Heroin

Her name is Frances bean Cobain, she was the beautiful daughter of Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love. She had always had a pretty secure life in her eyes. She received good grades, she had outstanding friends, and she was well-loved by her parents; no one expected her to ever fall off the rails. It was mid September on a Wednesday when it happened, when she found out, that is.
It was just like any other school day, she wakes up at exactly 5:30 a.m., takes a shower, gets dressed, and heads downstairs to wait for her mother to be ready to take her to school. She usually just sat down on the sofa with her coffee and watched the morning cartoons on the television, but this day she decides that she wants a Coke instead of her usual coffee. She walks outside to the garage, opens the fridge and reaches inside, when she closes the fridge something catches her eye. The light was striking it just right and the bag was open just enough for her to see something metal glistening on her dad's workbench. What could it possibly be? She walks over to the little black bag and opens it; when she does, she gasps.
She cannot believe it, her father does drugs? Inside of the bag is a small baggy filled with some type of fine powder, a small spoon, a lighter, and a syringe. She watches TV, she talks to people, she knows what it is. It's heroin. She hears the door handle start to wiggle and she shuffles to put everything back in its original position. Her dad taps her on the shoulder and asks, "Whatcha doin?" Startled, she twirls around and says, "Just.. getting a Coke dad." She doesn't mention her findings. Why would she? How, could she?
While in the car on the way to school her mother notices that she seemed a bit clammed up, which is not usual for her. "Are you alright sweetie?" She asks. "Yeah I'm fine mom, just exhausted, that's all." Says Frances. They arrive at her school and as she exits the car she can barely even hear her mother wish her a good day over all the noise inside of her head. She is terrified, and rightfully so. As she walks to her first hour she can't stop questioning if she should tell her mother about the drugs; or if she should take it a step further and tell the campus police officer. Come third hour and she has come to the conclusion that it would be better for everyone to just keep her mouth shut and speak to her father face to face in the privacy of her own home.
By the end of the day it all began to set in, will her entire life change in the span of a couple of hours? She wasn't certain, but she had an unwavering need to get her father clear of his poisonous addiction. Her mother never did like dealing with the vast ignorance that spills onto the roads as soon as the clocks hit three; so she endures the hour and a half bus ride home. It's not so bad for her, aside from a couple of imbecile kids that somehow migrate near her every day, but she just tunes them out with her headphones. When she exits the bus, she thanks her driver as she normally does and then makes the ten minute hike up the hill to her driveway. She checks the mail before she starts the jog up the driveway, a parcel came for her father. 'I will give it to him when gets home,' she thinks. As she is walking up the driveway she noticed her dad's car, but not her mom's. 'That's odd,' she thinks; considering it is ordinarily the opposite..





She walks through the front door and she notices a box of shotgun shells lying on the kitchen counter; she thinks to herself, “What are these doing out?” She assumes her father just went and bought ammo or something of that nature. As she continues walking through the hallway, she stops. There seems to be some type of liquid on the floor but she cannot yet make it out what it is; she continues walking. There’s a hand on the floor. Oh god. It’s not just a hand, it’s a body. She lets out a blood curdling scream when she realizes whom it is. It is her father. Dead.
Frantic and mortified she slowly walks over to him with her hands clasped against her face. She slowly squats beside him and then falls to the floor while tears stream down her cheeks like a steady waterfall; she does not want to open her eyes and see the horrific sight again. She shrieks, “Who did this?!” Over and over she repeats this question inside of her head. ‘He’s gone, he’s really gone,’ she thinks. Finally, her eyes open and they dart around the room, suddenly it has occurred to her that somebody could still be here, while looking around the room that thought ejects from her mind and she looks at her father again and notices something that she had overlooked at first sight.
His hand is grasped around a shotgun. Wait, not only that, but his finger is on the trigger. His finger is on the trigger, his face is completely mangled, there is blood splatter on the wall behind him, and she can see the pieces of his skull and brain scattered on the floor around him, it is an amazingly horrid and gruesome sight to see. Suddenly her brain comes to the realization that it is possible her father killed himself. ‘No. No, it’s not possible. Why would he do such a thing?’ She thinks. Her eyes then stumble upon the bag beside his body, and it all becomes clear. Her father did kill himself.
He got high, disregarded every emotion he had for his wife and only daughter, and did the most selfish thing anyone could ever do to their family. In this moment of clarifying rage, she takes the heroin and puts in her pocket; she wants to keep it as a momento to remember all this hate she is feeling for him right now. She could never see him the same way in her mind again, and she doesn’t want to.. The next thought that enters mind is one of the few sane things that will ever be in there again. “I should call the police,” she says.
Then she remembers the narcotics in her pocket, she should hide those first. On the way up the stairs she abruptly recalled her father making a false power outlet on them, she saw him do it a couple of years ago and it only just became clear to her as to why he would do that. An idea strikes her and she walks to the kitchen to get a ziploc bag and some meat to mask the smell of the heroin, in case the police decide to bring in drug dogs. She heads back to the stairs and fixes up her little rig, puts it in the box, and closes it. After waiting about five minutes to gain her composure, she dials 911. “Hello? Yes, I would like to report a suicide.”












