[Past] The Snake Eyes 2

Time bled away—hours, days?—and they were dumped back in their room, unconscious, gowns soaked with sweat. When they stirred, pain lingered, a dull throb stiffening their limbs, anchoring their frail bodies to the cots.

The first to rise, the light-brown-haired girl with the softer voice, propped herself up, her breath catching as she met her twin's gaze. One look screamed the truth—they'd shared the same torment. Tears brimmed, then spilled, hot tracks carving down their cheeks.

They slumped against the wall, sobbing through lunch—soup cooling, untouched. They wept through dinner, jelly melting on their trays. Exhaustion took them, only to wake them belted to those beds again the next dawn.

The cycle churned—days of straps, injections, and searing jolts, nights of restless sleep pierced by echoes of their own cries. Their bodies warped, subtle shifts hardening into something grotesque. Skin prickled, toughened, sprouted scales—faint at first, then undeniable. Their eyes sharpened, their blood hummed with something foreign.

"302, 301, 300…"

One day, amid the haze, they found a distraction by their cots—a glass cylinder, fizzing faintly like soda, a tiny snake wriggling inside. Its scales were a dull gray, its body no longer than a finger, swimming lazy loops in the bubbling liquid.

They gaped, pain receding as they watched it twist and turn. That night, they chattered—Was it alive? Did it feel the needles too?—their giggles a fragile shield against the dark, a flicker of warmth in the cold.

Next morning, it was gone. The tank vanished, leaving a void that stung. "What happened to it?" the twin with the quicker tongue asked, her voice small. Her sister frowned, eyes lingering on the empty spot. Silence swallowed their laughter that night.

A week later, their hair betrayed them. The softer-voiced twin's light brown locks began to pale, strands bleaching to a ghostly white, her eyebrows and lashes trailing behind. Her sister's darkened, deepening to a stark black that stood out like ink against her pale skin.

Panic flared—they had no mirrors, but each saw the change in the other, a mirror of dread. "What's happening?" the black-haired girl whispered, her fingers trembling as she touched her scalp. Her twin shook her head, mute, her white strands glinting under the LEDs.

Another week, and their eyes narrowed, pupils slitting like a snake's, glowing faintly in the gloom—silver-white for one, deep black for the other. Scales spread—white on the first, black on the second—etching jagged patches across arms, legs, necks. They stopped looking at each other, afraid of the monsters they'd become.

"244, 243, 242, 241…"

The white-haired girl counted on, her voice a hollow drone. Her hair, now fully silver-white, hung evenly cut an inch above her shoulders, framing a face that might've been beautiful—milk-white skin, light pink lips, silver-white irises like frozen stars.

But the scales marred it, dull and white, creeping over half her body. She was a fractured thing—half girl, half beast, her gown taut against the monstrous patches that branded her.

"3… 2… 1… done," she rasped, turning to her twin. "Your turn."

The black-haired sister lay still, her pillow cradling her head, her own scales stark against her pale skin. Her hair, now pitch black, spilled across the white fabric, her eyes—slitted, reptilian—fixed upward.

Twins in every way, they matched perfectly save for the colors: black hair, black scales, black lashes framing eyes that burned with an eerie depth. Scales marked the same spots—arms, thighs, cheeks—a cruel symmetry.

"From where?" she asked, her voice rough, worn thin.

"878."

"878, 877, 876…"

She picked up the count, lips moving steadily, her body stiff save for the faint twitch of her mouth. The numbers were their lifeline now, a thread to cling to as the world remade them.

"How long do you think the new one'll last?" the white-haired girl cut in, her tone soft but laced with weariness.

The black-haired twin didn't falter. "Maybe a week?"

"I thought so too…"

Her sister's voice trailed off, eyes drifting shut as she drew a slow, shuddering breath. The counting pressed on—875, 874, 873—a tether in the abyss.

sssssssss

The glass doors hissed open, slicing through the stillness. A boy stepped in, pushing a trolley with two sloshing buckets, their rims scraping the floor. He was older—fourteen, maybe, to their ten or eleven—his dark-brown hair tousled, his frame lean beneath an oversized white jumpsuit.

The sleeves and legs were rolled up, bunched at his wrists and ankles, a makeshift fit for his lanky build. His face was sharp, boyish yet striking, with a charm in his easy slouch.

He halted just inside, eyes widening as they landed on the sisters. Whatever he'd braced for—empty beds, perhaps, or something less human—dissolved. He stared, captivated, at the girls in their gowns, their scales catching the light, their strange beauty a puzzle he couldn't crack.

The sisters felt it, his gaze prickling their skin. They turned as one, silver and black eyes narrowing as they took him in. His trolley creaked, buckets swaying, but he stood frozen, gawking, mouth ajar.

"What a CREEP!" they snapped in unison, voices sharp and perfectly timed, slashing through the room's hum like a whip.