S012 IRIS WAITE: START
Iris liked spiders. She would even go so far as to say she found them cute; fuzzy and small, just hanging out in their webs, minding their own business for the most part. They didn't bother people intentionally, but it seemed like everyone hated them. There was some kind of parallel she could draw between herself and them, if she wanted to be dramatic. Right now, the biggest parallel was the way she curled into herself on the cold ground, much like the clump of dead spiders in the corner next to her.
She was trying to cry quietly. It was hard to tell how quiet she was actually managing to be; this space was dark and cramped, and it was small enough that whatever surrounded her swallowed her voice up instead of making it echo. She was cold, but she didn't want to move. She was shaking violently all over, but it wasn't from the cold, anyway.
She wanted to someone to find her. She was terrified someone would find her.
All Iris wanted to do was wedge herself deeper and deeper into the dark and hide until the world would look different when she came out. Was that so much to ask? To be left alone? To not be left alone? To not be here?
If nothing else, she'd wish the spiders alive again. They didn't stink like whatever had left its droppings and urine around this place did. Rats, probably, but maybe something worse. She wasn't sure what would be worse than rats, but something had to be. Rats with rabies.
If you got rabies, there was no saving you, you know. People who contracted rabies had weeks to live, if that. She could- she could get bitten by a rat with rabies, and stay down here for two whole weeks in the dark, and only come out when she was all alone, when everything above was all empty, and maybe she'd get home to her dad just in time to start foaming at the mouth and drop dead in the driveway.
Iris started sobbing harder.
Help I'm Alive
Now open
Help I'm Alive
"Art enriches the community, Steve, no less than a pulsing fire hose, or a fireman beating down a blazing door. So what if we're drawing a nude man? So what if all we ever draw is a nude man, or the same nude man over and over in all sorts of provocative positions? Context, not content! Process, not subject! Don't be so gauche, Steve, it's beneath you."
S050: JUNE MADISON - START
June Madison spent a lot of time worrying. It had been a state of being for her since 2016, when Canon was elected. Mornings started off opening Twitter, finding out the latest bad news, or sometimes, just thinking about what to worry about next. Another country elected a fascist, another corporation shut down a union effort, the exam was in two weeks. Gas prices were skyrocketing, home prices too, there was a real chance she'd never be able to afford to leave her parent's house, she didn't know who to get as references for her college applications. And so on, and so forth. Small and big, apocalypse and inconvenience, all just one thing on top of another in her pile of worries.
SOTF was always somewhere in that pile. But, it was one of her more distant worries, it didn't feel as all-encompassing as COVID or climate change or economic inequality and such. As callous as it was to say, it was like hearing about car crashes or shootings or robberies. Terrible, terrible, terrible, but just that, just another terrible thing in a daily list of terrible things. It wouldn't happen to her, she'd always thought.
Maybe she was a terrible person? Or, maybe it was just the mind becoming numb to repeated, prolonged stimuli? Or, maybe it was just a survival instinct? Something to keep herself from going insane, because if, on top of all her other worries, she had to worry about being part of the next shooting or the next car crash or the next building fire, she just wouldn't manage, she would lock herself at home and never leave.
Her breath had caught in her throat when the engine broke down, but then again, it did that every time her school bus did. Part of her asking, 'What if they take us during the 7:30 AM trip to Endecott?' like an idiot. It wouldn't happen to her. Her heart beat a little faster once they left the town boundaries, when suburbia thinned out to the occasional gas station and rural home thinned out to forest. But then again, the roads were still fairly populated, and if something did happen, someone would surely flag them down, call the cops, do something. It wouldn't happen to her. She'd begun to feel a bit sleepy, the rest of the bus was nodding off too, but bus trips like this always lulled people to sleep, it wasn't happening to her. The bus driver stood up, headed to the front bus seats, elbowed Mr. Pérez in his face. She wanted to get up, sleep clung to her limbs like boulders sinking in the sea, she wanted to get up but she couldn't, this wasn't happening to her.
