Read Online Postcards from a Dead Girl by Kirk Farber - Free Book Online
Authors: Kirk Farber
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to end the call quickly. âAll right then, good night.â
âGood-bye. Talk to you soon,â she says, and tries to sneak in a third and fourth farewell, but I hang up before she gets there.
The reason Iâm so sure Natalie would have me committed is because sheâs done it before. She talked our mother into a short-term psych visit once. Iâm not sure if it harmed or helped, but Natalie was behind the whole thing, whatever happened. At least thatâs how I remember it.
âIâm going into exile,â Mom told me the night before she left, after having spent a couple of long hours talking with Natalie behind closed doors. Mom told me she âcame to her own decision,â but since then Iâve always been suspicious of my sister. Like now, sheâs waiting for me to crack, ready to sign the papers to put me into exile too, someplace where sheâd know I was safe and she wouldnât have to worry about me while she takes care of her growing spawn.
chapter 23
Barcelona is brighter than I imagined. So much sun, itâs almost overwhelming. The light is everywhere: it showers down from an impossibly blue sky, reflects off every building, glistens off every body. It slices up through the cracks in the sidewalks, fills up every corner, erases every shadow.
I heard about a disease people get from vacationing in places so beautiful they are psychologically incapable of handling it. Their intimate contact with pure unadulterated beauty makes them come apart at the seams. This may be such a place. I understand now why Zoe wrote âwish you were here.â Itâs a bit unsettling, being alone in this sunny paradise. Maybe Iâm just getting tired from all my travelsâjet lag, and all that.
It takes me a while to get through the tight streets. There is so much brick and there are so many churches. I donât want to ask anyone if they speak English because I feel ridiculous asking âHabla inglés?â like Iâm back in eighth-grade Spanish class and this is the magic phrase dumb Americans say because theyâre too good to learn a second language.
When I arrive at the Oficia del Postal, I am awestruck. This canât be the post office. A massive cathedral-like structure towersabove me, with skyward spires and textures of an impossible pattern. It hurts to look at, itâs so beautiful. I realize Iâve forgotten my sunglasses. I donât have a hat and I canât squint any harder. People pass me by and nobody speaks English. Itâs all gibberish. This whole place is noise and light and beauty. I decide to try the post office another time, when Iâm better rested.
In the hotel gift shop, I look for some ibuprofen. There are shirts and hats and sunglasses and gum. There are shot glasses and candy and magazines. There is no ibuprofen. But there are postcards. Dozens of them, lining the shelves. I search through them and find an exact match to my Barcelona card. Adjacent to the postcards is a block of wood with a red pen attached to it by a string. The wood has writing all over it, scribbling from countless customers who used it as an ink tester. Zoe could have purchased her postcard right here and used this exact pen. I feel a surge of adrenaline with this thought, anxious about the close proximity of her presence.
I take the stairs back up to my room, jumping two at a time, and I think the effort forces too much blood to my head. My sunshine headache is evolving to something more substantial. I rarely get headaches, and this one is killing me. I want to call Natalie and tell her to take care of Zero in case I donât come back as planned. No way am I getting on a plane feeling like this. Maybe Iâm being a little dramatic. Maybe I want to call Natalie just to hear somebody speak English.
I turn on the television for some distraction. I flip through the channels and John the TV psychic is not on any of them, thank God. The soap
âGood-bye. Talk to you soon,â she says, and tries to sneak in a third and fourth farewell, but I hang up before she gets there.
The reason Iâm so sure Natalie would have me committed is because sheâs done it before. She talked our mother into a short-term psych visit once. Iâm not sure if it harmed or helped, but Natalie was behind the whole thing, whatever happened. At least thatâs how I remember it.
âIâm going into exile,â Mom told me the night before she left, after having spent a couple of long hours talking with Natalie behind closed doors. Mom told me she âcame to her own decision,â but since then Iâve always been suspicious of my sister. Like now, sheâs waiting for me to crack, ready to sign the papers to put me into exile too, someplace where sheâd know I was safe and she wouldnât have to worry about me while she takes care of her growing spawn.
chapter 23
Barcelona is brighter than I imagined. So much sun, itâs almost overwhelming. The light is everywhere: it showers down from an impossibly blue sky, reflects off every building, glistens off every body. It slices up through the cracks in the sidewalks, fills up every corner, erases every shadow.
I heard about a disease people get from vacationing in places so beautiful they are psychologically incapable of handling it. Their intimate contact with pure unadulterated beauty makes them come apart at the seams. This may be such a place. I understand now why Zoe wrote âwish you were here.â Itâs a bit unsettling, being alone in this sunny paradise. Maybe Iâm just getting tired from all my travelsâjet lag, and all that.
It takes me a while to get through the tight streets. There is so much brick and there are so many churches. I donât want to ask anyone if they speak English because I feel ridiculous asking âHabla inglés?â like Iâm back in eighth-grade Spanish class and this is the magic phrase dumb Americans say because theyâre too good to learn a second language.
When I arrive at the Oficia del Postal, I am awestruck. This canât be the post office. A massive cathedral-like structure towersabove me, with skyward spires and textures of an impossible pattern. It hurts to look at, itâs so beautiful. I realize Iâve forgotten my sunglasses. I donât have a hat and I canât squint any harder. People pass me by and nobody speaks English. Itâs all gibberish. This whole place is noise and light and beauty. I decide to try the post office another time, when Iâm better rested.
In the hotel gift shop, I look for some ibuprofen. There are shirts and hats and sunglasses and gum. There are shot glasses and candy and magazines. There is no ibuprofen. But there are postcards. Dozens of them, lining the shelves. I search through them and find an exact match to my Barcelona card. Adjacent to the postcards is a block of wood with a red pen attached to it by a string. The wood has writing all over it, scribbling from countless customers who used it as an ink tester. Zoe could have purchased her postcard right here and used this exact pen. I feel a surge of adrenaline with this thought, anxious about the close proximity of her presence.
I take the stairs back up to my room, jumping two at a time, and I think the effort forces too much blood to my head. My sunshine headache is evolving to something more substantial. I rarely get headaches, and this one is killing me. I want to call Natalie and tell her to take care of Zero in case I donât come back as planned. No way am I getting on a plane feeling like this. Maybe Iâm being a little dramatic. Maybe I want to call Natalie just to hear somebody speak English.
I turn on the television for some distraction. I flip through the channels and John the TV psychic is not on any of them, thank God. The soap
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