Karden stormed into the post office. His town was small enough to still have one. He didn't even know how to mail a letter.
An old man worked the front desk. Karden didn't bother with pleasantries.
"Lydi Stern."
"Why the rush, young man?" He smiled, whiskered lips shaky with age. "You should learn to appreciate life."
"I can't appreciate life because life is absolute shit. Now tell me where Lydi Stern lives!"
The man looked startled, but he chalked up the commotion to teenage nonsense and clicked over on his computer to the right page. After narrowing his eyes a little, he said, "Three-twenty-eight, Ridgefield Crescent."
And Karden was off.
The streets were cold, and snowy, and splotches grew on his jeans like dark memories, but he didn't stop until he was planted right in front of her house. A towering thing it was, with three floors of classic Victorian architecture. Not like Lydi at all.
He stormed up the steps and banged on the door. After almost a minute of waiting, the door swung inwards and a tall, professional looking man stepped out. He gave Karden an odd look. "Who are you?"
"A friend of Lydi's."
The man frowned. "She doesn't have friends."
"Then what am I?"
He seemed to realize that Karden wasn't joking. He blinked, then shook his head. "You won't be finding her here. If you were really her friend, you would know that."
Karden gritted his teeth. "Just tell me where I can find her."
"The hospital."
Karden stumbled back a step. "Wait - what?"
"The hospital."
The man wasn't joking, either.
Karden turned and ran.
YOU ARE READING
cigarette daydreams
Short Story"hey - lydi, got a light?" "literally, metaphorically, or spiritually? because i have none." "that's a bit gloomy, don't you think?" "it's punk rock."
