Silk - Caitlin R. Kiernan [144]
“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;