Rain thrashed against the windowpane, burying unfortunate souls without cover in a wailing, soppy hailstorm. Kurt Cobain sat behind a sturdy glass window attached to his grandeur Seattle home— it was a mansion that he didn't want to live in to begin with— leisurely sipping strong coffee in a dull-yellow chipped smiley coffee mug that was heated to the touch, a physical warmth enveloped his raging insides, making him breathe a sigh of content and utter bliss. The scraggly, unnatural brunette felt satisfied for once in what he thought was his mundane life; besides when heroin shot through his vital organs, combing through his insides straight toward the source, fighting his excruciating stomach pains, and in turn relaxing his frayed soul for however long the high would last.356Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLZjIS0oh4F
Cobain thought he would be in the clear of baby duty for at least a little while— maybe their nanny or Courtney was tending to the child— but unfortunately for this bearded man, he thought incorrectly. Blue Eyes heard his barely one year old infant snuffling, meaning she was beginning to stir in her crib. He listened to the baby whimper for a moment, and before the fatigued father could sprint up to the nursery to subdue her cries, Frances woke up fully, and with a start. The tiny Cobain howled, shrieked for anyone, someone— preferably her daddy— to rush to her side and comfort her, whispering sweet, reassuring words to the child, letting her know that she would be just fine; she had only just slept and woken up from a nap, daddy and mama did not abandon you.
“Kurt, can you get Frances? I'm on the phone!" Yelled his wife, Courtney, from the kitchen adjacent to the sitting room. Letting a prolonged, drained sigh slip from between his horribly chapped lips, he gathered a brief sentence inside his mind to shout back to his spouse from his raspy throat.
“Yeah, yeah, sure!"
With those three words left lingering in the cigarette infested smoky air of where the two unconventional lovers stood, his unreadable, icy leer tore away from the smoke drifting out of the entryway of their kitchen, and padded up a set of wooden, antique spiraling stairs that led him to a series of rooms on either side of the elongated hallway; one of the aging white doors was left ajar, so he traipsed into that opening, which was Frances' room. He and Courtney didn't bother calling it a nursery, but their nanny sure did like to abuse that word every time she had a chance to speak about it. The infamous couple had painted her room a soft, dazzling pink, not too bright nor too muted.
There his little girl stood, grasping her rickety crib's safety bars for dear life, her sailor overalls stained with light brown colored droplets from a McDonald's chocolate frosty shared between the small family hours ago in the backroom of MTV's interviewing atelier; the hem of the baby's outfit was tethered, threatening to split at the seams with even the lightest touch. Dismissing how worn his toddler's clothing appeared, Kurt reached down into the crib to pick up his yowling daughter, wordlessly shushing her, his dour mood from before instantly stripping away from his bones. Despite his insomnia and persistent stomach problems plaguing his every move, little Frances unconsciously made her father look forward to better days ahead— if only that was the case back in nineteen ninety four— and diminished his suffering, in a way.
The little girl immediately stopped whining as soon as her daddy's warm, calloused hands gripped onto her chubby frame and brought the contented child close to his chest, hoping she'd felt as comforted as she looked. Gently bouncing her on his hip in a loving manner, he carried the infant back with him into the sitting room, allowing a gentle, endearing smile to form upon his lips as he observed his daughter babble and giggle over nothing. Easing back into the vintage lazy chair he had sat in before retrieving his kid, he placed Frances upon his lap and pointed outside the very same window from before, toward the depressing, dark grey sky overhead, drenching Washington with one of the most infuriating rain storms yet. He gestured to their spacious front lawn, toward the luscious green grass now wilting and drowning underneath the rain's collective current.
"Seattle weather is crap, Bean. Crap!" Cobain gabbled in a light, cheery voice to Frances with a hidden sarcastic tone. 'Bean', as the adoring nickname Kurt called her derives from the child's actual middle name, just giggled at her daddy's funny sounding voice, sweeping her innocent gaze up at him with natural born admiration. His black coffee now long forgotten, Kurt and his Bean spent the rest of their dreary day basking in each other's company, listening to the rain pelt their windows perpetually... If only mama would hang up that damned phone and spend time with us.
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