Kath’s hands are full of teal, cotton fabric spilling over her lap. She cannot stop thinking: is this charade worth being torn apart? I won’t save you this time. I hope the women make it quick. Miss Bennett is gone. It is Kath, alone, under the sallow lighting of the cell. She breathes in and out. She pictures the rest of the prison, what she has glimpsed of it: concrete and razor wire, fluorescent lights, brick and blue and gray. She has only ever been ushered through back passages, never exposed to another prisoner, except those here in the psychiatric unit. She cannot picture their faces, these women who will kill her. She thinks of a pack of snarling dogs.
Her breath comes in quickly, shallowly. Her fingers knot in the teal. She shuts her eyes. Tries to imagine herself as this person they all see when they look at her, quick and cunning and brutal and sly. She doesn’t feel any of it. She feels old. She feels slow. She feels stupid.
She squeezes the tracksuit. She opens her eyes, and is no longer alone.
“What do I do?” Kath asks the stranger in her cell: a woman not unlike the face she’s studied in the two-way mirror, but infinitely different in the details. The glitter of her black eyes, the glitter of the gleaming buttons down her uniform jacket. Her epaulets show golden crowns. Kath presses her lips together, stares at her, pleading. “I need...” Barely a whisper. “Help me.”
She’s drawn back to the photograph of Joan and her father, whenever she’s there. It sits unobtrusively among the room’s other decorations--simple frame with an old, slightly faded photo, it could belong to anyone--but it’s Joan’s, and it’s like her signature on the room; the art could belong to anyone, even the fencing foil, but this is Joan. (The first time she saw it she almost, embarrassingly, asked who’s this?)
“I didn’t. People didn’t like me. And the people who did, I... I didn’t always know they were trying to make friends.” So much of her childhood was spent in a cloud of senseless noise, watching, confused, as others drew meaning from the babble, but she stayed in the dark. Connection seemed unlikely, if not impossible.
It’s a scenario she’s replayed in her head over and over and from the start she knew it was a bad idea but that didn’t stop her from wanting to act on it. Taking on Ferguson was a suicide mission. Franky knew what she had done to Bea, to Allie. Jodie. Mr. Fletcher. Countless others. The woman was a fuckin’ psycho and that made everything near impossible. It was worse than dealing with Jacs. Sure, Mrs. Holt had been manipulative but nowhere near Joan’s level of calculation. Cold, calculated, methodical. Downright meticulous. That meant Franky had to think this through. If she didn’t do it right, it could cost her her life. Just as it did Red. Nights had been spent pacing her cell, trying to convince herself to let it go while another part of her kept telling her she needed to do this.
Everything in her gut told her not to do it but she couldn’t help the sinking feeling that if she didn’t try, she would regret it. Allie had been unsuccessful in her attempt and had been lucky to walk out unharmed. Franky now felt it was up to her to end this. Get payback for all of them. For herself. For Allie. For Bea. Shit, even for Iman. Despite what she had done, she didn’t deserve to be murdered. Especially not when she was Franky’s only ticket out of that place. Maybe that’s why she wasn’t thinking clearly and was so desperate to get at the Freak. Freedom was so close only to be snuffed out by leather clad hands. She’d put out any flicker of hope that she would get out of this place alive. So what did she have to lose? Nothing. Going down for two murder’s she didn’t commit? Why not take the Freak with her? She’d be a hero if she came out of it.
It had taken quite a bit of time to nail down Ferguson’s routine. She certainly was a creature of habit though. That much was obvious even when she was governor. The time to strike would be in the shower block just like Allie had only this time she would finish the job. Her girls would make sure the Freak’s cronies weren’t readily available to help her. Franky’s actual intent wasn’t made clear to them, just that she had a plan. Now was her chance and she wasn’t going to fuck it up. A shiv tucked into the sleeve of her jacket, she was quick and quiet to enter the shower block and behold the Freak standing before the mirrors with her back facing her. Everything in her told her to run, be fast, get it over with. But she needed answers.
Blue hues are glued to the reflection of her face in a steam coated mirror and she takes a few steps forward though maintains her distance. She’s certain that Ferguson knows she’s not alone so there’s no hesitation in breaking the silence and calling out to her. “Why’d you kill Iman, hm?” There’s a quiet sniff and she wipes at her nose with the corner of her sleeve. The last few days had been spent in a state of shock, wiping away tears, coming to terms with the fact that this prison might become her reality for the rest of her life. “I would’ve been out of here, been outta your hair. You could have done whatever the fuck you wanted in here with me gone. But no. You just couldn’t help yourself, could you, Joan? Why? Why’d you do it?” It’s the only thing she really needs to know at that very moment. The shiv is still hidden away though she’s prepared to use it, fingers gripping the handle even tighter than she already was.
