Quicksilver
by Chris Chris
*** 1 ***
Moonlight creeps across the windowsill making the flowers on the ledge look black. The woman on the bed tosses restlessly in the summer heat, the sheets twisting off to lie at her feet as she settles on her back, arms and legs slightly spread, a thin sheen of sweat glistening slightly in the silver light.
At the window, a shadow slithers into the pool of light and a hand follows it—perfect, female, nails red as the black flowers. It opens to release spiders which crawl under the curtains as they are blown inward by a light breeze. As the curtains fall back, the hand is gone.
The spiders crawl through the open window together, their formation a bit too tight to be natural. They descend from the sill on gossamer, all four hitting the floor as one, and the explanation of their almost military precision is revealed when they leave the direct moonlight and move into the ambient light of the room. These are machines. Each is a perfect silver dollar, smooth as glass, with eight liquid metal legs spaced evenly around and no sign of eyes or joints.
They make the sound of pins dropping as they approach the foot of the bed. The woman’s head lists to one side, and she begins to snore slightly. Otherwise the room is silent. When the spiders climb the baseboard and reach the mattress, even the pins stop sounding. Three pause, and one continues walking beside the woman. She is only just over five feet tall, but her head is near the top of the bed and the spider takes fifteen seconds to complete the trip. It positions itself behind her head and then crawls on, setting it’s eight legs in a precise circle around the whorl in back where her short red hair is combed away, revealing a small patch of white scalp.
Then the mirrored spider begins to do push-ups.
The woman’s green eyes snap open and her head pivots to stare at the ceiling. Her mouth parts slightly as she begins to breathe easier, and deeper, but she makes no other movement. As the spider on her head continues it’s rhythmic motion, the others skitter into place. Two crawl across her pale, freckled breasts to the nipples and begin to pulse as well, and the third stands directly over her clitoris, which is slowly exposing itself as blood rushes to her pussy.
Now the four spiders are pumping up and down, and the woman’s body begins to move as well. Her nipples harden, and rise to meet the spiders touch. As if the creatures are made of mylar, an impression of the nipple shows through each coin-shaped back on every downstroke. Her lips redden, and the breath coming through speeds up to match the rhythm of the spiders, gradually turning from quiet breathing into panting into moans of ecstasy. Her eyes widen, but continue to stare at the ceiling, unblinking.
The creatures on her breasts stand up, their legs making a cylindrical cage around each nipple, then begin to sink into the creamy flesh. They move slower than the established rhythm, taking one, two, three, four, five beats to sink their needle legs into the breasts and then stop, leaving the nipples encased in chrome, the aureoles smooth with the buds protruding citadels.
The woman begins to pump her hips in earnest, trying to match the beat of the spider on her clitoris, whose body pulses close but never quite touches her. Her arms press back into the mattress, and she thrusts high as the metallic thing between her legs rears up and begins to sink in to her as well. The rhythmic moans she was making turn into one yell of pure ecstasy as the creature’s legs break the skin, a yell that continues for five beats and then stops suddenly as the spider’s body encases the focus of her pleasure. Her entire body shudders with orgasm, her eyes still unblinking and fixated on the white ceiling above her.
The head spider continues it’s motion, holding her at the crest for sixteen beats. Her trembling body arches off the bed, chromed nipples gleaming in the moonlight, her ruby red lips opened wide in a silent scream. As her body quakes harder and faster, the last creature straightens and sinks in, it’s liquid metal legs penetrating scalp, skull and entering her brain. As it settles into place her body convulses a final time, her eyes roll back and finally close as she sinks back onto the sweat soaked sheets.
The scene in the room is more normal now, simply a sleeping woman to the casual eye. The numbers on her bedside clock click by the minutes, the top piece of plastic falling to hide the 3:59 and reveal the 4:00. At five, she awakens and sits up, stiffly getting to her feet. Her motions are robotic as she covers her nakedness with a long coat. She leaves her apartment, the door locking behind her as she goes, her keys still in yesterday’s jeans. From her eyes, you can read how little this matters.
*** 2 ***
Ahhh, Friday. Friday, Friday, Friday, Friday, Friday. My Sunday piece is finished and filed, my in box is empty, and I’ve got a date. I’ve got a lot of hope for tonight, but that’s probably because it’s been a couple of months since the last time someone asked me out. He seems like a nice guy.
On the train ride home, I try to picture him in my mind, but it’s hard. I only spent twenty minutes with him this afternoon, mostly talking about my article on the connection between oat bran and reduced chances of heart disease. All I can really do is piece together his superficial features—the lab coat, the beard, the curly hair. I can’t remember what color eyes he has, but his smiling eyes were what I liked the most. When Irish eyes are smiling, da de dum.. except he’s certainly not Irish.
As soon as I’m in the door, I give Janet a call and get her machine. She wasn’t at work today, either, and I really want to brag about my new love conquest. I hang up before the beep so I can surprise her later.
I get my black dress, my “first date” dress, and dig for some hose. I have to hurry, but I’m ready when he picks me up for dinner. Hazel eyes, he has, and they’re smiling again. He leads me down the stairs and towards his car as we plan our dinner-and-a-movie evening.