Over and over, there was this hitching sound. Only a slight hint of light filtered in through a square crack in the ceiling above them, she couldn't tell who it was.
She felt sick. This wasn't happening to her. Her head throbbed, her throat felt tight. It was dark, the floor felt slightly wet, clammy, this wasn't happening to her. She put her hands up to her face, neck, and it was real, this was real. The hitching sound continued, hick, a cough, a sob, something of the sort. Her hands came away sticky, warmer than the rest of the dampness coating her. The hitching sound got louder. She'd been in the front row, her hands were sticky, she closed her hands and the skin between her fingers and palm hesitated to part, she was sick, Mr. Ramos, she was sick, the hitching got louder, she was sick—
She wouldn't stop fucking sobbing.
"Could you- could you shut up please?" she croaked out.
June Madison spent a lot of time worrying. It had been a state of being for her since 2016, when Canon was elected. Mornings started off opening Twitter, finding out the latest bad news, or sometimes, just thinking about what to worry about next. Another country elected a fascist, another corporation shut down a union effort, the exam was in two weeks. Gas prices were skyrocketing, home prices too, there was a real chance she'd never be able to afford to leave her parent's house, she didn't know who to get as references for her college applications. And so on, and so forth. Small and big, apocalypse and inconvenience, all just one thing on top of another in her pile of worries.
SOTF was always somewhere in that pile. But, it was one of her more distant worries, it didn't feel as all-encompassing as COVID or climate change or economic inequality and such. As callous as it was to say, it was like hearing about car crashes or shootings or robberies. Terrible, terrible, terrible, but just that, just another terrible thing in a daily list of terrible things. It wouldn't happen to her, she'd always thought.
Maybe she was a terrible person? Or, maybe it was just the mind becoming numb to repeated, prolonged stimuli? Or, maybe it was just a survival instinct? Something to keep herself from going insane, because if, on top of all her other worries, she had to worry about being part of the next shooting or the next car crash or the next building fire, she just wouldn't manage, she would lock herself at home and never leave.
Her breath had caught in her throat when the engine broke down, but then again, it did that every time her school bus did. Part of her asking, 'What if they take us during the 7:30 AM trip to Endecott?' like an idiot. It wouldn't happen to her. Her heart beat a little faster once they left the town boundaries, when suburbia thinned out to the occasional gas station and rural home thinned out to forest. But then again, the roads were still fairly populated, and if something did happen, someone would surely flag them down, call the cops, do something. It wouldn't happen to her. She'd begun to feel a bit sleepy, the rest of the bus was nodding off too, but bus trips like this always lulled people to sleep, it wasn't happening to her. The bus driver stood up, headed to the front bus seats, elbowed Mr. Pérez in his face. She wanted to get up, sleep clung to her limbs like boulders sinking in the sea, she wanted to get up but she couldn't, this wasn't happening to her.
Over and over, there was this hitching sound. Only a slight hint of light filtered in through a square crack in the ceiling above them, she couldn't tell who it was.
She felt sick. This wasn't happening to her. Her head throbbed, her throat felt tight. It was dark, the floor felt slightly wet, clammy, this wasn't happening to her. She put her hands up to her face, neck, and it was real, this was real. The hitching sound continued, hick, a cough, a sob, something of the sort. Her hands came away sticky, warmer than the rest of the dampness coating her. The hitching sound got louder. She'd been in the front row, her hands were sticky, she closed her hands and the skin between her fingers and palm hesitated to part, she was sick, Mr. Ramos, she was sick, the hitching got louder, she was sick—
She wouldn't stop fucking sobbing.
"Could you- could you shut up please?" she croaked out.
When a voice croaked out at her from the darkness, Iris froze. Tried to freeze. Tried to shut up. It was her natural reaction to follow the first instruction someone gave her when she was freaking out, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stop trembling, and little whimpers still slipped through her clenched teeth.
