OCTOBER 3rd, 2018, SEATTLE, WA
THE MAGAZINE ON the kitchen counter lay completely flat, it's spine heavily creased from being opened and closed many times. The pages were opened to a glossy spread, complete with a blown up cover photo and bold, black lettering, recalling the font that Nirvana had selected years ago for their band name.
The title of the spread, probably clever to whoever had come up with it in the first place, read 'RAISED COBAIN.' Above it was the picture — it was a beautiful photo, really, but it'd been defiled by the contents of the article.
Set against a white backdrop and photographed in shades of black and white, Lindy saw her son and stepdaughter staring up at her from the inside front of the magazine.
Frances wasn't smiling; in fact, she looked quite serious, standing behind her brother and gazing directly into the camera lens with her startling, gorgeous stare. At twenty-six years old, she possessed a deep, earnest sort of beauty about her, from the curve of her lips to the shape of her eyes.
Her arm was slung around Charlie in a protective way, but that wasn't out of the ordinary. She'd always been protective of him, ever since he was born. Unlike Frances, Charlie was smiling, at least partially. He didn't look at the camera. His line of sight was off to the side, and it made Lindy wonder what had caused him to wear such a smirk.
Beneath the title read: 'Welcome to the lives of a rockstar's two offspring. Artistic, unique, and also shocking, Frances Bean and Charles Cobain finally reveal what it's like to call Kurt Cobain their dad.'
Lindy gritted her teeth, flattening her palm against the page and nearly crunching it between her fingers.
It was all lies. Gross, negligent lies at the hands of Rolling Stone, a publication that Lindy had once thought she admired. She wanted nothing more than to slaughter anyone and everyone involved with the article, to make them feel the pain that she felt. In reality, Lindy had always feared this.
She looked up, avoiding the magazine and trying to simmer the anger rising in her chest. She glared around her kitchen, the same kitchen belonging to the same house that she and Kurt had purchased all way back in ninety-four. She hoped that maybe if she looked anywhere but at the injustice resting between her arms on the counter, she would calm down.
It didn't seem to be working.
"Why don't you just throw that fucking thing in the trash?"
Lindy's eyes slid quickly to the right, where Kurt was walking towards her and holding the neck of his Martin D-18E acoustic. His eyes were heavy and rimmed a rugged blueish purple, all signs pointing to apparent stress. But Lindy knew it was more than that.
The magazine article was causing him heartache — the same kind that had ravaged him when Vanity Fair had almost stolen Frances permanently out of his life.
This was not the kind of thing that Kurt needed to be dealing with. Vile deeds like the one Rolling Stone had committed would only transport Kurt back to another time, a time in which he'd loathed himself so much that he had nearly self-medicated his pain to death.
Lindy felt her heart seize up when she pictured it happening again. It was PTSD in the worst form, and although she hadn't worried about Kurt relapsing in years, she could feel her panic boiling over.
"No. Not yet. I haven't decided if I'm going to call them up and threaten their lives," Lindy said bitterly.
Kurt passed her, still swinging his guitar in hand as he beelined for the fridge. He opened the door and pulled out, of course, a strawberry milk. Lindy froze in her seat. It was the same thing that he'd drank when his stomach had anguished him years ago.
