YOU KNOW YOU'RE RIGHT // Kurt Cobain

Chapter 13

New York City, NY

September 28, 1991

The portable record player spun tirelessly as I painted my nails, sitting in my bunk with my headphones plugged into the stereo input. I was attempting to put a small pink line on the edge of my nail when the door to the bunks slammed open, and I fucked up my line so badly. I watched as Kurt stomped into the room, reaching over to the bunk above me, grabbing one of his many spiral bound notebooks and a cigar box before swiftly turning around to stomp right back out.

But he stopped as he heard the music blaring from my headphones. His facial expressions became filled with utter fury as he ripped the headphones off my head, tossing them to the ground. I could still faintly hear the lyrics: And I forget just why I taste / oh yeah, I guess it makes me smile. I looked back up at Kurt with a sheepish grin, and Kurt did not budge.

"Why are you even listening to that shit?" he asked me, and I turned the record player off. The air became thick with tension as we had a war of eye contact, his irises dancing from left to right, as if he were trying to decide which one of my eyes to focus on. Without breaking my gaze, I responded, "Are you kidding me? Shit? Kurt, this is a masterpiece."

Kurt shrugged, shaking his head; simultaneous contemplation and denial. He sat next to me, hitting his head on his bunk on his way down. In pain, he held his head inside his hands, leaning over so he was crumpled like a ball. And in that moment I almost felt sorry for him.

"I want my music to be perfect, but the amount of attention it's getting makes me want to vomit," he muttered, sitting back up to face me, leaning his back up against the wall.

"Oh, it must be so stressful to be a millionaire," I scoffed, backing up to the opposite end, picking at the still-drying nail polish that was smudged into oblivion. I would need to start all over again.

"No, I'm not fucking kidding," he took a deep breath, "I'm barely even a person anymore. I'm a human press release. There's always something happening with me, whether it be an interview, some crazy ass paps following me like vultures, the ridicule, the critics trying to put meaning in my music... even I don't know what my music means... I just wanted it to be about the music, man! Not about interviews or fucking talk shows or people screaming that they love me in my face-- they don't even fucking know me. They won't give me a fucking break, goddamnit-- and the drugs, oh, don't even get me started on the drugs-- I'm apparently incapable of making decisions about my own fucking music."

I felt out of breath just watching him lose it right in front of me. We had changed positions, from two people avoiding each other like the fucking plague to him resting his head in my lap, his hands folded across his chest. I instinctively reached for his hair, braiding the bright blonde hair absentmindedly as he ranted. I soon realized what I was doing and flinched away, but Kurt grabbed my hand and brought it back to his head. "Please don't stop," he told me, "it's really calming me down." And I knew I couldn't stop even if I wanted to.

Kurt reached over to his journal and flipped through the many, many pages filled with notes, lyrics, drawings... and he found the place where he left off, lifting the book over his head so I could see it. The words on the page tumbled out in the form of ink via a ballpoint pen, and as they caught my eye, I almost forgot how to breathe.

I hate myself and I want to die

I tried to gain my composure before I asked him any questions, but he seemed prepared with a response already as he said, "That's the next album name."

From that moment on, I was afraid. There was no chance of turning back. He was in this for the long run, but I wasn't sure if the run would be long after all.

A/N
My favorite author  ugh-nirvana is getting back in her writing groove and I was inspired. Updates are gonna be more consistent. Thanks queen for always being a huge inspiration to me!!!