The Wire Twins are on her again. One of them is behind her, hands on her breasts playing with her nipples, the other is in front, long tongue stroking her clit. But not biting her, she realizes, not reaching in to molest her internal organs or tearing her apart with their wires. She finds she misses the sensation. She sees blood running down her legs, which the twin in between them laps up. Blood without pain. Has it only been a month, then? And just as soon as she's thought that, another thought comes to her: I still have periods. Does that mean I'm still human? But even as the words form in her mind she know that they're not true, that she has not eaten or peed or drank a single drink of water since she came here. She is not human, and is only mildly surprised to find that she is not disturbed by this fact. As if in response, her stomach churns and she vomits up more blood onto her chest and the hands of the twin behind her. The last of her humanity, she thinks, coming out.
She reaches up at the flesh above her, finds the wires. Pulls at them, hard. She knows they feel pain when the wires rip at them. There is blood on her right hand, theirs. The taste of their blood makes her come harder than the tongue on her clit did.
"Am I one of you now?"
"You are not our sister." She winces at the reminder that she is still lonely, still separate. And yet another part of herself rejoices in this fresh source of pain. "But in your suffering, you are one of us."
"Do I look like you?" She wants to know what she looks like. Not for the reason she used to want it, to see what remained of the old her, but to understand more fully this new thing she's become.
They bring her a mirror, scratched and kicked at but still bearing a very legible reflection. Her body is emaciated, her eyes sunken and dark, her skin scored all over with thousands of tiny cuts. She remembers how she got those cuts, every single one. She closes her eyes and immerses herself in a vision of pain and power. When she opens them she is clad in a tight black leather corset, and sharp metal shards—knives—poke out from her arms and her thighs and her palms and the lower part of her stomach. Anyone she touches, she will cut. Chains drip down her face where her hair once was.