"I'm sorry," she tried to say, but it came out as barely even a choked whisper. She couldn't tell if would be heard at all. "I- I-"
Iris curled up even more tightly on her side, clamping both hands over her mouth to try to stop everything. Even with her mouth covered, she was still sniffling. Touching her face made her aware that her nose was running, and her lip curled with distaste underneath her hands.
Very belatedly, it occurred to her just how weird it was that the first thing someone asked her to do here was to just... shut up. Not stay away, not help, not even just lay still and let them-
Iris dug her fingers into the sides of her face in an effort to drag her mind away from that train of thought. It wasn't even an order that she shut up. Just a- request. Just someone else asking her to keep it down. Like everything was normal, and they were just hanging out in this cold, dark, smelly place and having a sleepover. She'd heard other noises, subconsciously, but the voice was just so... ordinary. She could almost imagine it was just run-of-the-mill frustrated with her for crying and not strained for a dozen other, much more devastating reasons.
"Who's there?" She whispered through her fingers, her words disappearing again into the layers of darkness swaddling her. Swallowing around the painful lump in her throat, she peeled her hands away from her mouth just a bit and tried again.
"Who- who's there?" She asked, voice still tiny but maybe somewhat audible. She blinked a couple of times, just to make sure once again that yes, it was pitch black. Her eyes were sore. "Please, I-"
I'm scared. I want to be alone. I don't want to be alone. I want my dad.
"I'm sorry," she tried to say, but it came out as barely even a choked whisper. She couldn't tell if would be heard at all. "I- I-"
Iris curled up even more tightly on her side, clamping both hands over her mouth to try to stop everything. Even with her mouth covered, she was still sniffling. Touching her face made her aware that her nose was running, and her lip curled with distaste underneath her hands.
Very belatedly, it occurred to her just how weird it was that the first thing someone asked her to do here was to just... shut up. Not stay away, not help, not even just lay still and let them-
Iris dug her fingers into the sides of her face in an effort to drag her mind away from that train of thought. It wasn't even an order that she shut up. Just a- request. Just someone else asking her to keep it down. Like everything was normal, and they were just hanging out in this cold, dark, smelly place and having a sleepover. She'd heard other noises, subconsciously, but the voice was just so... ordinary. She could almost imagine it was just run-of-the-mill frustrated with her for crying and not strained for a dozen other, much more devastating reasons.
"Who's there?" She whispered through her fingers, her words disappearing again into the layers of darkness swaddling her. Swallowing around the painful lump in her throat, she peeled her hands away from her mouth just a bit and tried again.
"Who- who's there?" She asked, voice still tiny but maybe somewhat audible. She blinked a couple of times, just to make sure once again that yes, it was pitch black. Her eyes were sore. "Please, I-"
I'm scared. I want to be alone. I don't want to be alone. I want my dad.
"Art enriches the community, Steve, no less than a pulsing fire hose, or a fireman beating down a blazing door. So what if we're drawing a nude man? So what if all we ever draw is a nude man, or the same nude man over and over in all sorts of provocative positions? Context, not content! Process, not subject! Don't be so gauche, Steve, it's beneath you."
"June. It's me, June."
And that was Iris.
She was nice enough, she guessed. A bit clingy, weird. She'd heard gossip about a little journal she had, about her stalking people they said, but she didn't know enough to make a judgement one way or another about her. She was nice enough.
So why had she told her to shut up?
"I- I'm sorry, my head hurts and I- I'm sorry. I'm stressed. I'm sorry."
She swallowed, she wanted to throw up so bad, she pushed herself off the cold stone floor.
She stuck her arms out in front of her, trying to feel around for a way out. She felt a hard, angular surface, as cold and wet as the rest of the room. Stairs, stone stairs with no railings. And, she pulled herself up onto one of the middle steps, crawled her way up to the square crack of light, and tried to push it open, but to no avail. She felt so weak. So weak, so sick.
