Everything & Nothing

all apologies - 2

"Please don't scream," he urges, with harsh desperation. "Please."

I take a moment, but eventually manage a slight nod. My assailant studies me intently for a few moments and then slowly lets me go, stepping back one pace. Taking him in, my mouth drops yet again. I am ninety-nine percent sure that I've consumed expired soy milk and now I'm hallucinating because the food poisoning is getting to my head.

"Kurt Cobain?" I ask, just to be sure.

"Oh, Jesus Christ! Yes." He nods vigorously. "Yes, it's me and I don't know how I got here, but I mean you absolutely no harm..."

All I can think right now is that the Cintamani Stone worked... I rub my eyes again, I pinch myself, and he's still there. The same sky-blue, bloodshot eyes, the same golden mane, and the very same low, husky voice from the songs on my phone. "But," I wonder, "how's this even possible?"

"I... I don't know," Kurt says, looking around himself. "What's happening?"

I slowly venture closer to the impossibility, reaching out with a hand to touch him. Kurt immediately steps backwards, inching away from my reach. "Hey," I say softly, as though talking to a scared deer, "hey, I am not going to hurt you. I just need to know if you're really real."

"What?" Kurt stands still, cautiously watching me as I raise my hand to his head and capture a lock of his hair between my thumb and my forefinger; it's so silky, and real! I poke his cheek; deciding that it's actual flesh. Then I pinch his shoulder, he winces and slaps me hand away. "Ow! Are you done? I don't like being touched."

I think it's pretty much been established that he is all solid and tangible and in my bedroom! "Yeah, I'm sorry." I give him a once over; he's dressed in an oversized, olive green sweater, fingerless gloves, and light blue jeans. Every bit of clothing is streaked in grass-stains and dirt and his feet are bare—he's not even wearing socks. A thought strikes me then, and I question, "what's the last thing you remember?"

"I..." Kurt's brows wrinkle in concentration. "I was in my home in Seattle. I—I..."

When he stumbles, his stare dazed and his expression lost, something in me makes me grab ahold of him and lead him to my bed. I sit him down and kneel in front of him. "You remember?"

Kurt nods, his eyes welling up. "I remember writing a letter to Boddah. Then I held a gun to my chin and after that..." He chokes, tears finally spilling over, and he begins sobbing so hard that my heart breaks. He's hiccupping softly, sniffling and rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. I don't know what to do, so I simply pat his left knee as comfortingly as I can. We stay like this for the next ten minutes, and I begin pondering on the legitimacy of this situation again; am I dreaming? How's this come to be? The Stone was authentic? Ultimately, I'm snapped out of my lost thoughts by his voice, "I'm supposed to be dead, aren't I?"

How should I respond to that? I can't lie about it, and even if I can, how am I supposed to cover up a truth as vicious as this? I nod. "Yes..."

"How did I come back?"

"I don't know..." I falsify this once, because I cannot tell him that a jokingly made wish is what brought him back to the life he hadn't wanted to live.

"How long have I been gone?" He seems close to becoming suicidal again, and that makes me feel guiltily responsible. I can't let him kill himself again, especially since it's because of me he's back in the first place.

"About twenty-three years," I answer gently. "I'm so sorry..."

"I need to see them all," Kurt says, putting his face in his palms. "I need to tell them that I'm sorry for what I did... Courtney, Krist, Dave and the others... I need to let them know I'm alive."