Nemesis
“Ugh, Charlie, can you kill that?” Annette points at the corner halfway up the wall.
“Leave it alone, Annette. Probably a wolf spider. They help keep the house pest-free. They don’t hurt any.” He bobs the packet of tea up and down in his cup, trying to pull strength from it into the hot water. She always wants him to kill spiders.
“Doesn’t look like one,” she grumbles, passing by him in a blur of color and jangling.
He lets the packet slide down to the bottom and slurps carefully, sucking heat from mustache gone grey. He looks over at the fold between the two walls, freezes. A tiny twig of a creature reaches and curles its way upward toward the ceiling.
So stupid. He can pick up spiders and dump them outside; why do silverfish affect him like this? They’re so delicate. They can’t bite. When they’re crushed they become tiny bars of armor and pasty gore.
His hands go slick. There is something in the way it flutters its feathery antennae, tiny legs sprouting like hairs from its body, rippling like centipedes. A memory from bad trips past, when he’d entered a darker himself and was unable to find the exit for a little while. The world had tied him up with gossamer strings and shimmered around him and took his breath and his sight, and things crawled upon him that were just like this silverfish.
He grabs paper towels in his hand, too many, and approaches the wall. His chest begins to tighten.