She turned towards Iris, hunched over from exertion.
"Could you help me push this thing open? I don't wanna be here, please."
And that was Iris.
She was nice enough, she guessed. A bit clingy, weird. She'd heard gossip about a little journal she had, about her stalking people they said, but she didn't know enough to make a judgement one way or another about her. She was nice enough.
So why had she told her to shut up?
"I- I'm sorry, my head hurts and I- I'm sorry. I'm stressed. I'm sorry."
She swallowed, she wanted to throw up so bad, she pushed herself off the cold stone floor.
She stuck her arms out in front of her, trying to feel around for a way out. She felt a hard, angular surface, as cold and wet as the rest of the room. Stairs, stone stairs with no railings. And, she pulled herself up onto one of the middle steps, crawled her way up to the square crack of light, and tried to push it open, but to no avail. She felt so weak. So weak, so sick.
She turned towards Iris, hunched over from exertion.
"Could you help me push this thing open? I don't wanna be here, please."
Stressed. Yeah. Iris exhaled in a manner that didn't come anywhere close to being a laugh, though the intent was faintly, distantly there. She'd say she was stressed, too.
Iris finally turned from her side, aching from laying on the stone floor. June. It was dark, it was cold, and it stank, but June was here. She liked writing and her family owned a restaurant that Iris had passed but never eaten at, though she always glanced in the windows when she went by to see if June was there. They weren't close, but they didn't have to be. It was enough that she was here.
Right? It was, right?
Right. Iris pushed herself onto her hands and knees and hunched there still shaking for a few more seconds before she unsteadily got her feet. She felt her way over to where June's voice had come from, her boots bumping into what sounded like empty bottles and sending them rolling away from her on the floor. Something else might have been sent skittering through the darkness as she moved. Her fingers dragged through a damp mess of what would have been cobwebs at some point, and she shuddered in spite of herself, pulling her hand away from the wall to quickly wipe it on her coat. Finally, the toes of her boots hit the bottom of the stairs.
Iris tottered up them more than really walked, one hand stretched out in front of her, until- there. June.
It was June, right? Not a monster in the dark. Monsters weren't real. They didn't live in basements, here or anywhere. Stupid. Stupid, silly, and childish to even think something like that.
Iris touched June's back, and she smelled a bit like fruity shampoo and something coppery underneath that which Iris recognized but refused to name. It made her stomach churn. But she was warm and soft and here and so Iris latched onto her without thinking, wrapping June in a tight hug from behind and pressing her face into the back of June's shoulder, sniffling and uncaring that it made the edge of her glasses dig into her forehead.
"Hi," she mumbled. "Thanks." For what? For existing, she guessed. June had always tried to be nice to her.
Iris finally turned from her side, aching from laying on the stone floor. June. It was dark, it was cold, and it stank, but June was here. She liked writing and her family owned a restaurant that Iris had passed but never eaten at, though she always glanced in the windows when she went by to see if June was there. They weren't close, but they didn't have to be. It was enough that she was here.
Right? It was, right?
Right. Iris pushed herself onto her hands and knees and hunched there still shaking for a few more seconds before she unsteadily got her feet. She felt her way over to where June's voice had come from, her boots bumping into what sounded like empty bottles and sending them rolling away from her on the floor. Something else might have been sent skittering through the darkness as she moved. Her fingers dragged through a damp mess of what would have been cobwebs at some point, and she shuddered in spite of herself, pulling her hand away from the wall to quickly wipe it on her coat. Finally, the toes of her boots hit the bottom of the stairs.
Iris tottered up them more than really walked, one hand stretched out in front of her, until- there. June.
It was June, right? Not a monster in the dark. Monsters weren't real. They didn't live in basements, here or anywhere. Stupid. Stupid, silly, and childish to even think something like that.
