Healing Stones {Kurt Cobain}

• five •

A few days passed. He was still using the drugs, and if his wife had noticed how worn out he had begun to look, she made no comment on it. He knew he was hurting himself, but at this point, he wasn't sure if he really cared or not. 

But it still wasn't enough.

The thoughts, the voices inside his head, would continue coming even during his high. No matter how many drugs he had flowing through his body, he couldn't turn off his mind.

Today, he was home alone. His wife had taken their daughter and gone to a friend's house, leaving him with nothing but a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the head. "Be good," she had said with a wink before closing the door behind her. He was in the living room, his acoustic guitar on his lap, but his heart wasn't in it. Music had begun to lose its joy to him, and nothing made him sadder.

He set his guitar down on the couch and stood up, despite the dizziness in his head. He began to search the room, even though he wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for. On the floor in the corner was a small wooden object, and he picked it up, turning it over in his hand.

A pocketknife.

He lowered himself back down onto the couch, flicking the blade out and admiring its sheen. He brought it closer to the skin of his wrist, but pulled back when the sharp end poked him. Not yet, he thought to himself. 

He brought the knife to his middle finger and, without thinking, drew it across the tip. The pain sank in moments later and he bit his lip to keep from crying out. Blood pooled at the edges of the wound and he put the finger in his mouth.

But the pain didn't help, either.

He pocketed the knife, anyways. Maybe he'd try again later.

A box of cigarettes was found on a small table beside the couch. He picked it up along with a small lighter and lit a cigarette, putting it between his lips and blowing a small puff of smoke into the air. When he closed his eyes and breathed in the smell, it was almost like a high.

Until he breathed back out.

Would nothing help him? Would nothing cure him of his ailments?

He rolled up the sleeve on his left arm and brought the cigarette to his skin. The burning sensation was instant, and this time he could help but make a sound. The cigarette fell to the floor.

After running the burn under the faucet, he lit another cigarette, crushing the other one under his foot. He burned himself again, this time bracing for the pain he knew--hoped--would come. He closed his eyes as the smoke licked his skin, and when he began to burn, he relished in it. He could almost feel his mind melting away.

Breathing out another breath of smoke, he looked down at his arm. The skin was red and beginning to scar, so he rolled his sleeve back down to cover it.

 That wasn't very smart.

"No." He shook his head vigorously. "Not again."

Yes, again. Eventually, you'll learn how much you need me.

"And what the fuck would I need you for?"

I'm the source of your creativity. I'm the one who gives you all of your clever ideas.

He shook his head again, throwing the cigarette across the room and lighting another, taking a breath angrily. "No. You're the one who takes that all away and replaces it with hell."

He could almost sense the voice smiling. Or, sneering was more like it. Those are my words. I am both your heaven and your hell, young man.

"Just get the fuck out of my head." He knew that talking to the voice was pointless. He knew that the voice was him. But he did it anyways.

I am your head. I am your everything. One day, you will learn.

"No, I won't. I won't give myself the chance to."

The voice didn't respond.

He sighed, leaned back, and took another smoke.