July 1, 1987

It was just getting completely dark when I reached to the top of the bridge. I had been crying the entire climb uphill, only taking breaks to take generous swings from the vodka-filled flask that I had snuck along with me. I relished the familiar burn of the alcohol sliding down my throat, the taste of it not even phasing me.

Finally, I reached at the peak. At this point, I dropped the flask back into the messenger bag slung over my shoulder before making my way towards the edge.

Wobbling a bit, I approached the barrier separating my drunken body and the depths of the Wishkah River. Coming to a stop, I allowed myself to lean over just slightly, considering things for a moment.

The sickeningly moist summer air wrapped itself around me like a warm, wet blanket. I closed my eyes, leaning further forward, chest pressed against the railing as I felt my heartbeat speed up just slightly.

A weak breeze blew through my hair as I inhaled deeply through my nose.

I tried to imagine somewhere beautiful, — like the Pacific Ocean.

Yes, that was quite the mental picture: my body dangling over a cliff as I stared down into endless, brilliant blue waters, this close to diving right in and holding myself down, leaving myself to sink into the unexplored depths when I finally forced my body to stop struggling.

When my eyes shot back open, however, I was sorely disappointed.

This wasn't anywhere close to my ideal dying place. Just the smell alone was enough to make me reconsider.

Mud, along with something unexplainably dirty and sour. I wrinkled my nose, considering the body of water below me.

There was no telling what was down there, what grotesque creatures might feed off my remains.

That thought was enough to cause me to straighten a bit, relieving the barrier of my weight.

As soon as I did, an unfamiliar voice cut through the dark. "Thank God."

I jumped, unwittingly bringing myself back to where I was just moments ago.

"Whoa!" Two hands, — large ones, by the feel of it, — came to rest on either side of my waist, pulling me backwards. "Jesus Christ, back over here—"

With the panicked realization that there was a stranger touching me, I began to wiggle, trying to break his grip.

"Let me go!" I shouted, blindly attempting to aim my elbows at some tender part of the guy's body. "Stop touching me, or I'll cry rape!"

"Okay, okay!" Just as soon as the hands had been there, they were gone. Thus, I was left standing there, awkwardly trembling as my fellow bridge dweller stepped back. Through the dark, I could only make out his two offending hands, now raised in surrender.

For the moment, that was enough.

I took in a shallow, shaky breath, crossing my arms over my chest as I faced this shadow of a man. I waited a moment, — perhaps he would flee before I took note of any of his features.

Alas, he remained rooted there, as if this were some form of standoff.

I rolled my eyes, blowing a loose strand of hair out of my face before speaking up.

"What the hell were you doing?" I demanded. "Is this your thing, — preying on girls in the middle of buttfuck nowhere? Because that's real original, first of all..."

"Good God, I wasn't trying to hurt you," he interrupted me. "I was trying to keep you from jumping." He paused for a moment, appearing to reach into a pocket and extract something.

Only when a faint reddish glow cut through the dark did I realize that it was a cigarette.

My companion took a puff off of it before continuing his explanation. "God knows that the last thing I need is to witness another suicide."

"Well, that's very sweet of you, making this about yourself and all." I turned on my heel, beginning the downhill climb back towards the streets.

As it would appear, this displeased the smoker behind me. "Where're you going?" he asked.

I snorted. "What's it to you?" I shot back. "You've obviously ruined my plans for the evening..."

As I continued to walk, a rhythmic thumping sound reached my ears. Dread filled me as I realized that it was footsteps.

Don't look at him, I told myself. If you don't pay him any attention, he'll go away.

Alas, even once I reached the end of the bridge, I still felt the keen burn of eyes on my back. Sure as hell, when I turned around, he was right there.

Now, I could identify the outline of him more clearly, but not much else. Luckily for me, he wasn't exceptionally huge or anything, — in fact, he was kind of scrawny, and his stance suggested either a lack of confidence or terrible posture. Then again, considering my current state of mind, I wasn't quite sure I could properly face up to anyone at the moment.

Still, the alcohol flowing through me made it a lot easier to be brave.