❛ our backs tell stories no books have have the spine to carry. ❜
Milk & Honey: i want what i want - in the heart of these unspoken moments
No longer accepting.
Forced to take time off, rid of her sense of purpose, Vera seems incapable of learning the implications of proper rest. In the shower, she claws off dead skin. Scrapes and scrapes until she’s as pink as a newborn baby. She cannot scrub enough. Fine, hairline scratches adorn her skin. Her fingers trace those ragged welts. Let them hurt, she decides. Somehow, she convinces herself that she deserves it. In the aftermath, she envelopes herself in a warm, soft, grey towel. The sweet angel of mercy never felt so far away.
Cast as another forgotten martyr despite catching Conway in her futile attempt at a prison break, the back of her hand swipes along the underside of her red, raw nose. Ruin is a song to be sung, even wailed. How weak and powerless she feels. She swallows her fears and anxieties, still wracked by disappointment worming its way into her head. How many times does she give up the best parts of herself?
From the pressure, her spine curves while her shoulders sag. A horrible tenseness embeds itself deep within her muscles, her back aching. It’s the pain often accompanying the stress of working a double. The twinge in her wrist, freshly wrapped, only makes matters worst.
During after hours, Joan visits her, just as she did when Mum was at her most terrible, most tyrannical. Reassured in the moment, Vera neglects their positions - their precarious predicament. Yet, as if in disbelief and weary resignation, Vera shakes her head. She no longer reeks of vinegar, but feels soiled by marginal failure, small and insignificant in her empty home. It’s impossible to sortout the complexities in a single night.
Torn between wanting to be alone and yearning for the company, this is the feeling of never being enough. Vera steps aside and lets her in. She always lets Joan inside.
Orders are easy to follow, obey, adhere to. Quick to throw away the old parts of herself, Vera quits her sniveling at last. She’ll learn from this. She’ll grow. She swears upon it with a rattling fist banging against her chest.
Yes, Vera gives away the last parts of herself. Thrown away the old mouse alongside Mum’s belongings. Life continues its cycle, history a shadow’s constant threat. It’s a journey to heal, to learn from old behavior.
Joan pours her a glass of Pinot that’s a glistening ruby shade.
A guiding, messianic palm settles on the curve of her neck. Beneath that steady hand, Joan feels the fragile knob of bone. She forces Vera to look at her. Experiences the rivulets of water trickle down Vera’s dewy skin. Drowning in an over-sized navy house robe - ratty, old thing, clearly cherished, but Joan makes note to replace it.
And Vera drinks in the attention. Dies a little. Leans into the killing blow.
That glimmer of pain Joan finds more riveting than a Botticelli piece. She wets her lips, savoring that glimpse of weakness.
“It’s just pain,” Vera dismisses the years of abuse, the era of neglect, with a deep gulp of wine and a flippant toss of her hand. It stirs a fire from within, but Joan Ferguson has always been responsible for kindling that fatal spark. “My story isn’t that interesting.”
For years (to endure all her tears and fears), Vera has learned to swallow her pain. A strained, wavering smile sits in perfect place. Caught in implicit duality, she wants a better life, a better story, for herself. Although hesitant, Vera searches Joan’s face for some sort of sign, some expression to set her on the right path.
A tap on the glass lures the moth to the flame. The story’sbeen manipulated { rewritten } a thousand times. Initially, VeraBennett tries to ignore the elephant in the room. A liability paces in themedical unit. Knock, knock. She doesn’t want to lure Carmilla inside anymore.
With the proper title, she grants herself access. Securitybeeps. Like Devils, Joan and Vera skirt around the topic through codedlanguage. It’s all ‘ why did you do it? ’ and ‘ I am powerless now ’ and ‘ youdid too good a job on me. ‘ This time, though, the discussion changes somewhat.
Joan asks through a demand, ‘ Tell me you love me. ‘ It’s the only way she knows how.
Vera stops, her reflection distorted in the glass. She’s theonly one she’ll die for. Well, that’s how the record used to go. Nights ofpledged loyalty accompanied the scent of leather, blood, wine, and stolencaresses to nurse the affliction. From her peripheral vision, she studies Joan –bleary-eyed, a necklace of justice imprinted on her skin, her lips dry. How theMorning Star has fallen.
The memory of what used to be still moves her. A slight shakeof her head follows. She swallows. Their prison is a decayed house where a falsemarriage has disintegrated. Her confession is spoken softly, the tensionvisible in her jaw. Repressed, she doesn’t reach out – those days are gone. TheGovernor hesitates. Those heavy, gilded crowns weigh her down.