Iris touched June's back, and she smelled a bit like fruity shampoo and something coppery underneath that which Iris recognized but refused to name. It made her stomach churn. But she was warm and soft and here and so Iris latched onto her without thinking, wrapping June in a tight hug from behind and pressing her face into the back of June's shoulder, sniffling and uncaring that it made the edge of her glasses dig into her forehead.
"Hi," she mumbled. "Thanks." For what? For existing, she guessed. June had always tried to be nice to her.
"Art enriches the community, Steve, no less than a pulsing fire hose, or a fireman beating down a blazing door. So what if we're drawing a nude man? So what if all we ever draw is a nude man, or the same nude man over and over in all sorts of provocative positions? Context, not content! Process, not subject! Don't be so gauche, Steve, it's beneath you."
June froze.
Why was she thanking her? Hugging her? She'd just snapped at her, asked for her help right after. Hadn't even done anything for her. It felt weird, wrong.
"Could you get off?"
She put her hand on Iris' arm, lightly pushed it away. Some of the wool stuck to her skin for a bit, then fell away.
She was being mean again. Why couldn't she stop being mean? Why was she like this? She was nice. She was nice, and all she could see of Iris was diamond earrings that caught the light, and she was nice. She, she needed to control herself. She needed to stop.
"Sorry, sorry. I need space. I mean, like, space to push. Just, go to the side and we push at the same time?"
Why was she thanking her? Hugging her? She'd just snapped at her, asked for her help right after. Hadn't even done anything for her. It felt weird, wrong.
"Could you get off?"
She put her hand on Iris' arm, lightly pushed it away. Some of the wool stuck to her skin for a bit, then fell away.
She was being mean again. Why couldn't she stop being mean? Why was she like this? She was nice. She was nice, and all she could see of Iris was diamond earrings that caught the light, and she was nice. She, she needed to control herself. She needed to stop.
"Sorry, sorry. I need space. I mean, like, space to push. Just, go to the side and we push at the same time?"
"R-right. Right. Sorry." Iris was still breathless. It was hard to breathe deeply down here; the rank air had only been stirred up slightly when the door above them had been opened just long enough to deposit them down here.
Had the person who put them here wanted - hoped - that they'd kill each other in the dark? That one of them would pick up the nearest object or that their finger would find a trigger right away, and they'd take a literal shot in the dark at the first sound they heard?
Was it so unrealistic for them to expect that?
Iris took a deep breath of June, letting her drown out everything else for a second, and she held that breath in as she finally released June and shuffled to the side. Her hands were still shaking, and she balled them into fists to try to still them, squeezing. The shaking hadn't really subsided when she raised her hands to press them to the door. The faintest line of light from above showed through, a literal ray of hope.
Just as Iris tensed to push the door up like June had instructed, something occurred to her.
"June- what if someone's blocked the door?" The waver came back into her voice.
Had the person who put them here wanted - hoped - that they'd kill each other in the dark? That one of them would pick up the nearest object or that their finger would find a trigger right away, and they'd take a literal shot in the dark at the first sound they heard?
Was it so unrealistic for them to expect that?
Iris took a deep breath of June, letting her drown out everything else for a second, and she held that breath in as she finally released June and shuffled to the side. Her hands were still shaking, and she balled them into fists to try to still them, squeezing. The shaking hadn't really subsided when she raised her hands to press them to the door. The faintest line of light from above showed through, a literal ray of hope.
Just as Iris tensed to push the door up like June had instructed, something occurred to her.
"June- what if someone's blocked the door?" The waver came back into her voice.
"Art enriches the community, Steve, no less than a pulsing fire hose, or a fireman beating down a blazing door. So what if we're drawing a nude man? So what if all we ever draw is a nude man, or the same nude man over and over in all sorts of provocative positions? Context, not content! Process, not subject! Don't be so gauche, Steve, it's beneath you."
Blood rushed through the back of her neck.
"You- you haven't even tried pushing yet."
She let go of the door, looked at Iris. The crack of light shrunk.
