#governinglion

        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.

am i boring to you, smith??

         “Did you have a lot of friends growing up?”

         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?)

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.

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.”

Drowning in muddy waters.

     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.

5 Times the Love. { No Longer Accepting }

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.

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.