I came to the graceless house. The empty windows and peeling paint bought me back to a grubby child hood. I called up through its empty chambers for Kurt. There was no reply. I pushed the ragged door open and drifted into the large room that was the kitchen,living room and dining room. I passed the rusted sink, the scratched and dirty table and the mottled couch with its stuffing wriggling out. I stood still, something catching my attention. It was a broom cupboard, I pushed it open.

The air was stale and still. Light flooded it revealing an addicts shrine. It was covered in peculiar and grotesque pictures,painting,newspaper clippings,Polaroids and collages. There was a painting of a tatty blonde with heavy make up and bare breasts. Courtney I presumed. His girl friend. The floor was a translucent den of needles. Kurts abused guitar rested in the pitchy black corner. Scarred with duct tape and raw punk.

"Kurt!" I called up the stairs. Yet again no reply. I ascended the stairs slowly. I followed the droning bass to his room. He was standing in front of a stained mirror. Starring with an indescribable look of self hatred. He turned to count his skinny ribs and finger his petruding vertebrae. I watched a misty tear sliver down his grizzled face. He was listening to an old Leonard Cohen vinyl, his room was a mess of pharmaceutical packets and bottles and cups of pennyroyal tea littered his bedside table. Cigarette ash blanketed every surface like snow.

I left quickly. I didn't want him to know I had seen his internal hatred projected in this sacred personal ritual. I fled down stairs and called very loudly this time.
"KURT!"
This time I heard a rattle of him coming out from his heroin stupor.

He stumbled down stairs pulling on a third layer even though it was mid summer. His scintillating blue eyes were lack lustre. His skin grey and transparent. A halo of yellow hair framed his gaunt face.
"Hi." I never listened to what he said, just his syrupy voice. I put down steaming takeaway onto the haimish table.

I watched him shovel as much food in as his stomach would take. He sat back breathing heavily and then lunged for the sink to empty his guts. I held back his moppish hair feeling his clammy skin. He moaned and collapsed onto the sofa his head on my lap. I drip fed him a glass of water and stroked his hair. I felt his body give out and he began to sleep. We stayed like this for hours I stared at the static TV and he lay in a drugged sleep. I watched dreams play across his eyelids felt his heart straining in its hollow cage.
"Mmm Dave?" the air stirred and I looked down at him.
"Yeah? You slept long Kurt." I said glancing at the clock. He curled up again and said,
"Shall we practise?" into my chest.

I began hammering a steady beat and Kurt played a steely riff. His voice began soaring above the din like a breath of ice cold air, husky and deep. We practised for an hour or so. Times pace fluctuated. Eventually I decided I wanted to go home and left Kurt in some anti depressant comatose.

That night I dreamt of him. His end. His death. He had been crucified on a steel cross. Instead of nails holding him there were hypodermic syringes piercing his shadowy skin. His sickly body was covered in track marks and scabs. Scratches and scars adorned his wrists like some suicidal display of art. Around his head was a crown of thorns and black blood ran down his forehead. Around this there was a crowd cheering like some satanic mass to a vaguely familiar song. I saw me and Krist playing on a podium but at the microphone was pale skeleton. From the crowd came a bare breasted heathen girl with a birds nest of blonde hair and streaked black make up. She ran up to the crucifix and with here index finger dipped in his black blood drew an inverted cross on his forehead. Courtney.

I woke up my heart was straining at its cage. I got dressed and rushed to Kurts house, still reeling from my dream. The morning was a heavy grey and the sun was hidden. I reached Kurts house and rushed straight in for his bedroom.
It was empty. The same old record spun. I looked under the sheets. Nothing. Something told me to leave the room and look else where. I descended and went straight the the tiny broom cupboard. A chill breeze echoed from the cupboard.