Moonspear You ain't even here to party

Do you want this?
Mira breathed awkwardly like a hospital patient meeting death, jaw hanging open and yet chained to a wall, unable to grasp any words, uncomfortable, insane. 

want. She croaked finally, swiping a tongue across dry black lips. 

This was the language they wished her to use. Other words- Mira, you, I, it, this, food, kill, mama. They floated in that dark chasm that was her mind; she studied them daily. Still the language of beating came so naturally. Mira felt like she was fresh out a good session of therapy each time she established dominance over one of her siblings. To her, that was real communication.