Athena

A bead of sweat trails down my neck as I draw. The sweat from my forehead falls on my drawing, and I’m glad that it’s a tablet instead of real paper. Turning the screen off, I wipe the sweat on my tablet and lean back, looking out the window next to me. The sunlight is intense right now, and though it’s been making me sweat non-stop for hours, I think I prefer it to the night. 

Like most artists, I’ve had to work into the late hours to finish projects, but it’s not something I enjoy. Working in the night fills me with weird existential dread, something I can’t explain. An irrational part of my brain tells me that I won’t see sunlight again, and that the darkness I’m working in will never fade.

I turn my screen back on to look at my newest drawing. It’s unfinished, but in my mind I can see the image clearly: an owl staring at its viewers and almost challenging them. I know that a condescending owl doesn’t seem very impressive, but it would if others could see what I’m picturing. The owl I see in my mind is an ancient creature that holds knowledge forbidden to people. The owl’s mind is filled to the brim with sights of witchcraft and mysticism. The dark is my prison, but to an owl, it’s freedom.

The picture on my tablet right now is not at all close to what I’m imagining. I’m uncomfortably aware that it’ll probably never seem close to my vision. People have told me over years that I’m gifted, talented, skilled, but none of that matters. Humans are as small as insects, how would we know the difference between art and bullshit from where we’re standing? I’m not an artist because I like making pretty pictures, I do this in an attempt to transcend our restraints.

I notice a spider crawl near my tablet. I’ve been seeing a lot of spiders around my apartment lately, but I don’t mind. Spiders never made me uncomfortable. To be honest, I’ve always admired them.

When I was a kid, I loved staring at the spiders in the basement and seeing the webs that they would make. They didn’t need crayons, pencils, clay, or chalk to make their webs, all they needed was their natural silk. They were never taught, they were artists from birth. 

The only part that ever disturbed me about spiders as a child was the purpose of their webs. It didn’t seem right to me that something so beautiful could also be used to catch and kill. Looking at them now, I see it differently.

These creatures make art with purpose, not something that gets hanged in a museum to gather dust until the sun explodes and wipes us all out. The spiders create their own altars, and when their prey gets stuck in these altars, they become the sacrifice to their eight-legged gods.

The spider continues to crawl on my table, and I feel envious all of the sudden. What gave the spiders the right to be nature’s true artists? What gave them the right to be able to make art that had purpose and made them transcend their tiny existence? These new thoughts enrage me and push me to squash the spider. I instantly regret the rash decision and lift my hand. No spider. 

I look at the hand I squashed the spider with, but it's not there either. I sit there in a daze from what I saw, or what I didn’t see. The sweat trickles into my eyes, and I blink from the stinging sensation. Maybe the spider melted away, I think. It’s certainly hot enough for that.

The idea startles me. Shaking my head, I go back to drawing.

***

The sun sets, but the room doesn’t feel cooler. If anything the sun setting worsens my mood; what’s the point of the light going out if the heat won’t go with it? 

I look at my tablet and frown at my dissatisfying artwork. The picture is nearly finished, and it still doesn’t look at all like the image in my mind. The shadows are wrong, the feathers look fake, the forest doesn’t feel claustrophobic, and the most important part of the image- the eyes of the owl- look like...well, the eyes of an owl.

More sweat falls on the tablet, and I’m tempted to scream. I want to smash the tablet, smash my table, set my entire room on fire. God knows it already feels like a furnace. But I try to keep my cool, difficult as it is in this heat. I’m an adult, and adults don’t throw tantrums.

As I’m about to wipe my screen, a spider plops down on my tablet, directly onto the small puddle of my sweat. It lies there, and I briefly wonder if the spider is drinking my sweat, mocking me for being so human. My foggy mind whispers odd things: Was there ever a spider infestation, or was it all the same spider, the one in front of me? Has every single spider I’ve seen been this one, always following me throughout my life? I try to think of instances where I’ve seen two spiders at the same time to dispel my thoughts, but I fail to think of any.

You are what you eat.

I look down at the spider and wonder how true that is. A surge of fantasies seize me. Can I become a spider? If I swallow it, will I become a natural artist, able to convey my thoughts and feelings into my art without the constraints of being mortal? Before I can stop myself, I grab the spider and plop it into my mouth.

I feel the creature struggle for its life. I think of squishing it with my teeth, but then worry that doing so will taint the transformation. I swallow it whole, all the while feeling its legs try to climb out my throat. It goes down.

I don’t feel different, but think maybe it’ll be like a pill and take time to kick in. I turn my tablet back on and realize that I can do this better. But only if I destroy it first. I delete the picture I’ve been working on all day and pick up my stylus. 

The effects must be kicking in, because I get to work immediately. My hand works faster than it ever has, and no doubts halt me. I just work quickly so I can take advantage of the feeling while it lasts. I grow excited when I realize that the image in front of me actually bears a resemblance to what I imagined. Every detail added is another bridge into my mind, and nothing can stop me.

I huff when I’m finished. I look at my clock and am surprised to see how much time has passed. Time didn’t exist for me while I drew, but apparently it was still working for everything else. I look at my drawing and am satisfied, but then I’m confused. There’s an addition to the picture I hadn’t noticed before.

Dangling from the owl’s beak is a thread of silk, and hanging on that silk is a spider just like the one I had swallowed. Except the spider isn’t separate anymore, the spider is me, we are one. The owl in the picture is trying to swallow me.

I throw the tablet across the room, my heart pounding with fear. What does the owl want with me? Why is she trying to swallow me up? Is she jealous and trying to become one with us? I want to make sure the tablet’s broken and the owl is gone, but I find myself distracted by a new sensation.

I feel things cracking within me, and sounds of those cracks are so faint I wouldn’t have noticed it if there was any disturbance tonight. But since everything is empty and silent, I hear the cracks and know that they are eggs. The spider was pregnant. 

No, I remind myself, we are pregnant! Motherhood never appealed to me before, but now I’m full of joy. My laughter echoes in the apartment as I feel their limbs crack their eggs, their bodies climb out. 

Small stings erupt across my entire body. I look down at my skin. Despite the heat, I have completely stopped sweating. My babies are hungry and will eat their way out. I laugh harder thinking about them, all my children roaming around the world, perhaps meeting a young girl in the basement, mesmerize her with their art. Trapping her in their web and making her their next mother. 

People kick down my door and grab me. They’re horrified, and grow more so when they hear my laughter increasing. I try to explain to them how I’m a mother now, and how my children will find new mothers, but they don’t listen. They say the heat has gotten to me and ignore me, but I don’t mind. I hear the owl hooting at me and I tell her that I have won in the end, that I am the true victor. My laughter continues as they drag me out of my apartment, and doesn’t stop until they inject me with a needle.