"They could've locked us in here, yes. A bolt of lightning could be waiting to strike us. I could have an aneurysm a second from now. What the fuck's the point in worrying about what-if's, about hypotheticals if they haven't even fucking happened yet? Calm the fuck down."
Her breaths were deeper, quicker this time as the rush of blood passed. Her gaze settled into the darkness, away from Iris' face.
She hadn't snapped like that in months.
A lump formed in her throat. Her breaths slowed.
She didn't apologize this time, though she wanted to. There were only so many times the word 'sorry' would work.
She turned away from her.
"Just help me push please."
Her hands were set once more on the ceiling.
"You- you haven't even tried pushing yet."
She let go of the door, looked at Iris. The crack of light shrunk.
"They could've locked us in here, yes. A bolt of lightning could be waiting to strike us. I could have an aneurysm a second from now. What the fuck's the point in worrying about what-if's, about hypotheticals if they haven't even fucking happened yet? Calm the fuck down."
Her breaths were deeper, quicker this time as the rush of blood passed. Her gaze settled into the darkness, away from Iris' face.
She hadn't snapped like that in months.
A lump formed in her throat. Her breaths slowed.
She didn't apologize this time, though she wanted to. There were only so many times the word 'sorry' would work.
She turned away from her.
"Just help me push please."
Her hands were set once more on the ceiling.
There was a lump in Iris's throat too, instantaneously formed when June raised her voice. There was always something kind of funny about being ordered to calm down by someone who was clearly the opposite of calm themselves, but it was funny in the way that made Iris kind of want to cry. But she swallowed past the lump and nodded, though it could barely be seen.
"Sorry, I just-" Wanted to know what to do. Wanted June to tell her they'd get through it together, and that things would be okay as long as they did. That they could find another door somewhere down here, maybe. That help would come. That this room wasn't their forever, now.
Iris did as she was told, following June's lead to press against the door above them. She couldn't really suppress the sniffling at this point. She worked to try to steady her breathing, sucking in deeper breaths, so that she could prepare herself for the physical effort, but that just made the sour taste of the air settle on her tongue instead of in her nose, and she had to stop when she nearly gagged.
"...Okay. Okay, I think I'm ready," she mumbled. It didn't sound remotely convincing, but she wasn't going to get any readier.
What if she got a sliver from the rough wood of the trapdoor? A completely useless and mundane thought compared to the current situation, and all of the things June had listed off just now, but it piled onto the stack of worries and fears already threatening to snap Iris under their weight and made her wince.
"On... three?"
"Sorry, I just-" Wanted to know what to do. Wanted June to tell her they'd get through it together, and that things would be okay as long as they did. That they could find another door somewhere down here, maybe. That help would come. That this room wasn't their forever, now.
Iris did as she was told, following June's lead to press against the door above them. She couldn't really suppress the sniffling at this point. She worked to try to steady her breathing, sucking in deeper breaths, so that she could prepare herself for the physical effort, but that just made the sour taste of the air settle on her tongue instead of in her nose, and she had to stop when she nearly gagged.
"...Okay. Okay, I think I'm ready," she mumbled. It didn't sound remotely convincing, but she wasn't going to get any readier.
What if she got a sliver from the rough wood of the trapdoor? A completely useless and mundane thought compared to the current situation, and all of the things June had listed off just now, but it piled onto the stack of worries and fears already threatening to snap Iris under their weight and made her wince.
"On... three?"
"Art enriches the community, Steve, no less than a pulsing fire hose, or a fireman beating down a blazing door. So what if we're drawing a nude man? So what if all we ever draw is a nude man, or the same nude man over and over in all sorts of provocative positions? Context, not content! Process, not subject! Don't be so gauche, Steve, it's beneath you."
Every sound Iris made, every sniffle and sob and half-spoken sorry, ripped through June.
