Caitlin Kiernan - Silk

And Niki took her hands, and Daria flinched, hands so cold, freezing; of course, it was only because they’d just come in, but she’d looked down and Niki’s hands were too white, Spyder-pale and livid welts across their backs, crisscross of raised pink flesh, like fresh burns or keloid scars.

“Christ,” she said, “what happened to your hands, Niki?” but Niki was already pulling them away, tucking them inside the pockets of her army jacket. “Oh, that’s nothing. I had an accident in the kitchen.”

“Jesus,” Theo said, so Daria knew she’d seen the marks, too. “Have you been to a doctor?” and Niki had shaken her head. “No,” she said, “It’s really not that bad at all.”

Someone changed CDs and there’d been a few seconds’ worth of relative quiet, Daria looking at the bulges in Niki’s pockets where her hands were hiding, aware that Spyder was still watching her, that her apology hadn’t been accepted. And then the room filled with the sudden whine of bagpipes before thumping bass again, subwoofer throb, House of Pain, and the crowd began to jump up and down in unison, unreal trampoline dance, and she thought she’d felt the floor sway beneath them.

“I just miss him, you know? I just miss him,” Daria said, bringing it back to herself, safer territory no matter how much it hurt. “It’s such a fucking waste.”

“Yeah,” Niki said, and she put an arm around Spyder’s legs, giving Daria another glimpse of her hand.

“I don’t want to be angry at him,” she said and took another drink from the wine bottle. “I don’t want to be angry at him for being such a selfish fucking prick…”

“What do you mean?” Spyder asked, talking loud over the stereo and the pounding feet. “What do you mean, he was selfish?” and Daria looked back up at her, the anger still in Spyder’s eyes, and “I mean it was a goddamn stupid thing, Spyder. That’s what I mean. Never mind his friends, you know? Never mind me. He was a fucking genius, a goddamn fucking genius, and he pissed it away.”

“It was his life,” Spyder said. “He could do with it whatever he wanted.”

“Bullshit!” slinging the word at Spyder like a brick, had known that Spyder was baiting her, no idea why, but head clear enough to see she was. Just not clear enough to keep her own mouth shut. “He had no fucking right to do that to himself, so don’t give me that shit, Spyder. No one has a right to destroy themselves by shooting that crap into their body.”

“You don’t seem to mind pouring that shit into yours…” and Spyder had pointed at the half-empty wine bottle; Daria just stared at her, speechless, and a new wave had risen up before her, towering black water rising, rising, and the filthy foam whitecap up there somewhere.

“Spyder…” Niki had said, sounding like maybe she’d been afraid of this all along and trying to smile, holding tighter to Spyder’s legs.

“I’m sorry,” Spyder said. “It just sounds kind of hypocritical to me.”

And Daria had tried to stand up then, the floor tilting beneath her, the wall behind the only solid thing, and “Goddamn you,” she said, “God-fucking-damn you, Spyder. You don’t even know what the hell you’re talking about,” and Theo’s hands were trying to pull her back down onto the mattress.

“Whatever you say, Daria.” And Spyder half-turned away from her and watched the dancing crowd of mourners.

“She really didn’t mean it that way, Dar,” Niki had said, but Daria had braced herself against the wall, enough support, and she swung a hard punch that missed its mark and smacked Spyder in the throat.

Spyder made a startled choking, coughing sound and stumbled backwards; bumped into the dancers and one of them pushed her, mosh pit reciprocation, and so she’d tumbled towards Daria, tripped by Niki’s embrace and the corner of the mattress. Sprawled into Daria’s arms and they’d both gone down, furious tangle of arms and legs, kicking boots, Daria hitting Spyder in the face over and over, Spyder’s blood on pale knuckles and the dirty wall. And Theo and Niki trying to pull them apart, catching stray kicks and blows for their trouble. Some of the dancers had stopped to watch, had formed a tight arena of flesh around Keith’s bed.

Daria’s face, lip busted and sneering, teeth stained red with her blood and Spyder’s, “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,” from her mouth, and then Theo was hauling Daria off and the toe of Spyder’s right boot had slammed into her unprotected stomach. She gagged, wrestled free of Theo’s grip and vomited on the floor, pure liquid gout of alcohol and bile that spattered them all.

“Christ,” Theo said, and Niki, leaning over Spyder now, shielding Spyder, had said only “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” again and again.

“Just get her the hell out of here, Niki,” Theo said, her arms around Daria’s shoulders as she’d heaved again. “Or I’m gonna finish what Daria started myself.”

“She didn’t mean it-” Niki began, but Theo interrupted her: “Now!” she said, and Niki had helped Spyder up off the mattress, stepped in the way when Spyder tried to kick Daria again and caught the boot herself.

“Get her out of here, Niki!”

And Spyder growling, spitting bloodpink foam, and she’d said, “I’m not done with you, bitch,” last word like tearing fabric, and Daria could only cramp and listen and stare into the spreading pool of her puke.

“What the hell was that,” Theo said, and Daria shook her head, like she had no idea. The fury had already left her, left her scraped raw with a little stream of vomit from both her nostrils, her gut aching, throat and acid-burned sinuses on fire. When she could talk, “Make them all leave, Theo. Find Mort and make them all leave.” And Theo had obeyed, reluctant, but doing it anyway; Daria sat back against the wall again, stared out at the confused crowd through watering eyes. They were trying not to stare at her, most of them, a few already being herded out the door by Mort and Theo. Someone had turned off the music. And then she’d closed her eyes and waited to be alone.

Half an hour later, or an hour, outside Keith’s building, locking the door and feeling like crap. Sick and drunk and bruised. Mort and Theo hadn’t wanted to leave her, had offered to give her a lift back over to Morris, demanded finally, but she’d said the walk would do her good, that the air would help clear her head. And they’d gone reluctantly, leaving her to stuff the bottles of booze scattered around the apartment, the cans of beer, into a paper bag, leaving her to turn off the lights one last time and lock the door behind her. She’d stuck a couple of other things in the bag, too full, ready to tear and spill everything, grocery-brown paper, just some guitar picks from the floor, a t-shirt and a couple of his cassette tapes. Random souvenirs.

The key made a sound like ice or a camera click.

And when she’d turned around, he’d been standing across the alley watching her; she’d thought it was Keith for an instant, impossible, dizzy instant, had almost dropped the clinking bag. But it wasn’t him, wasn’t anyone she’d recognized at first.

“What the hell do you want,” she’d said, sounding as drunk as she was, sounding like a drunken old whore, and he’d looked both ways, nervous, up and down the alley, before crossing to stand closer to Daria. Tall, lanky boy with brown hair and a Bauhaus shirt showing under his leather jacket. Someone she’d seen with Spyder from time to time at Dr. Jekyll’s, one of the shrikes.

“Before,” he said. “When I called, I didn’t know,” and then she’d recognized the voice, too, shaky and scared, cartoon scaredy-cat voice from the phone. “I’m sorry.”