered the living room, sighing and combing his fingers back through his short mop of hair. When he saw Reagan refusing to look at him, he finally went to her, lowering himself down to his knees. His hands slid over her thighs and he tilted his head, trying to snare her gaze with his own.