Dinner goes well, and I talk him into going to the latest sci-fi blockbuster. I think he’s more of a Merchant-Ivory type, but when you’ve seen one blushing but passionate Victorian lady, you’ve pretty much seen them all. This movie, at least, will have some serious bang for the serious bucks it costs these days.
It starts well, lots of booms, but the plot does suffer. The perfect human. How lame. I’ll bet anything it’s Milla Jovovich’s big entrance, probably nude. You just know this movie was directed by a guy, in fact a French guy. Yep, it’s her, naked and thin as a rail. I look over at Daniel. Guys are so funny when they’re on a date watching something they find erotic. He’s trying so hard to look indifferent, but that’s as visible as if he were leaning forward with his tongue hanging out.
Why do guys like that figure so much? I hope Daniel likes ‘em short and chubby, because I do all the aerobics I can but it won’t ever make me taller. Oop, there he goes, relaxing now that she’s got some clothes on. I smile a “hi” at him when he turns, feeling my eyes on him now that he’s no longer glued to the screen.
I’ll just use my mental telepathy here.. yes, go ahead, put your arm around me. Come on, Danny boy, come on. Heck. His mental telepathy is apparently out of order, or at least typically male, because he’s gone back to the movie. Oh well, at least it’s a good flick.
When it’s over, we leave through the side door and the July heat washes over us. My glasses go Joo-Janta Peril Sensitive fogged up, just like in Hitchhiker’s, and I stumble on the curb. But how sweet, Daniel’s caught my arm. Good for you, Danny boy. I can’t help thinking “Danny boy”, now I’ve got the song stuck in my head. There’s no reason at all I keep humming these Irish folk songs—I think he’s Jewish. My mother will have a fit.
“Are you Jewish?”
We’re back in his Honda.
“Half. But the wrong half, so technically not at all. My pop is, but my mom’s Protestant. My Jewish grandparents were pretty disappointed, but they’ve accepted it by now. They are very Jewish, though. How does a Jewish grandmother screw in a light bulb?”
“Ugh. I know that one, OK?”
We chat as he drives me home, and get quiet near my house. I believe the best proof that you know someone well is when you can finally sit silently with them and not feel awkward. Daniel and I have a ways to go. I’m sure he’s planning his moves for the rest of the evening, but I’ll be calling the shots. When he pulls over in front of my building, I lean to him and plant a gentle kiss on his lips. The mustache is interesting.
“Good night, Daniel, I had a really nice time. Why don’t you give me a call, maybe we could go out next week?". He agrees, and I leave him there. I think he was happy with just a kiss. I like to save some things until we know each other better.
*** 3 ***
Janet wasn’t there when I called her after my date, and she hasn’t been in all weekend. Maybe she got swept away by some tall, dark, and handsome prince.
I get to work Monday morning, and Janet’s still not in. The boss hasn’t heard from her, and I start to worry a bit. I call her mom, who I’ve known since I was a kid, and find out that Janet missed her regular Sunday call home. I decide to go over to her place after work.
Janet lives on the middle floor of an old, three story Brownstone. The buzzer elicits no response, so I try the building manager on the first floor. I’ve seen her in the hall a few times when I’ve come over to Janet’s, and luckily she recognizes me.
“May I help you? You’re friend of Ms. Osgood, no?”
“Yeah.. I haven’t been able to get in touch with her for a few days, and I’m worried something might have happened to her.”
“Oh, I hope not, that would be terrible. But maybe she just went away for bit?” Her accent is thick Russian, although I believe she’s been in America for years. The woman’s the only manager the building has had for a decade, Janet once said.
I convince her that Janet would have called me, or at least her mother. The manager agrees to take a look in Janet’s flat. She gets the keys, and we ascend to the second floor. There’s no answer at the door, and when we’re inside, no answer to our calls. I think the manager is sorry I talked her in to this, and she wants us to leave as soon as possible. I’d like to scout around, but she draws the line there, tells me to wait in the living room while she checks the flat.
The living room looks perfectly normal, some dirty dishes on the coffee table and a pile of CD’s on the television the only mess. I notice Janet’s journal on the sofa. She takes notes in it when she’s researching a story. I’ve read it before, and even referred back to it once for a story of my own. Now, worried that something’s happened to her, I decide that she wouldn’t mind if I borrowed the journal to look for clues. If she’s just out of town, I’ll tell her and we’ll have a laugh.
So I scoop it up and drop it in my bag while the manager is in Janet’s bedroom. When she comes out, she looks concerned.
“I find her purse in her bedroom, and her keys were in some pants on the floor. I do not think she would leave her purse here if she was on vacation, no?”
“No, that sounds bad”, I said, concerned.
“I tell you what”, she continued, “I will give her two days, and check each night. If she is not back Wednesday night, I call police, OK?”
I agree, because I’d already caused this woman enough trouble. Maybe a prince really did sweep Janet off her feet. But my gut says no, something’s wrong. As usual, my gut proves very much correct, and it doesn’t take long. Just long enough to go home and read her journal.