Silk

3.

Hours later and Keith’s apartment was still empty, as empty as if all his stuff had already been carted away, as if most of the people Mort called hadn’t shown: skatepunks and slackers, a few people from other bands, and almost everyone with a bottle or two, a six-pack or a case of shitty beer. Daria sat on the old mattress, wedged into the corner and the sleeping bag across her lap, five times as drunk now as she’d ever been, and she’d already puked once and started drinking again, looking for a place inside that was absolutely fucking numb.

The sleeping bag smelled like Keith, the whole apartment that same smell, that feel, and the pain faded and then welled back up, time after time, ocean tide, and she’d be crying again, and Mort or Theo or someone else sitting with her, comforting words and touches that could never really comfort, couldn’t possibly touch the shattered place inside.

A friend of Mort’s from work had brought a portable stereo and stacks of CDs, four speakers spaced around the room, and the music blaring so loud that the cops were bound to come sooner or later and run them all off, arrest them for the veil of pot smoke hanging in the cold air. Daria pulled the sleeping bag up to her shoulders and inhaled him, musky ghost, let him fill her up, try to take away some of the hollowness. And then she was over the crest of another wave, dropping into the next trough, tears hot and close, and she took another swallow from the bottle of Mad Dog, distant taste like grape Kool-Aid or cough syrup. A little dribbled down her chin and she wiped it away, as the forest of legs in front of her parted a moment and there was Niki Ky, coming through the door, someone handing her a beer immediately, and Spyder right behind her. The legs had closed again and they were gone.

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 go

“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 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.