She needed out of here. Cracks propagated through glass. Any second longer here and she would
Her breaths quickened. Thoughts smothered beneath static, the sound of the two of them inhaling, exhaling, inhaling, exhaling.
"On three."
"One."
"Two—"
She needed out of here. Cracks propagated through glass. Any second longer here and she would
Her breaths quickened. Thoughts smothered beneath static, the sound of the two of them inhaling, exhaling, inhaling, exhaling.
"On three."
"One."
"Two—"
And they strained, and the trapdoor lifted a coupled of inches, and Iris rose onto her toes with the effort, and then-
Then the door thumped back down.
It wasn't blocked, from the feel of it. Just heavy. Maybe they could get it open if they kept at it.
But then again, maybe not.
Iris sucked in another rank breath. It escaped again before she could think about it.
"Help!" She beat her fists against the door, doing nothing more than rattling it. "Hello! Can somebody help us!?" Her voice was almost painfully loud in the small space, but she couldn't tell if it penetrated through the trapdoor and the floor above them at all.
Then the door thumped back down.
It wasn't blocked, from the feel of it. Just heavy. Maybe they could get it open if they kept at it.
But then again, maybe not.
Iris sucked in another rank breath. It escaped again before she could think about it.
"Help!" She beat her fists against the door, doing nothing more than rattling it. "Hello! Can somebody help us!?" Her voice was almost painfully loud in the small space, but she couldn't tell if it penetrated through the trapdoor and the floor above them at all.
"Art enriches the community, Steve, no less than a pulsing fire hose, or a fireman beating down a blazing door. So what if we're drawing a nude man? So what if all we ever draw is a nude man, or the same nude man over and over in all sorts of provocative positions? Context, not content! Process, not subject! Don't be so gauche, Steve, it's beneath you."
"SHUT UP!"
She shoved the girl away from her.
She shoved the girl away from her.
Iris let out a shrill, startled shriek as she toppled over the side of the stairs.
The scream abruptly cut off when her head smacked the stone floor.
After that, the only noise in the darkness was the plastic clatter of her glasses until they came to a stop a short distance away from her.
The scream abruptly cut off when her head smacked the stone floor.
After that, the only noise in the darkness was the plastic clatter of her glasses until they came to a stop a short distance away from her.
"Art enriches the community, Steve, no less than a pulsing fire hose, or a fireman beating down a blazing door. So what if we're drawing a nude man? So what if all we ever draw is a nude man, or the same nude man over and over in all sorts of provocative positions? Context, not content! Process, not subject! Don't be so gauche, Steve, it's beneath you."
"Iris?"
"Iris?"
"Oh no."
June's footsteps thundered rapidly down the stone steps.
She lowered herself to the ground, all fours. Her arms waved around back and forth, sending empty glass bottles clinking across the room.
Her hands landed on Iris' arm. She moved her hands up, felt Iris' head.
Warm. Wet. The hair stuck to her.
"No no no."
There'd been a sharp clap earlier. Smack. It had sounded so loud.
She touched her head again, as if to confirm. She wasn't wincing, Iris wasn't wincing. Wasn't even making a sound.
"No no no no no."
She hadn't meant
She just wanted to get out
She just wanted to calm down
She didn't want to
She'd been trying to get out and she was trying to calm down but she just kept talking, she just kept talking and talking and she was panicking and June was panicking and she wouldn't shut up so she just
She didn't want to
She didn't want to
She didn't mean it
She didn't mean it
She
She
June grabbed hold of Iris' arms.
She didn't mean it
Her back bumped into something wooden, round, hollow.
She didn't mean it
She shoved Iris' small frame into the hollow head-first, pushing until the legs bunched up inside the space.
She didn't mean it
On all-fours, she waved her arms around until they landed on canvas. She shoved the bag into the space, at Iris' feet, until it too was bunched in there.
She didn't mean it
Again, her arms waved around, sending empty glass bottles clinking across the floor. Again, they landed on canvas.
She didn't mean it
She swung the other bag around her shoulder, ran up the stairs.
