ɪ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ.
Easily strung out, Cecelia Catton fled to Seattle on an
arrogant whim, chasing the scene by its ever-expanding tail. Forcing herself out from under the thumb of a failed marriage and stifling environment, the twen...
HER MORNING WAS DANK AND DEWEY, typical Seattle weather if you were native to the area. However, Celia was not. In fact, her childhood solely consisted of Californian sun and sand between her toes. She longed for Palo Alto, to be away from the mess she created for herself here in the Emerald City, the city that had promised her so much. Yet, here she was, cocooned in her bed, the all-encompassing heat trapped beneath her covers, shielding her from the cold that threatened her outside of her little apartment.
She hugged herself deeper into her sheets, fisting them up near her face. She could feel her mind begin to slip into rumination about the day ahead, the dreaded, colossal day...the day she had postponed for the last two weeks.
The day of her divorce.
Whatever monological rant was on the precipice of Celia's mind was silenced with a rattle on her door and the sing-song voice of her roommate.
"Oh, Celia," Amelia beckoned with musicality; however, it only made Celia clutch the sheets tighter to her face, eventually submerging herself beneath her duvet.
Celia was in no mood to tolerate Amelia's theatricality and all-around general cheeriness.
On the outskirts of the door stood Amelia Clayton, Washington University's very own British leading lady - a garish girl who possessed the propensity to look on the bright side of everything. The complete opposite of Celia.
She was tall and lithe, possessing the genetic makeup to be a model if she pleased, but she chose to study Theatre and Literature at UW instead.
And of her own accord, and most definitely without invitation, Amelia waltzed into the room with her long, tanned legs and propped herself atop Celia's bed with a bounce. Her usual bouncy, black curls were swapped for a peroxide straightness.
Amelia nodded towards the book on Celia's side table, "An Inquiry to Nicomachean Ethics," it was dog-ear folded and scrappy all over. "Well, you've certainly devoured that haven't you Cece?"
Ignoring her question and the nickname she loathed, Celia lolled her head onto the edge of her pillow. "Right," she muttered dazedly, it must have been just after seven in the morning and the dreaded court hearing was scheduled for ten.
Amelia and Celia lived in an apartment block, its red bricks worn with the years and rain. For Amelia, the proximity to the UW was ideal; her classes were just a short walk away, along streets lined with overgrown ivy and student-filled cafés.
Celia, older by a few years but no less stable, had chosen the place for different reasons. Her workbench at the guitar shop, where she spent hours shaping wood and tuning the frets of handcrafted guitars, was just a quick subway ride away.
Celia squashed her face deeper and deeper into her pillow and grumbled. "Why on earth are you in my room this early on this godforsaken morning?" Her voice, muffled by the fabric, came out like a growl, jagged around the edges.
Amelia released an exasperated huff, crossing her arms in mock offence, as if she was not accustomed to Celia's morning surliness after spending a year in the same living space.
"I just came in to let you know that someone called for you-"
"Who - who was it?" Celia shot upright, "Was it Cass, did he call??" She fired rapidly, her heart lurched with a pulse of anxious energy that ran through her whole body.
A small part of her knew it wasn't him, but still, you couldn't blame a girl for wishing on a guy that never called. Cass was the man that was so willingly divorcing her this fine morning. He was all looks and no class.
"Slow down," Amelia breathed in irritation, "If you'd have let me get a word in I'd have saved you the perils of anxiety," she said, squinting at Celia whose mouth was agape in anticipation. Her hands clutching her sheets in an effort to subdue her anxiety.
After an agonising silence stretched between them, Amelia broke it with the kind of reluctance that said she'd rather not.
"No," she answered with reticence, fiddling with a loose thread on Celia's green duvet.
"No, it was not your paramour of an ex-husband...it was some guy named Kurt," she said deridingly, as if each word was being forced out.
Releasing a huff, Celia leaned forward and brushed her cropped hair away from her forehead in a manner that would look awkward on anyone except Celia, on Celia it was almost graceful, like she was too caught up in thought to care about appearances
Now toying with her hair and tucking stubborn strands behind her ears, she looked off to the side to glance at her clock and futilely mumbled the correction, "husband."
"Who cares, semantics!" Amelia dismissed loudly with the wave of her hand, her dangly earrings shaking with the gesticulation. "Who the heck is Kurt, Celia?" Moving on before you've even signed the papers?" she scoffed loudly.
Celia sank back into her sheets, staring up at the ceiling as if it held some elusive answer. "I... I don't know," she admitted, her voice quieter now. Her gaze fixed on the tapestry that hung above her bed. Maybe someone saw the flyers for the cover band auditions, she rationalised. There was no other reason a stranger would call for her this early.
Unless, of course, it was something else—a work proposition, maybe a potential client. She toyed with the possibilities, each one more mundane than the last. She didn't really care, not when today was such a momentous day for her. This Kurt guy could wait for all she cared.
Once again, interrupting her thoughts was an agitated Amelia, "well bloody deal with it, I can't have you getting involved with another deranged imbecile who will break your heart."
To the unaccustomed ear Amelia may have seemed slightly jealous that Celia was being sought out by a mysterious guy; however, to the likes of Celia she knew her roommates aggrieved tone was a facade for her sincerity and fear of Celia going through another Cass-like breakup, the kind that left Celia hermetic and filled with acrimony for months.
"Okay 'Melia, thank you," she sighed, "did he leave his number?' She placated.
She only nodded her head and placed a thin slit of paper atop Celia's philosophy book, and without another word, she turned to leave the room.
But before she left's she lingered at the door.
"He made me take a goddam message too," she said annoyed, "bloody nosy prick," she mumbled.
Before Celia could ask what the message was, Amelia slipped out, shutting the Love Story poster-covered door behind her.
Celia lay still for a moment, the room settling back into a fragile quiet, portentous of the day ahead . Slowly, she reached for the slip of paper, her red chipped nails grazing its edge. Her eyes narrowed as she read the name scrawled in messy handwriting: Kurt Cobain. She mouthed the name incredulously, running her thumb over the letters as if that might jog her memory.
Who the hell was Kurt Cobain?
She stared at the name a moment longer, letting it linger in the back of her mind, searching for any trace of familiarity. And then, with a sigh, she made up her mind.
