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| Tweet Topic Started: Dec 4 2007, 07:25 AM (42,540 Views) | |
| BG3655 | Dec 4 2007, 07:25 AM Post #1 |
Down the Block
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This is a completed fanfic. It will be posted in smaller pieces maybe a week apart to give people time to read. Disclaimers: Standard. Characters, most plot details, etcetera all belong to Shed, no copyright infringement intended. I'm not making money off this. The writing is mine, copyright © bg3655. Distribution: Here only for now. Linkage is fine. Feedback: I'm very keen on detailed!feedback don'tmakemebeg, but anything and everything (I like it, you suck, etcetera) more than welcome. Really! :lol Email/PMs also fine. Rating: Beats me, ratings are stupid. M for language in a few places, but tone and subject matter are 18+ so that's where it's going. Notes: The 'finished' piece shouldn't have line-breaks, I think they're unattractive & break the flow... there should just be 3 spaces where line-breaks appear... but given the board's available coding options, I didn't know how else to make sure the section breaks would be clear, from one post to the next. It ends where it does for a reason. I definitely do not want anyone 'continuing' it. It's finished, in my head and I hope on the page. Small angst warning: the intro I've been told by my two very hardworking betas is apparently a bit grim... but it's not like that all the way through... I don't think, anyways. And a word (or a thousand) about betas: they rule. They are essential. They are truly wonderful. And I'm truly grateful for their friendship and the ginormous amounts of time they selflessly gave trying to help me get everything just right. xoxo, you know who you are. |
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| BG3655 | Dec 4 2007, 07:58 AM Post #2 |
Down the Block
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I hate almost everything about my life these days. I hate what it's been reduced to most of all: no purpose, no choice, just a mindless routine to keep the animals docile, rules on rules on more bloody rules. The food's shit, whoever orders it for this place wouldn't recognise a vegetable if it crawled right up their arse. The bugs are endless: you can kill them, and I do, but am sometimes overwhelmed by a feeling of pointless regret, something close to grief at the necessity. Can they really like it better here than we do? Perhaps so. The screws are no better than the roaches—neither have a conscience, although you can at least argue the case on behalf of the six-legged plaintiffs. And screws deserve squashing a good deal more. ...I worry this is how it will happen, you see; before I even notice, I'll be counting invisible things on the head of a pin. The chill is a constant. Even in summer the thick walls of this ancient building sweat out a dank, foetid moisture, as if all the souls who've lived here, suffered and died here are trapped within, still waiting for release. Over everything is the grinding racket of a huge machine clanking along: pipes gurgling, screws shouting their endless orders, doors, always doors—creaking open in the mornings, slamming shut at night... and the noise of almost a hundred miserably unhappy women, coughing, spitting, cackling, squabbling, menacing each other, whispering to themselves, humming tunelessly, nothing to do all day but try to keep from getting caught up in the sluggish gears and churned out as gristle. The days are all the same. Only the meagre intermission of visits from relatives, the few friends who are brave or foolhardy enough to remember you—or enemies who want something out of you—interrupt the days. Visits are terrible in their own way, a strange kind of torture where looking forward to the event is most always better than the thing itself. Everyone putting on a brave face, no one fooled until you're nearly eager for it to be over, just to stop watching the clock and having to search for another stupid, hopeful, false thing to say. The few classes they offer aren't worth breaking routine for. Many of the women can barely read. Most are in on drugs-related charges. The rest are shoplifters, cheque-kiters... maybe a quarter of this lot are criminals of any sort that deserve the name. They room us together regardless, sixteen-year-old prostitutes with sixty-year-old lifers. Learn how to smuggle gear in your spare time, make weapons out of toiletries, get high on aerosols—there's an education for you. There is absolutely nothing just, useful, or worthwhile about this system. Nothing. It helps no one, teaches no one, changes nothing. I try to stay sane. I used to think I liked a good challenge. ----- ------ ------ I exercise, not to keep in shape as I used to—I've no one to stay in shape for, not in this place god forbid—but simply as a way to shave a few minutes off the boredom, and in the vain hope it might help me sleep better. Sometimes it gives my head a rest, if only for a moment: more than worth the effort for that alone, then. It features as a small part of my private wading towards sanity programme. We are allowed books, and I read as often as possible. I was big on reading when I was a kid, lost the habit after I left home and life seemed to open itself up to me. Now I've acquired it again, a necessary if qualified pleasure I intend to keep for myself even after I get out. If I get out. I try not to think about that most particularly. Ever tried not thinking about something? Cons pass round the same tired old line, like smoking someone else's stale fag: you only do two days, the day you get in and the day you leave. That's because minding the days between is too painful. There's a great deal to not think about in here. Amazing how much crap rattles about up there when you've nothing to do but listen to the wind blow. I have gardening privileges, which does help. Sort of. I enjoy gardening, even before when we had the house I—never mind, none of that. Anyhow, it's the only thing I look forward to. I get to pretend I've some privacy; breathe fresh air for a change, see the sky, remember freedom like a dream from some other life, one I took for granted in