­Disclaimer: I own nothing of the movie or book. Janet and Lisa belong to themselves; the very liberal characterization is my own.

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One doesn't sleep, one doesn't eat. Between the two of them, Lisa snickers, they could almost pass for a normal human being.

Twin scarecrows with cigarettes, brandishing battle scars from syringes, catheters. Janet's slighter, but Lisa's taller, with bony elbows and fingers like claws, strong and brash to match her laugh. Janet's fingers seem to taper into nothingness and she laughs between her teeth in a wild cackle. They smoke like chimneys on their way into the underground, bravado echoing off the walls whenever their eyes meet, any dangers nodding obliviously beneath a nurse's cap.

Trading files and more. Weight dipping into the low eighties again, so it's back in the hospital gown, rough and papery under Lisa's palms. Honey-hued strands are better, but not by much. Brittle hair comes away in her hands whether she intends it or not. Stupid bitch, just eat till they let you out and then starve your brains out again. I mean, you do have a teaspoon or two left, right? The other girl always flips her the bird and retorts that at least she has a life waiting for her outside Claymoore. Lisa pulls the sociopath card then, enough to shut her up. Janet can be an idiot, but Christ, the girl has her uses.

Every time she's at Lisa as if she'd swallow her whole. A calorie-free banquet, soft skin and sarcasm and a damn good kisser; she doesn't flinch at teeth or nails and knows there's nothing that can't be answered with a twitching of lip or a glittering eye. Lisa's been thin herself lately, ironically. Forever awake, sardonic smirk looking too large on her papery face, purplish smudges encircling her eyes. This place is enough to make a corpse of anyone. Kills the body to get at the mind, y'know?

Janet in toe shoes, twirling though the tunnels till she tries a leap and her ankle buckles like cardboard under all eighty-one pounds. Lisa snorts, calls her a dumbass, then barks out a laugh and lets Janet yank Lisa down to her level. She wonders if it's possible to slit her wrists on Janet's hipbones.

Lisa off the shocks for the umpteenth time, rage temporarily simmered into despondency. Nails newly clipped, truncated talons grasping Janet's eggshell of a skull and asking without asking. There's more than one way to jolt a nutcase.

Janet warming up at an imaginary barre, giving impromptu anatomy lessons--clavicle, sternum, scapula--until Lisa shuts her up by taking charge of what little skin the girl still has stretched over her bones.

They fight sometimes, only natural, Janet gnashing her teeth like an underfed alley cat, Lisa swatting her away in irritation. She leaves red scratches once on an emaciated arm, and afterward was almost sure she could feel her fingernails scraping bone. No problem of hers, either way. Janet will say she did it in her sleep and Lisa's kitten puppet will wave its approval. Next night; same place, same time. A crazy girl is no one's goon.