SEND “5 TIMES THE LOVE” AND I WILL WRITE A DRABBLE ABOUT THE FIVE TIMES MY MUSE FELL IN LOVE WITH YOUR MUSE.
i. In the garden among the roses, a modernSocrates and Plato – a resurrected Dante and Virgil – begin the lesson plan. Prisonwas Governor Ferguson’s palace to rule. Overseeing the work of the women,Governor and Deputy stroll at an even pace. Vera doesn’t struggle to catch upwith Miss Ferguson. She’s learning. While Joan is on the topic of correction,Vera listens in her currently enamored state. The breathy way in which shespeaks lures her in like bait on a hook. It’s a piercing sensation. She’scultured and knowledgeable, capable of quoting the classics and spill thetruths of a long game. She is everything Vera wants to be.
Admirationand reverence tangled together like the lethal snare of vines. Without the gloves,Joan pinches a silken, red petal. She looks over the garden with thesatisfaction of a creator. The petal shrivels from her touch and falls to theground. Her Deputy swears that Joan grimaces – at least, a twitch of her lipscould be perceived as such. Joan lets go, only to snap her fingers at Vera. Theroses in the garden are corrupt, tainted like the inmates.
‘ Vera, are you listening? ‘
Blinking, she jolts back toattention. A deep flush of embarrassment tints the tips of her ears and hercheeks. Vera feels hope. For herself, for the women. She mistakes it for love. Seducedby reason and order, a crush manifests.
‘ Yes, Guv’na. ‘
With a nod, Joan walks and Verafollows.
She thinks it’s love.
ii. A wolf surprises a lamb sore from growingher own set of teeth. On her doorstep, Governor Ferguson holds up a bag of takeaway. Shelooks surprisingly domestic in that earthen, near sheer blouse and a satchelover her shoulder. It’s a sight Vera could easily become accustomed to. Shefeels a twinge in her chest and steps aside to grant Carmilla entry.
Thefood waits on the counter while Vera rushes in to take care of her mother { it’sbecome a curse for her, an ugly word }.Mum spits out her medication and gripes about Vera’s Florence Nightingale act. Verafears that she is an impostor, a fake, and everyone knows it. Guiltily, hershoulders slump down.
Seatedbeside Rita, Joan intervenes. One malevolent entity grapples with another. Shesqueezes Rita’s frail hand riddled with varicose veins. Joan leans forward,whispers a mystery that will be buried alive with her.
Wilted,Vera leans against the doorframe. Watches the exchange. Her heart pounds wildlyin her ears. A worn smile slips into place. She looks at Joan as if she’s thenext fucking messiah
She knows it’s love.
iii. Another midnight debrief. Another midnighthour where she wants to scream for more, more, more. Vodka tonics replace mint leaves and mojitos. Ice clinks.Condensation clings to the glass. Every single time, Vera can’t fathom how Joanisn’t drunk. Maybe her height’s a factor, maybe it’s her Russian blood, butVera’s too hammered to theorize.
Thistime, she picks up on the slight slur that accentuates Joan’s voice. Shegiggles and sets down her empty glass. Joan loosens her tie. Vera’s blouseopens, exposing her throat and collarbone. The Governor looks at her as if she’sgoing to flay her, eat her alive, and suck the marrow from her bones. Verafeels heat, strange and confusing. She wants it to happen.
A firm, strong hand squeezes herthigh. She slides forward and scoots toward the edge of her seat. Wetting herlips, she aspires for a chaste kiss, but receives more. More means teeth and tongue and gasping for air with Joan’shair falling into her face, shrouding her like a veil.
She believes it’s love.
iv. A silken scarf with a pattern of butterfliescovers up her scrawny neck. Vera checks in at the front desk. The nurse asks ifshe’s family. How she wants to laugh at that. Instead, she smiles and shakesher head. Says ‘no.’ This isn’t how she expected the governorship would fallinto her lap. Despite burning down half of Wentworth, despite the razorbladebetrayal, she visits Joan at the psych ward.
Shesits at the round table like it’s a skewed version of the Last Supper. Purged ofall feeling in a catatonic state, the medication masks Joan Ferguson. It’s hardto look at, harder to say. Vera squirms in discomfort, she’s trying to stay forall the battles, but this is somehow worse than when she visited Fletch. Veratries to think about what Joan is thinking - really thinking. Joan wears an expressionless expression as theportrait of vacancy.
“I fought your battles. I did whatyou asked of me. I learned everything you chose to teach me. It wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.”
As she reaches across the table, herhand covers Joan’s. Curiously, this ghost of Joan looks at the hand, but doesn’tmake a cruel, jabbing remark with a sharp tongue. She would have preferredthat. It’s easier to comfort stone. This is the danger of falling in love witha switchblade.
