OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

ninety-seven.

He thought of Frances Bean, only several months younger than his own daughter. Dave had shamelessly spent minutes, hours, days envisioning Gracie's future with his presence threaded throughout it. Bear hugs when she arrived home from school, birthday parties in which he held the honor of whipping up barbecue for her and her friends, listening loyally as she processed her first heartbreak, walking her down the aisle with her arm tucked into his.

Frances would never experience any of that with her father. All she would have were stories passed down to her from those who'd known him. A slip of fate had changed everything and suddenly, Dave felt guilty. Somehow, someway, the course he'd chosen in life had kept him alive. Sure, there had been plenty of drunken nights when he'd thought alcohol poisoning would be his downfall, but he was still there. Living and breathing.

Kurt was not. And as much as Dave knew the reasons why -- as much as he acknowledged that he'd never once considered injecting a needle into his arm when his friend indeed had -- he simply could not wrap his head around the fact that one little girl in his life would have two parents to love her while another did not.

Dave took a shaky breath, casting his gaze downward. Facing the reality that Kurt was gone was akin to watching his whole life be tossed into a blender and witnessing helplessly as some evil, high power pushed puree on that motherfucker. 

Even worse was knowing that Reagan was not accounted for.

"I've got to go find her," he abruptly blurted.

Sarah nodded hastily without question. "I'll stay here with Gracie."

Dave snatched his car keys from the counter and bounded out of the house, ignoring the shimmer of damp rainfall that misted his face. Small things, stupid things, like the weather did not sway his attention. It rained so often that sunshine was almost foreign, but the rain that day seemed morbidly appropriate. 

If he was going to be practical, then he would have to assign his grief into neat little boxes that he would address in order. First, he had to find Reagan. He prayed that she would be in one piece when he found her, otherwise those neat little boxes would implode. If she was okay, then he would meet the pain of Kurt's death at the doorstep to his heart readily, prepared to face it so as long as he had Reagan to help him through it. 

But first, he desperately needed the confirmation that Reagan was still with him, unharmed and in perfect condition. 

Losing Kurt was agonizing enough and it had forced the perspective that anything was possible. Outlandish worries, such as the one that Reagan was dead in a ditch, were more plausible than ever. If she had followed right behind Kurt, all within the same day, then Dave was sure that he'd be six feet under by the end of the week.

He didn't listen to the radio as he drove. The traffic was mild, enabling him to push past the speed limit and hustle through a myriad of lane changes, but giving his brain the space to wander was killing him. He kept his eyes peeled for signs of a car accident or a flash of auburn hair on the sidewalks, but Seattle's hazy gray scenery deterred his thoughts.

It hadn't seemed like much when Dave had first moved there. He'd felt indifferent towards the Emerald City, more inclined to bemoan the loss of his precious, rolling Virginian hills and the bright change of leaves in the fall, but Seattle had come to mean something different to him. 

It had become a form of home. 

Dave's life had started there, or at least the chapter of it that he cherished most. His memories drifted in the direction of Reagan, but when he remembered that he could not presently find her, he stopped them from flowing freely.