Webs (rough draft)

Throughout the room thick strains of steam branched; dampened the towels hanging on the wall, saturated the mirror above the sink, and moistened the wall with long tears of precipitation. Fingering outward, gradually, the water stretched to the bare light above. The glow cast from the dust filmed bulb struggled to shine through the folds of steam. A make-shift aluminum wrapped fixing, like a saucer, hovered above the bulb, and captured concentrations of light in its wrinkles, folds, and creases. This light was just strong enough to create faint, weak shadows off of the webbing network of water.
One of these shadows lay across another web, fluttering in the waves of air pressure rising from the scolding water of the. The web was crafted by a spider the corner of the wall and ceiling across him. The dust dotting the ceiling, filming the bulb, also coated the spiders web. The water vapor joined, beaded water hung to the spider’s work. With these burdens the filaments of the web were so thick that everyone was visible, and looked more like dirty yarn. The web produced a dark pocket in the corner behind it. This pocket bounced with it as it’s long, well-feed creator climbed to its center. There, in the center waiting for him was a June beetle.
A gun shot cracked.
He focused on the web. Watching the spider overtake the beetle, and crouch over it, he found himself curious. He was intrigued to know; are the streams of water falling onto me anything like the feel of the delicate spider’s legs wrapping the beetle? He was desperate to discover whether or not if the skin splitting pain of the waters heat that painted him red, is similar to the pain of the spider’s consuming, melting the flailing beetle from the inside out.
After the spider had incased it’s scrapes and retired to its dark pocket, the cooling of the water signaled the shower was done. He turned the water off. Without noise he reached for his towel, though damp it dried him enough. Without expression he wiped the layer of water from the mirror, and stared at himself while he brushed his teeth, dressed, and combed his hair. He continued the loss of consciousness by staring at himself for as long as he could, then his thoughts returned.
When the door opened into their living room the caged steam quickly expanded and dispersed through the thin cool air. This room only had one couch on the wall to his left, a wooden table in front of it, and no other furniture. The carpet was a long brown shag, and the walls were usually a cream white when they weren’t covered in blood.
He walked to the table in the middle of the room and grabbed a roll from a plate, freckled with two blood drops. A kitchen knife lay with a layer of blood on it, set next to the plate. He touched the knife, then strolled to the wall across the couch, he would move counter-clock wise, and started his study. The walls, ceiling, and carpet were patched with aimless blotches and smears of blood that still ran, still wet. Scribbled between the chaotic spots where words, phrases, and messages; ramblings of his roommate in the same ink. In the next hour he slowly walked around the room, reading the declarations left for him written on the walls.
“It’s over, and over, and over, and…”
“In their voices, in their eyes. In the eyes, you have to look in the eyes…”
“A kiss she gives a kiss she takes…”
“They hide it all in the box but you have to find it”
“It’s my fault…my fault…me…”
When he had left the living room to start his shower, his roommate had found the kitchen knife, and cut his arms. Form the amount of blood in the room; he had apparently cut himself terminally, very deeply. He then used his fingers, dripping, to write on the wall. From the patterns on the ceiling and floor, he had been swinging his arms in a fit.
As he went on, he found illustrations of monsters, human physiology, and sex. When he reached the last wall he read in tall letters, “And there is my fucking roll”. He stepped closer. His foot found something wet and warm. He looked to it. He had stepped in a puddle of blood taller than the shagged carpet, accumulating around the body. He stuffed the last bite of roll into his mouth.
The body of the friend he had known since child hood, bolstered by the wall, sat on the carpet, leaning back, close to headless. A shotgun lay across his friends lap like a shadow on a spider’s web. The splatter of blood and body matter webbing from where his head was completed the body with a grand crown. It was the last expression left on the wall.
He put his back to the wall, and slid to the floor. He was sitting next to his friend. He contemplated, he nodded, he thought, he bit his upper lip; he lost himself in his mind. Eventually, as he pondered he began to fall asleep. He rested his head on his friends shoulder, and he waited for morning, just he, and the spider.