Silk - Caitlin R. Kiernan [127]
“Fuck,” Spyder whispered, and then she sat silently beneath the ruined bedspread and stared at the hole, the last ball bearing forgotten in her fingers.
One of the silver balls rolled into the living room and bumped to a stop against Niki’s foot. She bent down and picked it up, not caring now if Spyder saw her or not, knowing whatever was happening had happened. One word, printed around the circumference of the bearing, one word that didn’t mean anything to Niki, but she thought maybe she was starting to understand the whole thing, the dot-to-dot secret, the marks Spyder had drawn for her, and she wondered what was written on that last one, the one Spyder still held. And then she realized that Spyder was crying, very softly, and went to her.
2.
Monday, another lazy short day that the winter-brilliant sun, warm and washed-out honey, made lazier, took its own sweet time getting up over the top of the mountain. Filtered down through the trees and all those TV towers, into the house, first the windows on the east side where Spyder and Niki were still sleeping sometime after noon. Spyder woke first, her arms around Niki, holding her close, and the sun hung itself on the wall over them, big yellow-orange splotch like a saint’s nimbus or halo, and Spyder watched it closely, suspiciously. Niki was snoring, not a loud ragged boy snore but the sort of sound a cat makes if its sleep is uneasy, and Spyder held her tighter.
She could feel the world still slipping away around her, not the jolts that had come at first; a slow, steady creep now that didn’t ever stop, or slow down, or get any faster, no matter how hard she held on. No matter that she’d sealed up the room. No matter that she watched the trapdoor to the basement to be sure it stayed closed. Spyder looked away from the sun spot on the wall, buried her face in the clean smell of Niki’s hair. Robin’s hair had always smelled of ammonia and hair dye, and Niki’s hair just smelled clean, like hair and baby shampoo.
“Wake up,” she whispered, too quiet to actually wake Niki, pressed her lips against an earlobe, gently tested the steel rings there with her teeth.
“Wake up, Niki,” a little louder this time, just a little, and Niki mumbled something through her sleep and curled into a smaller fetus. Spyder kissed a spot on her cheek, next to her ear, felt the downy hairs there brush her own rough lips.
And that sensation again, less and less time between them every day, dizzy naked feeling, like she was falling and there was absolutely nothing anywhere beneath her, or above, like she’d fall forever. Spyder squeezed Niki, held on, waiting it out, the sensation, the sudden, hollow certainty, perception her doctors would have called delusion, or just panic attacks, and then tell her to take more pills to make it stop. And she wanted it to stop, but she wanted it to stop because it was over, because she’d found a way back, a way to put everything back right again, didn’t just want to take pills that made it harder to feel, harder to trust what she felt and saw and heard, and knew.
And then it was gone again and there was only Niki in her arms and the sun on the wall, the itch beneath her skin that she couldn’t ever reach.
“Niki,” she said. “Wake up, please,” and this time Niki rolled over and stared up at Spyder. Sleepy dumb grin, and she rubbed at her eyes.
“Hi there,” she said and nuzzled against Spyder’s T-shirt, nuzzled in between Spyder’s breasts. “What time is it?”
“I don’t know,” Spyder said. “Not too late, I don’t think. Are you hungry?”
“Mhmmm,” and Niki kissed her, slipped her tongue quick between Spyder’s teeth, and she was still surprised, even though Niki had kissed her so many times, and it still made her think about Robin and feel guilty.
“I meant for food,”