(NOT fan fiction!) Kurt Cobain and Tally Fisk

Chapter Thirty-Three

Sheets rustling each time I shift in bed are the only sound I've heard, with a few exceptions, for the last thirty-six hours.

Blinds closed, curtains drawn, a womb of darkness is my happy home now. Void of music, void of tv, void of voice...with a few exceptions, like I said.

I wish it was a true womb. I want to crawl back into that unremembered state, that cocoon I was once so safely wrapped in, that world where nothing exists except warmth and safety. Anonymity. Invisibility.

I try to make my brain void of thoughts, but I can't seem to make that work. It's like if someone said, "Don't even think about sidewalks," the first thing you think of is sidewalks, their pale gray color, the cracks in them, the cool, rough texture under your bare feet. If someone tells you not to think of something, there is no hope at that point for not thinking of it.

So, I can't stop thinking. I've been trying to think of made-up nonsense instead of anything real, any real memories. I spent what seemed like hours imagining that I could fly, how it would feel, where I would go. I'd soar up to the sky and swoop back down, inches from the ground before pulling up and zooming back to the clouds.

I imagined I could feel the clouds, swish my hands through them. My hands came out damp on the other side and I smiled and dove headfirst into a cloud, emerging damp and refreshed as the cold air hit the droplets on my face.

I also imagined my bed was a life raft in the ocean and friendly dolphins were swimming beside me, chattering, bringing me shells. My skin was coated with a fine layer of salt. The sun was bright and hot but when it got too hot, a dark cloud would cover it, cover me with that dimming relief of shade, and it would throw down droplets of water for me to catch in bottles and drink.

But, as I dozed off here and there, I would lose control of my contrived thoughts and the real ones would slither to the front. I was helpless against them.

I remembered taking Grandpa's Walkman in my room.

I took the Walkman right after his body was taken from my room, the room where he'd died. I hid it under the mattress, as far as my arm could push it, so Mom wouldn't find it when she changed the sheets.

She did find it, though. She found it just a few days later when some delivery men came and brought me a new mattress.

"Did you put this under your mattress?" she asked me.

I nodded. "I didn't want you to throw it away."

She cried and it made my heart hurt, a vise-like squeeze. I didn't ever want to make my mom cry again. I figured as long as I didn't bring up Grandpa, as long as I didn't think about what happened, she wouldn't cry.

The next day, I found Grandpa's bag in the garage. I supposed that must be where you keep awful things that make you want to throw up from the memories.

I closed my eyes tight and reached into the bag, feeling around for that cassette he'd told me about. The one he'd said he might give me.

When I went back to my room, I pushed the cassette into the Walkman. I knew about the music it could play. And I wanted to play it, because I thought it would make me feel better. I knew there was a song that would make me feel rescued, like it did the first time I heard it when that fireman was pulling me out of the car.

But I didn't want to be caught with it. So, I hid it. I hid it in my big box of Hot Wheels cars, down at the very bottom.

I would think of it from time to time, wanting to get it out and listen. But I made up stories in my head of where it actually came from.