Veradoesn’t expect a response. She expects glassy eyes and parted lips. Herface reddens from the pain of holding back tears. Instead, she chooses to steelherself. Her anger swallows her. She retracts her smaller hand. Curls it into aloose fist.
Come back to me, shewants to plead. Show me the way.
“I’ll beback tomorrow… to check on you.”
Sheleaves behind the scent of her perfume, but not the betrayal. That stillstings.
She swears it’s love.
v. Baptizedin a river of fire, Governor Bennett runs Wentworth with compassion unlike herpredecessors. Despite all her wrongdoings, she doesn’t stray far from protocol.With Vera’s former mentor on remand, Joan Ferguson has yet to be laid to earth.So, it’s an old game of cat and mouse. To Carthage, a devil of a woman comes.She only lives to inflict pain.
No morally superior position exists within this circumstance. She wantsto wish her away – to will her away from this prison. Tension radiates likeheat from Vera’s body. Alone, under the cover of night, she approaches the unitwith a letter in hand. Addressed to Shayne Riley and scribbled with a no. 2pencil, the letter has a weight to it. It crumbles within Vera’s grasp. The dimlighting of the isolation unit gives her a waxen complexion. She feels the tugin her chest, her heart, her soul. And realizes that the feeling is still there.
There is something refined yet syntheticabout Joan. Some things remain constant: Joan is always pale, Joan is alwaysscheming. Her vantablack hair greys at an alarming rate. Her mane falls intoher face like some god-awful fury. She plans her revenge. Plays the long gameand patiently awaits the opportune moment to dismantle Vera Bennett.
Fromprofound misunderstandings, they invented stories: always a matter of who hurtwho. The riot, siding with Westfall { re: Westnull }, disappoinTment, Jianna’sghost. Neither woman can skirt around the fact that they’re inherently flawed. Allthis collateral damage resembles a haphazard rollercoaster ride. She hides thehurt and lets it manifest as something new. Through the anger, she still lovesher.
“Youcan be so cruel,” Vera says and the words shine in her eyes like cutdiamonds.
Vera feignsdisinterest, holding up the letter before ripping it to shreds. She does it toelicit some reaction – any emotion – out of Joan. It’s akin to prodding ahornet’s nest or cutting yourself in the deep, blue sea where a great whitecatches a trace. Vera maintains that glare though her insides twist and she wantsto vomit. The fragments fall to the ground like snow. Joan stands. Her shadow packsa punch, dragging across the smaller woman.
“You’llregret that.” Joan hisses with acidity infecting her once dulcet voice.
“Youcan’t touch me,” Vera counters. She buries her hands into her pockets to hidethe way they tremble. Things will escalate: Joan will be put in Proctor’s unit,Joan will try to kill Bea, Joan will succeed, and then what? The documentensuring protective custody will be neglected for the long game they both play.
You didn’t think you administered her deathsentence.
Warpedand twisted, that’s the danger of falling in love with a switchblade. Fucked uppeople do fucked up things, Vera isn’t expelled from the fact. Maybe she wantsto keep Ferguson with her, by her side, either as a reminder of better days, aspenitence, or as a reminder of the profound depth to their relationship.
Verachooses not to dwell on it, not now. Joan won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.She walks away. Leaves her in the dark.
"You're glowing," A simple remark made in a less than simple time; Joan cannot help but to point it out.
Unabashed, Vera has cast off the shackles of doubt and insecurity. In this moment she feels most herself. No more pretend-boyfriends and cruel men occupy her bed. At tranquility with herself, Rita’s influence has been kicked to the curb. On her newly anointed pedestal, Vera Bennett has never felt so bold. She’s grown tired of cowering in corners, of dividing herself into something – someone – digestible.
Downright luminous, her smiles come at no cost, donated at good will. Pretending her heart hasn’t been torn in two, Vera feigns delight and merriment. She deserves to be happy, not miserable. At last, she recognizes her worth. Let spite carry her aloft.
Does this metamorphosis unnerve Ferguson? If so, grand.
“I’ve you to thank for that,” Vera titters on, freeing her mess of hair from former authoritarian confines.
She wonders if Joan likes what she sees. Her chest stirs, but she dares not continue the instigation.
Perhaps it’s Vera’s attempt to get a rise out of the Governor in the break room. Seated at an uncomfortable plastic chair, her polished heels click together. Her shift is ending, that’s her sad, little reprieve. Conducting a new ceremony, embarking on a ritual entirely her own, she plucks the bobby pins from her braided hair. Her hair flows wild and free as the golden glow washes over her. Devoid of the prison mandated bun, it all falls free in loose, flowing waves, beckoning a faint trace of rosemary.
You made me. She doesn’t pose the challenge. Not yet.
In due time, she’ll turn against the one who made her, trained her, molded her into the Governor’s image.
