OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

ninety-eight.

APRIL 10th, 1994, SEATTLE, WA 

          REAGAN BELIEVED THAT she finally understood the meaning of living in a fog. That phenomenon had never really happened to her, as she'd always been able to see the world with such precise clarity, even the parts of it that had appeared light-years away from her grasp.

If living in a fog meant not knowing how to function, even when it called for performing the most mundane, typical tasks, then Reagan knew that she was experiencing it firsthand.

She sat on the edge of her and Dave's bed, staring down at her stocking-covered feet. The thin black fabric was so ordinary, but seeing her legs sheathed in it made her want to furrow her eyebrows together. She couldn't recall ever having worn black pantyhose. They didn't exactly have a place in her typical wardrobe. But when Sarah had brought them to her that morning in a plastic shopping bag, she had gently suggested to Reagan that they were appropriate funeral attire. 

Funeral. Kurt's funeral, to be exact. The two words were like opposing ends of magnets, clashing together without actually touching. There was a resistance between them. They didn't go together. It was like referencing the sky as being green, or hearing her name mispronounced. There was no sense behind it.

In between her fingertips, she slowly toyed with the last piece of Kurt that she had, the scratched guitar pick that he had slid into her hand on the final day she'd seen him. Reagan stared at it, pressing into the pads of her fingers into the plastic in hope that she'd feel a spark of his life's energy through it.

There was nothing.

The room was dark, dimmed by the overcast light that streamed through the blinds. The phone had rang several times that day, but Reagan had ignored every call, hoping that Dave might do the same although he was more inclined to let their loved ones know that they were okay.

If she'd had more to give, Reagan would have talked to everyone who had reached out to her. Besides the blurred phone conversations that she'd had after finding out Kurt was dead, Reagan avoided any sorts of interaction outside of those taking place inside her house. 

Gracie had become the only thing that willed her out of the empty state that she existed in. Yet even then, it was entirely too painful to look into her daughter's eyes and think of Frances, uncomprehending of the loss she'd just experienced at such a young age. 

Reagan didn't look up as the sound of muted footsteps crossed the threshold into the room. She knew it was Dave without needing to check, but that didn't stop her from wanting to hide behind her hair. It would have been impossible, anyway. She'd tied it back into a low ponytail for the occasion and the tendrils that hung limply around her face would do no good as a shield.

"Ready?" Dave asked. His voice was scratchy as he cleared his throat.

Reagan persisted in staring down at the floor. Her shoes, a pair of smart-looking, heeled Mary Janes were sitting in front of her. It was the last thing that she needed to do before leaving, but the simple act of pulling on her shoes exhausted her. 

Leaning forward, stretching an arm out and threading the strap through its loop might as well have been like running a marathon. Her body ached, her face ached, and all she wanted was to lay flat in bed and wipe her memory clean of those past few days.

Dave approached Reagan and knelt down in front of her. She watched as he slid one hand down from her knee to her calf, his palm whooshing along the length of her pantyhose. That kind of touch would have made her shudder with pleasure on any other day. 

Silently, Dave grabbed Reagan's heels and fitted them onto her feet, one foot at a time. She let him do it with a lump in her throat. Somewhere in the haze of her grief, she felt bad for making him take care of her. He'd been an impenetrable mountain since the day Kurt had been found dead, braving the turmoil that had followed without batting an eye.