"Go on," I told him, as though he were nothing more than a pesky stray dog. "You don't have to worry about me now. I'm going home. Back to my nice, warm bed and people who love me."

Clearly, this answer didn't satisfy him. "Mighty dangerous for you to be walking out here alone."

"Oh, Jesus Christ," I snapped. "Listen, dude, you might mean well, but this is the creepiest fucking encounter I have ever had, — you know, seeing how we're by ourselves around a secluded bridge at night and all. Just let me be on my way, won't you? I'll be fine."

Before he could reply, I continued my stride. This time, he didn't appear to be following me.

Still, his parting remark was enough to cause me to turn back to him. "Are you drunk?"

In spite of myself, I stopped walking. Of course, I wasn't in the place to be offended by this question, — I was, in fact, drunk. Still, that inquiry seemed to send me into defense mode without fail, even when it came from complete strangers who I couldn't wait to get away from.

"No," I argued. "Even if I was, what would it matter? I'm a big girl, — I can take care of myself."

He huffed out a quiet laugh. "Yeah, because dangling over the edge of a bridge is the perfect way of showing how great you are at taking care of yourself." He took one last drag off his cigarette before beginning to wander off. "Come on."

I stayed still, eyes going wide. "Come on?" I repeated. "I'm supposed to fall for that?"

"Yeah," he said. "Trust me, I wouldn't hurt a girl to save my own life. I just want you to stick close by until you sober up a little. Wouldn't do for you to back off the ledge just to get hit by a truck... or worse."

Hesitantly, I took a few steps closer to him. "And what's worse than getting hit by a truck, might I ask?" I inquired.

"Getting picked up by the serial killer that's wandering around," he replied easily.

Despite the heat, I felt a chill crawl up my spine. Still, I argued: "There is not a serial killer in Aberdeen."

"You haven't heard?" He flicked his cigarette butt into the murky waters. "Girls started going missing a couple weeks ago, in the middle of the night. People can only assume what's happening to them."

He turned away from the water. I was close enough now to breathe in the ghost of his smoke.

"They say the victims were mostly skinny blonde girls," he said solemnly.

I groaned, realizing knowing for sure that he was bullshitting then. "My God, shut up," I said. "Do you really want to be my White Knight that badly?"

"Hey, fine. If you wanna put yourself in danger, be my guest." He started walking again, leaving me with the decision of whether or not to follow him. "But if I see you in the news tomorrow, I won't be able to live with myself."

On a whim, I began trailing him again.

Why the hell not? It wasn't like I truly valued self preservation, seeing as how I came out here in the first place. Besides, there was something about him that piqued my interest. I just wasn't quite certain what.

"Sounds like you're a real nice guy," I told him. "Saving lives. Watching out for defenseless little girls like me." I fell into step beside him, attempting to match my clumsy steps to his easy lope. "Have you just devoted your life to it? Staying out all hours of the night, attending to your calling?"

He snorted, casting a glance my way. "You're quite the smartass, aren't you?" he asked. "But, if this is my calling, it's a lousy one. I'll have you know you were about to kill myself at my home."

I stopped to think about this, my alcohol-clouded brain faltering as I attempted to put two and two together. His home... the bridge?

Without much thought on my part, my mouth opened again. "So what you're saying is that you're a bum?" I asked.

"Something like that," he concurred. Luckily for me and the unsnapped state of my neck, he didn't seem offended.

"That's alright," I assured him, just in case. "I'm kind of a bum, too, in a way. I just kind of mooch off of my aunt..."

"Been there," he interrupted.

"Well... that's quite the coincidence." I giggled slightly. "Did your parents stop wanting to put up with you, too?"

"Pretty much."

"No way!" I laughed, louder this time. "Say, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were just trying to get me to relate to you. You know... to make me feel safe."

"I'm a good liar, but not that good," he told me. "I was pawned off to a bunch of family members for being a little shitstain. And you?"

"I wouldn't call myself a shitstain, necessarily," I responded. "Delinquent seems a bit less harsh, don't you think?"

