Work Text:
Tweezers, scalpels, speculums. Whenever Mimi’s hand stroked Iris’s cheek, the other wielded a weapon. Iris was always reflected back: in the glass of Mimi’s visor, in the metal of medical supplies, in the faces of clones wearing stolen skin.
The knife reflected Iris’s face, too. The bags etched under her eyes made her miss the sleeplessness of midterm exams. Now, without university, she studied Mimi.
When the knife plunged into Mimi’s stomach, blood poured from her like theater curtains pulling shut across the blade’s glinted mirror.
But even beneath Mimi’s choked chorus as she collapsed, Iris’s pounding pulse echoed on.