. . .
The day after, she wakes up at the grandmother’s house where her mother sent her the night before. “This is not a sight for teenage eyes,” she said, almost like she thought it fine for herself to see it but not her child.
Her grandma, Iris Cobain, is cooking lunch when she awakes; she walked out of the guest bedroom to the smell of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. “Well good morning sleepy head, it’s almost noon,” said Iris. Frances could hear it in her voice that she was trying her very best to not have a mental breakdown if front of her 15 year old granddaughter, but she was not going to say anything on the subject considering they were both mourning just in different ways. She just answered with, “Long night,” and left it at that.
After they eat lunch, she consideres a shower; not just any shower either, one of those showers where the water is so hot you know it should feel like your body is getting ready to rid you of your skin, but you turn it up anyway because you want to see if you can really feel any of the pain past this certain point of cessation. But, she decides she would rather just go home; her mother called late last night to tell her that the cops had been working hard all night, and the house was spotless. She had told her then that she was just going to stay with her grandmother for a couple of nights but something changed her mind, she couldn’t explain what though.
Once they arrive at the home she gets out of the car and tells her grandma that she loves her. Looking up and down the street, it seems desolate, the neighborhood kids are usually outside playing tag or riding their bikes, but there is not a tassel in sight, she takes out her headphones, and there is not a child to be heard. As she is walking up the driveway the only thing that sticks to her mind is, ‘My mom better be alive.’ She knows it’s a horrible thought to have whether she was joking or not, so she forces it out. Entering the what now seemed somewhat haunted home felt like deja vu to her, she thought she saw the liquid on the floor again, but it was only the sun hitting the wood floors oddly.
She usually yelled out to her mother whenever she arrived home, but this day she did not have the effort nor did she want to interrupt her mother if she was sleeping. ‘I wouldn’t blame her if she was, hell I might take myself a little nap,’ she thinks. Walking up the stairs she remembers the drugs, but leaves them be; she was going to turn left once she finished the last step, and head to her room, but something possessed her to go check on her mother, it was the same feeling she got when she decided to come home. She walks up to the door, it’s open slightly; she looks inside and something catches her eye. Stunned and unable to move, she sees two bodies moving in the darkness of the home that surrounds her.
She loses her mind. Her dad had just killed himself and her mom was already in bed with another man. She stands in the doorway for what seems like hours, watching her mom with this man, too shocked to move. She finally wakes up from her trance and moves to the kitchen. She can hear her mom and the man from the bedroom. The creaks and moans make her anger grow. Without thinking she grabs a knife from the counter. She stands there holding it, thinking of what she plans to do. She has to kill her mom, and she has to kill the who thinks he can take her dad’s place. She takes a step towards the bedroom and everything goes black.
When she wakes up from her weird trance-like state, she’s in the kitchen covered in blood. She stares at the bloody knife in her hand and then looks around the room until her eyes fall on a bloody corpse in the hallway. She slowly walks over to examine the corpse. She gasps when she sees the second one lying next to it. The naked, bloody corpses of her mom and lover seem to stare into her eyes. What has she done?
She packs a bag, not really sure what she was doing or where she would go, but she knew she had to leave. She opens the front door of her home and then she recollects her hidden treasure in the wall of the staircase; she goes back and shoves it in the side pocket of her backpack. Finally she runs out the door. She runs and runs until she comes to a busy bridge. It’s about five o’clock by now and there are many people around to see her, that’s what she wants. She wants people to know her story. She reaches inside the left pocket and opens the little black bag to reveal the drug kit; not completely sure she was doing it right, she just used her common sense to do it. She put some of the powder on a spoon, got the lighter, and melted it; after it was melted down to what she assumed was well enough to be sucked into the syringe, she did so. She found a very prominent vein in her left arm, and injected. Slowly she climbed over the railing of the bridge, with her back to the raging waters. In the distance she could hear some viewer screech, “No, don’t do it!” She closes her eyes, and whispers, “I still love you daddy,” and then lets go.








END.

Author's Note

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