Silk - Caitlin R. Kiernan [143]
Theo stooped down in front of her, Are you okay, Dar? Do you need anything? and Daria had shaken her head and smiled her goofy drunk smile, and fresh tears had streamed down her face.
“It’s gonna be all right,” Theo had said and hugged her, sat down on the mattress; Theo without her opera gloves now, a bottle of Sterling in one hand. Daria lay her head on Theo’s shoulder: that was what she wanted to believe, that somehow it would all be right again, that very soon she would pass out, slip away, barfing up her guts in the toilet down the hall while Theo held her head and whispered soothing words, and when she came to she’d be in her own bed and all this just a vivid nightmare that would fade before she could even remember the details.
“Niki and Spyder are here,” Theo said. “You want to talk to them?”
“Yeah,” she’d said, wiping her snotty nose on her shirtsleeve, “Sure,” and Theo was gone, swallowed by the press of bodies and back in a minute or two, towing Niki through the crowd, Spyder still trailing behind. Niki kneeled in front of Daria, weepy Buddha-Dar, and said she was sorry, was there anything she could do? Spyder looked at the floor or her feet.
“Not unless you can make me wake up, girl’o,” Daria said, and Niki had said, “I would, Dar. I would if I could.”
“Hey there, Spyder,” and Spyder had glanced down at her, shrugged her shoulders and grunted something for an answer.
“This is good,” Niki said. “This party, I mean. Keep it all out in the open, you know? Clean it all out.”
Daria only nodded and stared up at Spyder.
“Guess we’ve both had a pretty shitty month, huh, Spyder?” and Spyder’s eyes narrowed, drifted around to meet her own. And Daria had seen the sharp glint there, sapphire flash of anger, had known she was too drunk to be talking, that she’d done something wrong.
“I’m sorry,” she’d said quickly. “I’m really goddamned shit-faced, Spyder, so just pretend I never said that, okay? I’m sorry.”
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