On the Backs of Spiders
The steam rises from the coffee cup, coiling and curling back upon itself—a tiny storm in a cup, forever at war with itself. Her eyes listlessly watch, twisting and folding with the wisps of steam, lost in the rhythm, lost in everything.
Her eyes drift from the cup out through the window, into the brightly lit world that exists beyond her small apartment. She takes a shuddering breath before picking up the cup and blowing gently across its lip.
She lets out a gasp, dropping the cup to the floor as she stares in wonder at the sea of fine white threads running from her flesh and throughout the room, connecting everything to her while branching out further, beyond the walls, beyond her apartment.
The cup and saucer lie before her, and she picks them up, mouth agape, studying both. A small white thread runs from the cup to her—another from the saucer. She gasps again, dropping them once more and forcing herself into the corner of the room, mumbling incoherent thoughts as they cascade through her mind.
Frantically, she grabs the threads in handfuls, pulling at them in a desperate rage, but the pain that shoots up her arm and into the back of her head forces her to drop them. She grips her head in despair as tears stream down her face.
A pair of scissors catches her attention, glistening in the morning light. For several lost seconds, she stares, entranced, trying to recall where they came from and why she would have them out.
Her thoughts cascade into each other, the next piling atop the last—creating its own little storm inside her head, just like the steam had in the cup before.
Her head tilts as she notices strands of thread caught in the scissor blades. She reaches over with shaking fingers and picks up the scissors. A handful of threads fall limply to the floor, and her brow rises as her eyes widen.
She studies the enormous blades, her trembling finger gently tracing a series of undecipherable words etched into the scissors’ surface. Then, without a moment’s thought, she grabs the threads that connect her to the cup and saucer—and severs them with the scissors’ blades.
A euphoric trance washes over her as she stares in confusion at the pieces of crockery—wondering why they are sitting before her and, more importantly, who put them there.
She gasps in shock as their colours suddenly start to fade away, the once-buoyant reds and yellows that adorned their ceramic shells draining like water down a plughole. They turn a pale, soulless white, indistinguishable from the tangled web of threads stretching from her body. She hesitates, then, after several lost moments, her trembling fingers touch the cup.
She gasps again as it crumbles at her touch, but even that is quickly swallowed by the silence pressing in around her. The dust collapses in on itself—until even the memory of it is gone. A shiver ripples through her as the saucer follows moments later—vanishing as if it had never been there at all.
As her bedazzlement lifts, she shifts her gaze to the severed threads that lie on the floor, their ends frayed and curling like dying roots. They lead out of the room, disappearing into the hallway beyond.
She goes to touch them, but something in the back of her skull tells her not to. Instead, she stumbles to her feet and follows the trail the threads leave behind.
Through the door, down the hall, and into the dimly lit kitchenette.
The stench hits her well before she enters the room, but as quickly as she smells it, it is gone. She gasps in horror.
In the centre of the room, a body lies silently before her.
Its flesh is beyond pale—almost translucent—yet, as she stares at it, she realises, like the strange cup from moments before, that it looks as though it has been woven from the very threads that splinter from her flesh. Its vacant eyes stare past her, lifeless, yet still telling her a story of their own.
The man’s hands are in the air, fear written across his face. He was begging, pleading. She does not recognise the face, but as she stares at the enormous scissors in her hands, she understands why she wouldn’t.
Her gaze falls from the scissor blades to her hands, and then to the river of fine white strands running from her flesh, branching in every direction, disappearing into unseen places.
She gasps as fresh threads stretch toward the corpse, worming their way from the backs of tiny spiders—restitching the webs of time she had cut just moments ago.
A river of sweat cascades down her brow as she frantically grabs the flowing sea of threads—gripping them tightly in one hand while the other clutches the scissors, now colder—and far heavier—than before.
Her lips tremble, and her eyes narrow.
She raises the blades—
And begins to cut.
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