drain you | Kurt Cobain fanfic

10: Someone Take Me Home

One day, I was with the other punks at a party.

The year was 1988.

The party was full of stoners and women, so everyone in the group was looking to score, one way or another. The party smelled like weed and cigarettes. This wasn't like the small get-together at Buzz's place. This was bigger. The possibilities were endless.

Amidst the haze of smoke and the pulsating beats of punk music, the party unfolded as a chaotic tapestry of rebellion and hedonism. The energy of the crowd fueled the atmosphere, creating a sense of liberation that resonated with the punk ethos.

In the midst of the revelry, I found myself engaged in animated conversations with fellow punks, exchanging stories of our nomadic journeys and the vibrant punk scenes encountered along the way as we took drags from our cigarettes. The party became a melting pot of diverse experiences, a microcosm of the subversive spirit that defined the punk community.

As the night progressed, the dimly lit room echoed with laughter and the clinking of bottles. The camaraderie formed in our nomadic punk family bridged the gap between strangers, fostering a sense of unity in the pursuit of rebellion. Amidst the chaos, a familiar face from the Cling-ons approached, Brady, who was holding two tall ones.

"Hey, Merci!" he exclaimed. "Want one?"

"Sure!" I shouted back, and I put my cigarette out and took the drink.

That was a big mistake.

One drink became two, two drinks became five, five became eight, and soon, I was too drunk to function.

"Someone take me home tonight!" I yelled in a sluggish voice. Brady came and took me inside the main house, in the bedroom. I fell flat on the bed and was going to sleep until I felt my blouse removed and breathing on my neck.

I looked behind me, and it was Brady. I immediately sobered up for a second. "Wait, what are you doing?" I asked.

"Come on, Merci," Brady said. "You should've known what happens at a party like this."

He kept removing my clothes. I felt frozen in fear. "Especially to birds like you," he continued. That reminded me of Buzz's little test when we first met.

"You're strong," Buzz's words echoed in my mind.

I immediately shoved Brady. "I'm not a bird!" I yelled.

The force of my shove surprised Brady, causing him to stumble backward. Anger and frustration surged within me as I stood my ground, fueled by a newfound strength that transcended the haze of intoxication.

"You don't get to define who I am!" I asserted, my voice cutting through the distorted sounds of the party. The chaotic energy of rebellion that had defined the night took a stark turn as I confronted the blatant disregard for consent.

The room fell silent, the music a distant murmur in the background. Brady, momentarily taken aback, attempted to regain his composure. "Come on, Merci, don't make a scene," he urged, his tone a mixture of frustration and entitlement.

But I wasn't about to let the predatory behavior slide. The echoes of past experiences and the strength drawn from the punk ethos fueled my resistance. With a surge of determination, I pushed past Brady and stumbled out of the room, disoriented but resolute.

In the dimly lit hallway, I found a fellow punk from our nomadic crew, Maya. She was a redhead who wasn't part of the group of Cling-ons I knew, but she was like our captain. I explained what had happened, and she wasn't surprised, but offered pity.

"Brady's always been a creepy guy," she replied. "I'm sorry this happened to you."

"It's not your fault," I replied. "It's mine. I joined your group so I could be free, but I didn't feel free right now."

"Punk's complicated," Maya said. "Let's get you home."

"I don't have one," I said. Maya stopped in her tracks. She paused to think for a moment. "Then you can crash at my place for as long as you need to," she replied. I smiled at her. "Thanks," I said.

We made our way to Maya's apartment in nearby Olympia. I changed and drank plenty of water as I was listening to music on her boombox. There was one song that brought me comfort. It was new.

"She's got a smile that it seems to me, reminds me of childhood memories, where everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky..."

Maya walked in to check up on me. "You're okay?" She asked. "Yeah," I said. "Have you heard this song before?" I asked her. Maya decided to take a listen.

"Woah, oh, oh, sweet child o' mine..."

"Yeah," she replied. "That's 'Sweet Child O' Mine' by Guns N' Roses. They're this band from California," she replied. "This song's been out for a while now."

"How long?" I asked her. "About a year. Maybe a year and a half," she replied. I stopped and listened to the song intently.

"Can I borrow your phone?" I asked her. "Yeah, it's over there," Maya said and pointed to the wall-hung phone. I dialed the number for my parents, hoping that they were still there after two years of not seeing them.

"Hello?" The voice on the other end asked. "Hi," I said. "Is this Illeya and José Domingues?"

"Sorry, they don't live here anymore. I think you may have the wrong number," they replied, and they hung up. I put the phone back on the wall and began to sob. I wanted to go home. I wanted to go back to Aberdeen.

"Merci, you can stay here if you want to," Maya reminded. "Besides, I'm pretty sure you don't want to run into Brady anymore while we travel."

Don't get me wrong, I used to love being a runaway, hanging out with friends who liked the same music as me. But what happened with Brady tonight opened my eyes. It also opened Maya's eyes, too. It showed us that punk is just for guys, by guys. They're like Sid from the Sex Pistols, and for girls like Maya and I, we're always Nancy. We always get screwed over at the end.

I decided to stay here with Maya. Here in Olympia. Here in my new home.