"Yeah, whatever helps you sleep at night." We stopped walking then. The light of a streetlamp came into view up ahead, casting orange light over the ground.

Without warning, the guy took a seat in the strip of grass near the curb. Not even bothering to question him, I followed suit.

Once we were on the same level, I was able to take in the sight of him fully. Shaggy blonde hair framed his unshaven face. He had the mouth of someone who was accustomed to frowning, but his eyes...

As soon as I caught a glimpse of them, he turned to face me head-on. If I wasn't already sitting, I figure I might have fallen over.

They were so pale, and so very blue. Likely the bluest eyes I had ever seen. I could only imagine what they looked like under decent lighting.

I took my messenger bag from off my shoulder, patting the bottom of the bag for my camera. Unfortunately, it seemed I had neglected to bring it along with me.

Even more unfortunately, the guy had seemed to take note of my desperate search.

"What are you looking for?" he asked.

"My camera." I lifted my head, turning to meet those cold blue eyes in spite of my burning face.

"I wanted to take a picture of you," I admitted.

He grinned at me, like I was a child who had just done something cute. My face grew even hotter. "That's nice and all," he said, "but don't you think we should start with names?"

I shook my head. "I'm still not sure you don't want my head on a stick," I said, slinging my bag back over my arm. "And anyway, I don't even have my camera."

"Well, if I wanted to kill you, you would've already done the wrong thing by following me," he pointed out.

I quickly shot him the middle finger.

He chuckled. "Well, then. Pleasure to meet you, too, Firecracker."

Choosing not to acknowledge the nickname, I nudged him. "Maybe you should tell me your name first," I suggested. "Might make me feel more comfortable."

He paused, his expression becoming rather serious. "You really wanna know, huh?"

I nodded. "If you won't tell me," I started, "I'll walk."

Despite the small smile that he cracked, he shook his head. "Nope," he argued. "You first."

"Why?"

"Because."

"It's that important?"

"Of course it is."

I stopped for a moment, crossing my arms over my chest. Finally, I decided there couldn't be much harm in it, — he was close enough now to do whatever he wanted with me, anyway.

"Anastasia Truehart," I finally blurted out.

Much to my dismay, he burst out laughing. By this point, my face was threatening to burst into flames.

His next remark only added insult to injury. "That can't be real," he said. "What are you, — a fucking Care Bear?"

My face burned, boiling with frustration. "Of course it's real," I spat. "Why? What's your name? John Doe?"

He smiled, shaking his head. "Kurt Cobain."

I huffed out a laugh. "Cobain?" I asked. "Like you have any room to talk about fucking weird last names! Since when do people have the name 'Cobain?' Who the actual hell calls themselves that?"

He continued to stare at me like I was an utter basket case, smiling condescendingly. "Me," he says. "And my dad, and his dad. And my mom, back in the day."

I rolled my eyes. "Whatever."

Abruptly, I found myself rising to my feet. "I'm done here," I announced. "Catch you later, Copenhagen."

To my surprise, the apparent Kurt didn't bother trying to stop my leaving this time. Rather, he easily bid me adieu. "Take it easy, Firecracker. See ya soon."

All the way home, I considered him, — his stupid name, his apparent homelessness, his pretty eyes, his parting words.

Some part of my groggy brain wondered if I'd made a mistake. It wasn't often that the same two random people in this gigantic world would cross paths twice, after all.

I attempted to force these thoughts out of my mind. God, all of this would be just like me,  —  get forced into some podunk town in a futile attempt to get my life straight again, only to become obsessed with some random homeless guy.

As I approached my Aunt Sharon's house, I promised myself never to visit that bridge on the Wishkah River again, — it was in my best interest, I decided, to forget all about Kurt Copenhagen or whateverthefuck, and the alcohol in my system would surely make it easier for me to do just that.

Still, there was some part of me that longed to cross paths with him again. The next time, I'd have my camera. I could snap his picture then, if only to give myself the smallest piece of him. Something to remember him by, before I shook him for good.

I began learning two lessons that night.

One: at least some twisted version of your weird fantasies will probably come true someday.

Two: be careful what you wish for.