Ikkin's Secret

My name is Ikkin, and I've got a dead rock star in my bed.1

Every night for the past nine years I've snuggled up next to Kurt, whispered my problems into his ear, comforted by the strength of his silence, his cold voice crackling through the tape little black tape deck tucked between my dresser and the yellowing-pink wall of my room.2

"He was just using me," I remember tell him.  "I know it."3

His silence was solemn.4

"Will there ever be anybody who treats me as well as you?"5

"Grandma, take me home," his tinny voice demands from the corner of the room.  Kurt remains silent, as though to emphasize his lyrics.  "Grandma, take me home."6

For the first time I realize that he isn't going to keep forever.  His features are starting to wilt, his hair no longer the fragrant greasy mess I remember, his eyes fading to blackness despite the crystal-blue stare that gazes down at me from a commemorative poster.7

"You wouldn’t do that, to me, would you?  Tell me that you want to see other people?  Tell me that you need to move on?"8

The heavy guitars gave their final blast before fading into feedback, bringing the song to a halt.  "Grandma, take me home; I wanna be alone."9

I reached over to gently touch him--something I do when I'm feeling lost, confused, or affectionate.  My hand sinks down to the pillow.  The clammy skin of his forehead that I've been feeling is replaced with fluffy linen and a print of a purple Care Bear.  As the next song begins to gear up, I pick up my alarm clock and throw it across the room, a metal-on-plastic crunch accompanied by the pop of the play button giving way to the shock of the blow.10

Guess that means I’m gonna be late tomorrow.11

I close my eyes, and, for once in as long as I can remember, dream of a life without Kurt.12