Title: we are two planets dancing
Info: The Ruins/The Uninvited. Amy/Anna. For majesdane, who wanted any horror femslash.
She laughs. “Oh, no thank you,” she says, her voice filtering down the hallway.
“No no thank you about it, Ms. Ivers. This is your required dosage for the day.” The faint clinking of a medicine cup. “Take it, swallow ’em, or I get someone in here to make you.”
“I’ve never been one for excessive force.”
She takes them, Amy thinks, listening to the silence that follows. She always does.
She takes them, and then settles in, writes another letter to the sister who’ll never come. (“Died in a fire. A damn shame, really. Tipped her over the edge, I think.” A gruff, male reply, “Anna’s a lifer. You’ll get used to it.”)
Must be nice, Amy thinks, being able to forget like that.
It’s her turn. Glenna at the door with a soft smile. “How are we today, Amy?”
“We?” Amy lifts an eyebrow, scratches absently at the inside of her elbow. The gloves make the sensation far less than satisfying, induce a kind of panic at the futility, but the gloves are better than the restraints. She knows that much.
Glenna makes a small clucking noise with her tongue. “You know we’ll just have to bandage that up again.”
“I’m aware of how this works.”
Glenna frowns, and Amy can see her making mental notes. It’s the sort of thing she might be doing if she weren’t here, on the other side of the glass. If she hadn’t taken that step backward onto the green. If she–
“Here you go.” The small cup slides through the opening in her door (cold metal. She leans there sometimes, it helps calm the plant.) “Now, let me see you swallow.”
She does. It makes the squirming stop, sometimes. (She doesn’t think about what that means.)
Her voice comes down the hallway again, following the quick staccato of Glenna’s footsteps. “Another letter! My sister really is kind to keep me informed.” She feels a sharp tug. Imagines that the girl is saying her name, talking to her, somehow.
She leans against the door, wondering how long before the vines strike again. They’re lying heavy in her stomach. Coiled.
“I’ve missed you,” the girl says, muffled. There’s a small crinkle of paper.
“I’ve missed you, too,” Amy says back, even if her voice doesn’t leave her room.