ragearia:
“Your perspective has always been… Limited, Reznikov.”
The women stay as they are. Joan trusts her crew: they are base, greedy, and indifferent to all ethical and moral codes; they attach themselves to power, hunger for the security and privilege of being seen at the top dog’s side. They are terrified of her and need her desperately. She has no reason to believe that a hollow threat from a fragile old woman will move them.
She straightens and begins to circle the table slowly, admiring her tableau. “You are consumed,” she says, “by the pettiest concerns. Starve those who insult you. Poison those who irritate you.” Her voice pitches high and nasal, rolling the syllables mockingly around on her tongue: “Blah-blah-blah-blah-blah.” If Joan poisoned every person who irritated her, the whole prison would be dead. It’s no wonder Red has never achieved top dog, even with her simpering group of mummy’s-little-girls to back her. Too volatile. Too self-obsessed. No vision.
“Strategy,” she continues. “You have no notion of it. You’re just a… Bitch circling her territory, aren’t you? Pissing in corners? Making sure I stay out? Consider,” she says, and nods to one of her women, who releases Red’s hair; Joan’s hand takes its place and caresses gently through the lurid, wilting spikes before taking a firm grip. “What you could achieve, with a little willingness. A little… Flexibility.” Her voice is deep and soft. “Certainly you would keep both working hands.”
She repeats herself. “Eat it.”
Heat seeps from every pore of Red's skin. It gathers in each pounding beat of her heart. It nestles in the aching, straining socket of her twisted arm. Cloying. Humiliating. She closes her eyes, regulates her breath. A stupid little whimper tumbles around at the back of her throat. That pig-fucker. That crazy old cunt, making her daughters see her degraded and bowed like this. She’s going to kill the bastard. Nobody --- nobody! --- speaks to her in that tone. Nobody bends her over a table in front of the entire gen pop.
Ferguson's hand tugs at her hair and forces a lightning strike of fury and disgust down her spine -- bone-rattling anger at those smug fingers holding her hostage; sharp, sickening revulsion; more heat. She shivers against her will. Not the right time to fight. That will have to wait until later. For now, her spine's about to snap in half: weird how that screws all other priorities.
“ I can't eat like this, ” Red insists, careful to keep her words clear and precise in one last effort to save face. “ Who raised you? ” There's one simple fact that keeps her safe, she hopes: break her arm and they'll all be eating dog shit for WEEKS while she heals. Let's see what a prison full of grumbling stomachs and clogged bowels does to Ferguson's reputation. Red shifts her weight on her numb feet, toes full of pins and needles. She's not the weak one. But to gang up on an enemy like schoolyard bullies, to hold her down like a rabid dog, scared that she’ll bite -- now THAT is weak. That is pathetic.
It's what she tells herself to preserve her last shred of dignity.
“ Now, ” Red goes on, voice pained even to her own ears. “ Enough with the dick-measuring. Let me sit down with a fork and a knife like a decent human being. I'll teach you a lesson about the beautiful things you can do with a tongue. ”
