My head was buzzing like an overloaded amplifier. Nirvana's gig was tearing my eardrums apart. I was high. Why had I smoked so much weed in the first place? It's my nerves. Just to keep from losing it. It seemed like a break. The crowd was heading towards the bar and I was moving away from them, into the silence of the backstage area. I opened the first door I saw.....

What I found behind it was nothing like I expected.

It was dimly lit, smelled musty and... Kurt... Kurt Cobain. He was leaning over the coffee table, preparing something. A syringe. I froze, like a rabbit in front of a boa constrictor. He looked up at me. His tired eyes, rimmed with dark circles, flashed with rage for a moment, then with resignation.

"Get out," he croaked. His voice broke like a broken string.

I didn't move. I couldn't. Was it a dream? Or a nightmare? The hero of a generation, my idol and unrequited love, stood before me, preparing to inject himself with a dose to numb the pain. What pain? His own? Or the pain of the world?

I took a step back, then another. I slammed the door shut and ran down the hall. Then I stopped and slid down the wall in the hallway.