Light Spiders Hide

Spiders of light, they patter across her shadow walls with a thin, papery sound. They are chasing the spiders of shadow. Scuttle isn’t the right word. Not quite right.

Her eyes move fast in an attempt to keep track of every small change in detail. It all rushes by and her mind clutters up, but she won’t stop trying to take it all in.

“Dara?”

My name, she thinks. She presses her lips together, narrowing her eyes and chasing the spiders of light across her shadow walls. Run, run, run your boat… Run or row? The name sinks back into the shadows of things. The memory of it fills with pinpricks of light, perhaps made by the spiders’ feet, which multiply and brighten until they hurt her eyes. Soon they consume the memory and then they are one big mass of whiteness. The memory has no substance, no colour anymore.

“Dara.”

This time the voice lacks that inquiring element. It is firmer. “Dara, look at me.”

There are more light spiders, making the shadow ones flee as the voice gains strength. The dream splinters as a hand thrusts in and grabs at her chin.

“Look at me!”

She obeys the command. Her lazy eyes suddenly sharpen and flicker to the left, meeting a gaze as hard as the voice.

It says, “Oh my God, Dara. What have you done?”

--------------

In a world of smooth and flowing things, Dara sits in a dressing gown, awkward in a chair that is too small. A wheelchair, child-sized.

Her sister stands before her, authoritative. “Can you tell me about a ‘saccharide’?”

Dara frowns. This one has got her. “A what?”

“I’m not going to tell you,” Kate states. “You have to figure it out on your own. Tell me what you know about a saccharide.”

“A sack of rides?”

“Oh, Dara.” Disappointment. “That’s not going to help you in the TEE. Now please, concentrate.”

“You look like a doctor in that white coat.”

“I’m a doctor of the arts.”

“I need a real doctor, Kate. I think I’m going to die.”

“You certainly are, if you don’t concentrate and give me some right answers. Come on, now.”

“I need a doctor Kate. Look!”

She holds up an arm and stares at the rough stump that a moment before had been attached to a hand. Before her eyes the rest of her arm is disintegrating. There is crumbling flesh dust on her dressing gown, on the arms of the wheelchair, on her shoes.

Kate smiles. “Don’t worry. That’s not your writing arm. We can still work.”

“Kate!” Dara shrieks, waving her arm at her sister—or trying. All she can do is wiggle the shoulder stump. The rest of her arm is distributed around in a layer of ashes.

“Oh, alright.” Her sister sighs heavily and places her clipboard to one side. Then she moves towards Dara and bends down. “Here, let me help you.”

Dara’s eyes widen as Kate’s hands wrap around her throat, dissolving the flesh beneath them.

--------------

‘What have I done?’

Dara awakens with that single question on her lips. All desire to find an answer evaporates in the daylight.

“No one’s listening,” she mumbles, wishing for the strength to say more.

She hears an impatient sigh, and someone shifting around. She wants to see who it is, but she can’t remember how to open her eyes.

“No one cares,” she says. It takes too much effort, so she decides she’ll stay quiet.

“You have some nerve, Dara.”

She’s not tired anymore. Her eyes open and things don’t look blurry, as she had expected. Clearest of all is the face of her sister, the commanding gaze and those full lips thinned into a quivering line.

“You don’t understand,” she starts.

“Oh, yes I do,” Kate responds. “I understand.”

Kate leans in, and Dara’s eyelids twitch, as light as paper. She’d shift backwards, sideways, anyway if she weren’t tucked so firmly into this bed.

“I understand, Dara, that you are a spoiled fucking brat with no respect. No respect.”

Kate’s voice starts off vehement and ends wobbly. The words steal Dara’s breath and her ability to think straight. Her mouth is suddenly very dry.

“How the fuck could you do this?” Kate gasps. “Don’t you care about anyone? I mean, Jesus. If you wanted attention, you could’ve slapped me or something. Dara, are you listening to me?”

In Kate’s blazing eyes, fury and terror are taking a tumble.

“I have that fucking project this week. You know I’m run off my feet. Jesus Christ, I can’t do this. I really can’t.”

Dara bursts into tears. Or, rather, her face crumples and moisture spills out, gently lifting the layer of silt from her skin. Her eyes bob in salty pools, and her mouth gapes, a bubble of saliva resting on the lower lip.

“Shit,” Kate mumbles, eyeing her. She looks less angry, more weary. “Don’t cry.”

Dara wants to say all sorts of things, but she can’t decide which, and anyway, she’s not feeling very articulate.

“Dara,” Kate says gently, her eyes pleading. “Why didn’t you come to me? I would’ve listened. I would’ve.”

Dara doesn’t know what the words mean, but she hears the dismay in Kate’s voice. The disappointment.

Kate’s hand moves to touch Dara’s. It hesitates, hovers. Finally it settles back onto the white gauze blankets. A long sigh of resignation, of tiredness and sadness, separates the sisters.

This is the second time she’s ended up in here. Will Kate give her another second chance?

I just want to go home, she thinks, squeezing her eyes shut to milk away the tears.

“You’re going home today.”

Dr Teekup hesitates, meeting Dara’s uneasy gaze. “That is, if you feel up to it. You’re all better.”

Kate isn’t here at the moment, thankfully. Dara says, “I don’t feel better.”

The doctor stops. “You’re…well, you’re physically better.” The doctor is looking down at her in a way that makes her squirm. “You should probably think about talking to someone. Professionally, I mean. I know your sister’s very busy.”

Dara has looked away. “Can I just stay a bit longer?” she asks.

“I’m sorry,” Dr Teekup says with a sigh. “You’re not ill. This is a hospital, a place where sick people come.”

Dara stares hard at the door, willing someone nice to appear for a visit.

“I’ll have someone contact your sister, and we’ll get you back home and settled.” When there is no response, the doctor adds, “It really is the best thing for you.”

“I’m sick,” Dara whispers, certain that if she speaks louder she will cry.

“You’re fine,” Dr Teekup insists. “As long as you take my advice, and get some help, you’ll be a-okay.”

“I won’t.” The doctor is already at the door.

“I’ll be back soon,” the doctor assures her, and then disappears.

I’ll be dead soon, Dara responds silently, and the tears come.