Sunday was bright, jagged, and crystalline.
Karden's head hurt to look out the window. The light stabbed his eyes. He wanted to be back in the dark, back on the bridge. He didn't even care that the bridge was stained with the horror of his memory. The dark was where he had come to see the light.
And true light, daylight, seemed painful in comparison.
His mother was noticing. She saw the circles under his eyes. Saw the narrowness of his shoulders. She thought he was depressed. Hell, maybe she was right. Karden was at a loss.
What if he caught cold? He should stop going out at night. It wasn't helping him. Oh, so he thinks it does help him? What was so important out there that he should risk his health to go see? Was he dealing drugs? Oh, was he?
No. Karden said that word a thousand times, until it lost its meaning, but he still said it again because it was the only word he had left.
No. He wasn't getting sick.
No. He wasn't dealing drugs.
No. It was helping him.
Lydi was helping him.
But his mother would never know. Because Karden would never say her name, not until long after she was gone. Because that was her name, the girl who changed his life, and he couldn't just throw it around like anyone else's. Amber's could be tossed around by the football team. Connor's could be tossed around by giggling girls. Karden's name could be tossed around by his mother, by the teachers who were getting worried, by his friends.
Lydi's couldn't.
Lydi was his. And he was hers.
He just didn't know it yet.
His mother didn't let him out that night. She said he needed to sleep. But she didn't know what he needed, didn't know any more than he did.
Because she was broken too, and maybe she was leaking, just like Karden.
But Karden didn't care about her leaks, her memories, her soul's stains.
Because he was human. He was a teenager. And we forget, sometimes, as human teenagers are oft to do, that there are others out there.
Certainly, we acknowledge their existence. We pity the poor, strive to feed the starving, perform random acts of kindness to make it seem like it's not all falling apart.
But it is. And deep inside, we know we can't do anything to stop it. So when we look around, that's all we do: look.
And Karden looked.
And then, Karden looked on.
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."
