Aberdeen, 1994

Please note that this story contains swearing and references to self-harm, substance abuse (excessive drinking and heroin usage), mental illness, and suicide.

Hey Ink,

I doubt you’ll get this letter; or well, if you do, you won’t answer. You never do anymore. I get it. Life fucks everyone but especially us. Especially you. Yesterday was August 4th, so that means you and Steve went to the bridge and tried again. 

Did your Baptist exorcism work? Maybe you’re in rehab right now, maybe you’re with your dealer. Hell if I know, but I do care. I know I wasn’t there yesterday or in July or in June, but I prayed every damn time - imagine that, me sitting in some stuffy church and praying - that you made it 24 hours. That’s the magic number, right? A day. A day of detox and then you’ll march into rehab and say ‘I’m ready to get better now’.

You know, Ink, I still think you’re a fucking idiot. You could’ve bailed at the bridge and found me. I would’ve let you crash on my couch and piss and shit and vomit on my floor however long you needed to if it meant you went to rehab. Steve and I aren’t dating anymore and I’m a bitch for not reaching out sooner, but I still love you. You’re still my best friend and my bandmate-to-be (I mean it, come jam with me). 

We were supposed to hit the stage running and screeching and never stop. We were going to get the hell out of Aberdeen and play gig after gig and eventually open for Nirvana and maybe even meet Kurt backstage and ask him if ‘making it’ as a band is worth it. Guess he decided it wasn’t, and so did you. You left the band before we even played one song in front of a crowd, and you didn’t even come to our first show after Stacy replaced you on drums - your ‘little lover’ wanted you, and you couldn’t say no.

You know all this shit though.

And we both know how it ends. You quit the band and hooked on tar by January, I keep on with Euphoria and manage to get a gig at The Pour House in March, and Kurt Cobain shoots himself in April.

It’s not very fucking feminist of me to say this, but you can’t make it as a band without a man somewhere in your lineup. People don’t respect your band. Stacy’s a good drummer but she’s nothing like you. She isn’t smashing the hell out of her drums to exorcize some demon; she plays because she likes it. That’s all she brings - passion. It should be enough, right? But she doesn’t feel it. You did. You put everything into your drumming and it sounded fucking beautiful. 

Stacy knows she’s good enough to get a paycheck. A shitty one, but it still beats bussing tables. You played to escape and because you loved it; drumming was your lifeline. You would’ve kept playing even if you didn’t make a damn penny. ‘Exposure’ doesn’t pay the bills, but it might reach one person and keep them alive. That’s enough for me. I don’t care how broke I am, God, I will never go back to waitressing. 

Were you there for any of Euphoria's shows? Did you see just how beautiful it was, being up on stage playing for all these people and them loving us and us loving them? You know I respond to whatever fan mail we get, and I send a pick too. Maybe some kid will pick up guitar because of it or keep it as a talisman. Who knows? Doesn’t matter to me so long as our fans know how much I care about them. I tell them before every show that I don’t want to see them in the obituaries. I tell them that whatever hell they’re going through won’t hurt so much one day. I tell them that I love them. I’m such a hypocrite.

May sucked. I ended up in the hospital - I’m sure you know that already because of Steve - because I got too drunk and got too emotional and cut too deep and then Euphoria had to cancel our show because I was too busy ‘playing rock star’ or whatever the fuck Stacy said. She said it was my ‘Rome incident’.

Well, I survived June - fucking hate that I did though - and I played Euphoria's rescheduled show in lingerie and showed off my ‘handiwork’. I know you heard about that. It hit the scene so hard and spread throughout town - everyone in Aberdeen knows just how ‘sick’ I am - and of course, they’re all saying I’m copying Kurt to get Euphoria more attention. You should hear the shit my mom says. Can you believe she’s the same woman who took you in after your dad disowned you for coming out and chased the bastard off the porch with a loaded pistol? I guess life fucked the empathy out of her. Or maybe I did. I know she’s worried about me and that she’s miserable because of it. She said she stays right by the phone every night, just waiting to get the call that I killed myself. She’ll get that call this year - yeah, I have an expiration date - but I think she’ll be happy about it in the end. She won’t have to live in fear anymore.

June and July sucked too. Same old shit. I played with Euphoria, I wised up and fucked up after the show and ended up hospitalized, and you relapsed. I know because I saw you at Duffy’s on July 5th. You had the blackberry pie. Maybe you saw me come in, but you didn’t look up. I spotted you the coffee your waitress brought over; you looked like you needed it.  I hate that I didn’t say hi to you, that I didn’t sit down with you and tell you to finish up because you were coming with me back to my place. I hate that I didn’t try to save you that day, and for all I know, maybe you’re dead and it’s all my fault.

Great little recap there, and the way we’re going, I think we’re both going to end up dead too, assuming you aren’t already. I’ll probably hang myself or cut too deep again or take a bottle of sleeping pills, and you’ll OD. You’ll be missed more than me. Maybe we’ll set the date for October 4th? Give life one more shot in September? 

I love you, Ink, and that shitty cross tattoo on your arm is still ugly. I don’t care that Steve did it for you; he did a crappy job. And you’re still so fucking dumb. Don’t rip out lines from this letter and patch them into a song and send them to me with a lipstick kiss again like you used to do. But if you do, at least use red.  

You’re not dead. I know it. Someone would have told me, so tell me when you next see me that I ‘write too good’ to be so romanced by grunge. Tell me that I’m a bitch for cutting contact and breaking Steve’s heart and not going with you to the bridge the past four months. Tell me I’m horrible for my little stunt at Euphoria's July show. Tell me I ruined everything.

Tell me you still love me too, because you're all I have left, and that you're going to fight Stacy to get your spot in Euphoria back and that when you're out of rehab, you'll finally play with us and we'll all be fine and that we 'made it'.

You piss-blonde fucker, I don’t want you to die. 

PLEASE DON’T DIE.

Katie