a way I never will do again. If I'm not half-dead and mainly cracked when I get out. People say that all the time too—making sure this thing or that will change once they're shot of this cesspool. Usually you can tell they don't mean it, or believe it even as they say it. I say nothing. But I will change a great deal about my life if I get out, and I do mean it. I smoke out of boredom. Actually, I hate smoking too, while we're at it. I could shift grains of sand from one pile to another, it'd have about the same effect. Watching your life waste away. And I keep watch over what goes on because, though I don't care much about myself these days, it doesn't bear thinking about, I do mind seeing other women abused, hurt, taken advantage of—and the screws do everything you can imagine, and more. The days are bad, they're really bloody awful if you want to know the truth. Nights are worse. That's when the demons return, the ones you keep at bay while the sun's supposedly up and the clamour of prison serves as a horrible kind of distraction—all of that falls away. There's still noise at night, there's always noise... the acoustics in this place are so dreadful it's hard to believe they're not deliberate—the din rises every day like a great wave beating against you, then drops to a troubling drone at night, its very randomness undermining any sense of relief you might get from its lessening. Sometimes I fancy I can hear the sounds of women trying to stifle their weeping—just the ones in our wing, of course, I'm not quite so far gone yet. But memory, loss of hope... there are any number of things that make nights almost impossible to withstand. The noise inside is far worse than anything the machine can crank out. The loneliness that closes round till you think you might suffocate. The thoughts that won't leave off. All the what-ifs and if-onlys, they mock you and line up like a row of bleeding parents shaking their fingers, confirming everyone's worst fears. Dyke cop-killer. How much worse can you get? 'Course if it wasn't dyke it'd have been something else—prostitute cop-killer, divorcee cop-killer, doesn't matter as long as it sells papers. But dyke, it does have that ring to it, bit of an edge... I've always liked it, myself. That it helped seal my fate is no fault of mine. In here, it's useful in a different way; being a dyke gives me an odd sort of negative status, frightens the sheep. Or at least the screws, there are several who could be even more trouble if the thought of me near their vitals with something sharp didn't give them a few bad nights—or so I truly hope. There's plenty of shagging among cons, most rather desperate—to keep the demons at bay, I expect. Protection's an issue, though nowhere so bad as I've heard them say it is over the pond. But the fact is, very few of these women would choose another if given their freedom—same as outside, really—and some stay shot of me for that reason alone. Fine by me. Some just hate me for it, of course—never mind I wouldn't snog any of this lot if you paid me. Well... I might consider it for a weekend in Spain. San Francisco, anyway. As for the specific dead cop, I'm sorry in the abstract: that I took a life. There are days I don't know how to begin to cope with the idea, much less the reality. I run it over in my head and for the life of me—an expression one doesn't use idly in my situation—I can't see how I could've done anything but what I did. What in hell was I supposed to do, go find a cop to stop the cop who was raping her? By the time I'd got back the bastard would've been long gone, the damage to Trish unthinkable. Hit him harder? He was big, he was angry, he was drunk and he was out of his mind, crazy with hormones and adrenaline. I stuck that damn bottle in his neck, I wasn't thinking about killing him, just stopping him—but the second it went in—I knew. I knew it was fatal. A mortal wound. Christ, the blood shooting out of him.... I hate remembering how it felt, most of all. When I take into account the particular life in question, it's pretty damn hard to feel sorry about a thing. The days are bad, alright. The nights are endless. Vegetarianism as a response to homicide: they could do a study. It's not like there any books on how to deal with the subject. I go back and forth about it. I suppose I always will. ----- ------ ------ Trish used to tease me about how fastidious I was—more than she, which is saying something. Live rough for even a few weeks, you'd be that way too. Taking out the rubbish every night whether it needed binning or not; so fussy about my showers and baths, the loofahs and pumice stones, plush towels and a small army of bath products tidy on their shelves... and then on my way to the bedroom, the scent of freshly-polished wood from the banister, when I'd done the furniture at weekends—. Memory is no comfort here, memory is a bastard. It's as much the enemy as the screws. However bad it is during the day at least the doors are mainly open, keeps the draughts moving—because the stink of this place! christ. The day-smells—inadequately-washed flesh, sweat, stale laundry, bad breath, spoiled or burned foods from the servery, rubbish piled up in the far corridors, the mouldy vents leaking god-knows-what into our lungs—they make cigarette smoke seem almost honest. At least it's something you control, cuts down on the rest. But day-smells are nothing compared to the night-smells, of bodies sweating and thrashing in sleep, the wasted energies of the day rising from us all like some invisible, tainted fug... y'know, I've begun to wonder if people with certain mental disorders actually have a different odour. It seems to make sense—schizophrenics, it's a chemical imbalance, isn't it? ...but in truth I can't tell whether to trust my nose or doubt my own sanity with thoughts like these. Yet another thing books are no help with: She fancied she smelled madness at dark. Right. At the start of my time here, when overcrowding was so bad they were forced to let murderers share cells with lesser cons, I was stuck with a woman whose breath became so acrid in sleep I really thought I might totally lose it. She had no mental disorder. Turned out she was