Free Murder of Angels by Caitlin R. Kiernan Page B

when they all woke up and went back to living lives without suicides and secrets and regret so bottomless she’ll never stop falling.
    “With all due respect, I think you’re full of it, Daria,” and Marvin takes his big hands off her shoulders and sits down again.
    But that’s something, at least, a small and comfortless relief, not to have him pressing down on her, one more thing to bear, and she shrugs her shoulders and stubs out her cigarette in a pewter ashtray already overflowing with Marlboro butts.
    “That’s your prerogative,” she says, trying not to sound angry or exasperated, trying not to sound anything but tired.
    “I guess so.”
    “What are you guys talking about?” Niki asks, and Daria turns to see her standing in the doorway, disheveled and frowzy in her tattered bathrobe and bare feet, rubbing at her eyes like a sleepy child. Her sickly, pale face and bandaged hand, the purple-red half circles beneath her eyes, and she looks small and breakable, a china-doll changeling slipped in when no one was looking.
    “I really don’t think you should be out of bed yet, honey,” Daria says and Niki stops rubbing her eyes and squints at them both.
    “I’m hungry. I woke up hungry,” she says and those six words better than any of Marvin’s reassurances, better than any mantra or self-talk bullshit Daria will ever come up with. Niki yawns and asks Marvin to make her toast, please, toast with Marmite and butter, toast and a glass of ice water, and he’s already busy slicing fresh bread when Daria gets up and leads Niki to a chair at the kitchen table.

     

    She looks so tired, Niki thinks, and finishes her toast, asks for something else, and Marvin peels a blood orange for her, pulls it apart into fleshy, seedless wedges.
    “You need to get some sleep,” she says to Daria. “You’re smoking too much again.”
    “I feel fine,” Daria says, but Niki knows she’s lying, always knows when Daria’s lying and not about to let her off that easily. “You look almost as bad as I feel,” she says, and Daria frowns at her.
    “I slept on the plane.”
    Marvin goes back to his chair. “Even if that were true,” he says, “which I doubt, it wouldn’t hurt you to lie down for a little while.”
    “It’s okay now,” Niki says. “ I’m okay,” and she manages a weak smile for Daria, trying to look the least bit reassuring. “Marvin’s right here, and all I’m gonna do is sit and eat my orange.”
    “Do you know how many cups of coffee I’ve had? I probably couldn’t sleep now if my life depended on it.”
    “Then just lie down for a little while,” and Niki wipes her sticky fingers through her snarled black hair. “I’ll come back upstairs when I’m done and lie down beside you.”
    “I have to leave tonight,” Daria says, and for a moment Niki doesn’t reply, selects another wedge of the orange and nips through the thin skin with her front teeth, sucks at the pulpy, tart insides.
    “I’m sorry, Niki. There’s no way we can afford to cancel another show.”
    Niki wipes citrus juice the color of rose petals from her lips with the back of her good hand and swallows. “It’s all right,” she says, smiling again, pretending she means it so maybe Daria will believe her. “I’m better now. I know you have responsibilities.”
    “I wouldn’t go if I didn’t have to.”
    And because she doesn’t know anything else to say, because her head hurts again and she’s tired of trying to remember the right things to say, because she doesn’t want to think about Daria leaving again, she looks away, holds the last slice of blood orange a few inches from her left eye and begins to sing “Strange Fruit” very quietly. Singing to herself and no one else except maybe the orange, singing to it the way that Siouxsie Sioux sang “Strange Fruit” more than the way Billie Holiday did.
    “Maybe I’ll go lie down in the living room,” Daria says and stands up from the table. “I’ll just lie