She didn't mean it
With all her adrenaline, she pushed the trapdoor open, and it landed with a thud, reverberating across the whole church.
((And she ran.))
When a spider was preparing to die, it would go into what was known as a "death curl." It would pull all its legs underneath itself, like someone spreading and then folding their fingers on a flat surface. Something pretty important to note about that was that the spider always did this upright, never on their backs; they only turned onto their backs in order to prepare to molt. Spiders would sit with their legs splayed in all kinds of other weird ways, besides. On the forums and social media circles that Iris sometimes frequented, she'd often see panicked hobbyists and pet owners burst onto the scene in a flurry of emotion, desperately asking what they could do to save their tarantula when it started to curl up or looked weird.
Sometimes, the spider really was sick or hurt, and sometimes they did die. A lot of the time though, other, more experienced owners would come in, soothe the panicking poster, and gently explain that their tarantula was just preparing to molt, or just stressed, or just sleeping. One thing they always emphasized was to not move the spider when it was like this. Don't stimulate a stressed spider more, don't do something in a well-meaning attempt to help that might hurt it. Absolutely don't throw in the towel prematurely and bury, or flush, or otherwise do away with a spider behaving normally under the assumption that it's dead.
The first thing Iris's swimming mind knew was that the air stank in a different way now. It was no longer the stench of stale urine and mildew, but an overwhelming smell of old, cheap alcohol. The second thing it knew was that she could feel her own breath, rebounding back from some barrier that was very close to warm her face.
Because she was still breathing. She was still breathing when June shoved her into the barrel like someone stuffing a bag of trash into a bin.
She was wedged in upside down, at a slight angle so that most of her weight was on her left shoulder and her neck was bent in a way that was quickly becoming painful. Her left arm was pinned across her body, and her legs tucked up against her stomach. Something was weighing down on her feet. The back of her head throbbed.
The breath on her face came faster and faster; in the pain and confusion and dawning understanding, hyperventilating seemed the only logical response.
Was she boxed in? Was she going to use up all her air right away and suffocate in here?
The cry that had been prematurely cut off by her fall found new life again as Iris began to scream at the top of her lungs.
Sometimes, the spider really was sick or hurt, and sometimes they did die. A lot of the time though, other, more experienced owners would come in, soothe the panicking poster, and gently explain that their tarantula was just preparing to molt, or just stressed, or just sleeping. One thing they always emphasized was to not move the spider when it was like this. Don't stimulate a stressed spider more, don't do something in a well-meaning attempt to help that might hurt it. Absolutely don't throw in the towel prematurely and bury, or flush, or otherwise do away with a spider behaving normally under the assumption that it's dead.
The first thing Iris's swimming mind knew was that the air stank in a different way now. It was no longer the stench of stale urine and mildew, but an overwhelming smell of old, cheap alcohol. The second thing it knew was that she could feel her own breath, rebounding back from some barrier that was very close to warm her face.
Because she was still breathing. She was still breathing when June shoved her into the barrel like someone stuffing a bag of trash into a bin.
She was wedged in upside down, at a slight angle so that most of her weight was on her left shoulder and her neck was bent in a way that was quickly becoming painful. Her left arm was pinned across her body, and her legs tucked up against her stomach. Something was weighing down on her feet. The back of her head throbbed.
The breath on her face came faster and faster; in the pain and confusion and dawning understanding, hyperventilating seemed the only logical response.
Was she boxed in? Was she going to use up all her air right away and suffocate in here?
The cry that had been prematurely cut off by her fall found new life again as Iris began to scream at the top of her lungs.
"Art enriches the community, Steve, no less than a pulsing fire hose, or a fireman beating down a blazing door. So what if we're drawing a nude man? So what if all we ever draw is a nude man, or the same nude man over and over in all sorts of provocative positions? Context, not content! Process, not subject! Don't be so gauche, Steve, it's beneath you."