Michelle again. Having trouble in the brain box.

Britney fumbled, collapsed. Britney went quiet.

Tried to help her… okay, no dice. Node Ice. Dough nice. Her flesh is in my mouth. Michelle bit Brit. I’m distracted, need to concentrate, but the car is spinning and screeching and my sister has passed out from the rush she gave herself.

I reach over and grab the wheel, and jam one foot on the accelerator, and with an almighty struggle I can right the damn thing. I try to swallow the flake of Britney’s skin that I bit off her, but can’t. Spit it out.

Thank the Goddess, there is the final straight. I can drive the car one handed for a few hundred feet without Kane catching up. I wonder if he will start trouble for being beaten by girls. I hope so.

Britney phased out earlier, I saw it. I want to know why; if she is hurt, I have to know. I can’t sense anything physically wrong with her. If there were a physical problem, I’d know it.

I can feel the blood moving. Britney is stirring, and when we cross the finish line, she is awake, taking the wheel back, smiling sweetly. She is grateful for my help. I don’t feel very well, stopped taking the drugs. Maybe they do work. I help Britney undo her safety belt, we take a breath, and step out of the car. People surround us, sycophants, scavengers, clawing at us.

Britney takes the fore, pulling her top down to cover the bite wound on her stomach, exposing a lot of cleavage. I follow her to the M1 bar as Kane’s car pulls up with an angry young man at the wheel.

“Hey hey, looks like you really do know how to drive!” shouted Twist. He hugs Britney, then turns to me. I give him the look that stops that kind of space invasion, but he blunders into me anyway, grabbing hold of me like some old friend! With a gasp I slip my hands to his waist and break his hug off, then plant my foot hard into his chest, pushing him to the ground hard. He isn’t much heavier than me, and he let out a squeal of surprise.

Britney grabs my arm and looks at me with concern on her face. I just shrug; she knows how I do things. I do things. Do things. I can feel myself shaking. Twist looks offended but apologetic; he’s okay, no ill will towards him, just shouldn’t get too close. There’s no need for that kind of thing. Britney’s making excuses for me, but that’s fine. She takes us to Casper and his bodyguard Stammer. The kid deals out the cash, our wager plus Kane’s $1000. We will reinvest it into the car, probably restock the nitrous oxide.

“We can reinvest this into the car, maybe top up the nitrous,” whispers Britney, winking and smiling, but beneath the charm and social smooching I can see that she is worried about her little episode. I put my hand on her elbow and try to look concerned. I want to help, I urge in my mind. Would be nice to be able to tell her how I feel, just once, even if she already knows. In the corner of my eye, I see Kane loom up, all muscle and male and sunglasses at night.

“Yo, you two pulled shit out there that I ain’t seen for a long time. You deserved that win, but next time, I’ll be ready.” Hmmph. Okay, fair enough. I just watch Britney while she replies, more focused on her health than on the post race posturing.

“Thanks sugar, we’ll be here next week, don’t you worry.” Kane seemed satisfied with that. We stayed for a while, chatting about cars and the nursing job and stuff. I kept a lookout and made sure Britney didn’t give away anything too personal, but of course, she didn’t. Fast forward. Fast Whore ward. War hoard. Feel dizzy.

Skip ahead to tonight. Britney sits with me in our room, lit by candles. We are on the floor, a pair of sterilised scissors between us, and I’ve tended to her poor stomach. We are completely naked, and I can see how perfect she is, and how similar we are. We both have sunken skin and bony limbs, tired eyes, a private library of scars that match each other like a mirror. Britney is the Goddess, and I’m just her reflection, sent to tend to her, sent to love her. That’s why I can’t talk, because I can never truly be her. Never truly, not completely, and I can never speak in her voice.

“Michelle… I think we should try to dig up our old medication from the hospital. We both seem off. I had a strange turn back in the car, and you have been distracted. I thought it would wear off when we got settled in, but it’s getting worse…” she said to me. I shook my head. No, I’d been thinking about this, and I was not going back on drugs. We are not cars! We don’t need to be fixed! I keep shaking my head. No more influences, just us, just each other, we will be fine, enif eb lliw ew. Shakey shakey. She looks sad. Have I made her sad?

“Michelle? Oh honey, don’t cry, we won’t touch any more meds, okay? Honey…” I didn’t realise I was crying. She embraced me, our bodies touching, the very contact bringing a sexual sensation and a deep awe that must be encoded in my DNA. We just fit, it’s simple. She can feel it too, and soon we are kissing. I reach for the scissors, and when she nods her consent, I press them into her breast. She gasps and warm vitae pours down her, onto me, onto the floor. She takes the scissors and performs the same cut on me. Apart from our breathing, the world is silent and total. I feel so good, held in her arms, warmed by our blood and the adrenaline of our mutual wounds, not to mention our arousal. I feel power well up inside me, from the cutting. It’s like nothing else, no drug, no sex. It’s like honey and battery acid mixed up and injected into my spine.

I lay my hands on her, like the priests of old, but I’m not old. We are alive and those ways are dead. This is supernatural healing, supersexual nature. We are postmodern voodoo bitchdoctors.

Religion ain’t got nothin’ on us.

I have the dream again. Me and britney are little girls and we are in a room that I don’t recognise. We don’t want to be here, but we don’t want to go back to our horrible home. A song at the edge of hearing, but it doesn’t fit the scene.

…all the things she said / running through my head…

The room is tall and dark and filled with weaponry, bloody swords, angry portraits, a giant statue of a man curled up in a ball. Voices come out of the darkness and terrible, violent images flicker across the walls, maybe my memories, maybe a hundred people’ memories.

It soon fades away though, when I wake up in her arms, bedcovers tangled about. I check her stomach, it’s healing okay. Sunlight pours in and I realise that it’s the alarm radio that woke me.

…don’t you know that she’s / some kinda wonderful / yeah she is…

Yes she is. Can I get a witness?

I pull Britney out of bed and take her to the shower, ignoring her complaints. Today we tune up the car and we find out more about Twist. Something I don’t trust about that guy, too easy going, too blunderingly innocent. Nobody is that naïve; he’s worked on it, consciously or not. We dress and get nice and presentable for the outside world. I’m still tired, maybe the nightmare disrupted my sleep. Night mare. Knife mare. Knife mayor?

“You feel better today, ‘Shell?” asks Britney, peering into my eyes. I nod and smack her ass, then open the front door.

Standing outside is Doctor M. Six foot of dirty white ex-army medical corps jacket, the logos removed and the jacket no longer suitable for use in a surgery, with brown boots, gloves and a Stetson hat. The brim hides his eyes, but the familiar stubble and grim expression tell me it’s definitely him. He is leaning on a cane that has wings on the top. This guy visited us once while we were in the loony bin. He told us about magick, and how to shut up about it, and cleaned up the mess we made of our father. He is either our angel, or our handler. I really didn’t want to ever see him again, and I can tell that Britney didn’t either, because she let out a loud yelp of surprise.

Doctor M lifts his head and fixes Britney with a stare, putting a finger to his lips, as if to shush her noise. His eyes flick to me, and he winks.

“Time for your check-up.”

Hope people are still enjoying! A few pages seems so long on a web page, so this is going to take a few parts to wrap up.