scared to death I'd slit her throat while she slept. It was stress, that's all. Just stress. And under everything—but especially at night, far worse at night—are the open bogs. My mother was overfond of telling me I had a warm imagination. You don't need much of one to appreciate those bogs; in fact, best do away with it altogether. My life passes me by as I lie on a shabby pallet not worth calling a bed, with a sorrier excuse for a blanket, shivering even in autumn—the damp walls sweating, weeping—and everywhere, everywhere the creeping stench of shit. I live in a sewer. We all do. Might as well call it by its proper name, too. Mine is Nicola Wade, Nikki. In the eyes of society, I'll be a convicted murderer for the rest of my life, which is effectively over at thirty-four. Officially, I've no savings left after the trial—poxy barristers should spend a year at a place like this, see how they feel about their precious justice then. Unofficially... there's still a bit of life out there for me, waiting, if only I could get to it. I've half-share in a business, a club that prospers even now I've nothing to do with it—there was a big bump in traffic right after, of course, punters wanting to gawp at Where it Happened. Must have doubled the nightmare for Trish. I make efforts to remind myself I'm in good health—no small thing, here, don't get me started on that old soak in the infirmary, now that's criminal. I've still got a brain in working order, all that moronic self-esteem bollocks you're supposed to witter under your breath to keep yourself losing hope and drowning in self-pity. And I do try. But the suffering of some of these women is terrible, and if the misery that's fallen upon them is partly, even largely their own doing, that's no excuse for making it a thousand times worse with this place. So I try to stay alive, inside, for their sake if not my own. Life demands you make an effort, no matter the cause. Else I'd be the sort of walking dead you see in H-Wing. And then they'd have won. ----- ------ ------ Staff come, staff go, they're all the same. So at first I thought she was just like them, one of them—hell, she was running the place. Young for the job; some kind of fast-tracker, then. New suit, same old bollocks. She tried to pull a few moves, the sort of thing they probably teach in some mid-level course—we're all in it together—as if she'd be kipping down in her commodious office any minute now to fight the good fight right alongside us. And so forth and so on: us against them, old boys' network, you know the sort of thing. At least I knew the sort of thing, I'd been here long enough. A damn sight longer than she had. That's what I thought, anyway. You'll just have to trust me. She'd come to see me in stir, first time we'd spoken alone, and that's what she actually said. Almost had me going for a second, naff speechifying withal, she was good. I made a mental note to stay alert around her, but what I thought was—Pull the other one. Didn't they cover this sort of thing in some introductory class, straight out of the gate? So hard to get decent help these days. You can't trust anyone in this place—most especially people who ask you to trust them. Particularly when you're trussed up in the modern-day equivalent of a straitjacket. I'd spent the weekend bound like a dog save when they let me up to use the loo, it'd been bloody cold and bloody uncomfortable, but what's a little inhumanity between enemies? Didn't even allow me my hour of exercise, half these prats probably think the Geneva Convention is some sort of monthly businessmen's luncheon. So I was fit to be tied alright, but that was Bodybag's doing. And in comes Stewart in her crisp suit, all sincerity and apologies. Wasn't as if Bodybag was about to get a black mark on her record for pulling this little stunt though, was it? The woman lowered herself to my level, sat on the edge of the bed, I could smell her perfume, not cloying or musky, very delicate, a bit spicy, and for a split-second I was horribly disoriented, then furious anything so pleasant should be in the midst of this hellhole. What right had she to come in fresh after a nice long weekend doing whatever people who willingly chose a job like this did—to be handing me a line about how she was going to change things? Co-operate my arse. So I'd given it to her right between the eyes. She didn't bat one. For the second time. |
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| sapphire | Dec 4 2007, 01:39 PM Post #3 |
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Out of Dorm
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Hey, nice to see a new story! I will agree that it is rather grim to begin with, but it does a really good job of giving the feel of being in prison, setting the tone as it were. I am looking forward to reading the rest of it. Thanks
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| LahbibLover | Dec 5 2007, 04:19 AM Post #4 |
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I said SIT IN THAT CHAIR
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Good vivid language, really pulls me into the prison with Nikki. Conveys her dark mood quite well. Looking forward to the next posting. |
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| kellykracles | Dec 5 2007, 01:42 PM Post #5 |
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Up to Basic
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I'm really enjoying this story so far. I like the vivid descriptions of the smells, the noise and conditions of prison. It makes me feel like I'm in there with her and it really helps to understand Nikki better. Great start. Can't wait for the next chapter.
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Get up, get out, get away from these liars Cos they don't get your soul or your fire -- snow patrol | |
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| iwoman | Dec 5 2007, 03:29 PM Post #6 |
Up to Basic
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This a great story. Your writing is excellent, your idea is original, your approach is novel and your story just flows, and gets through (to me at least! )Thank you for writing this, and looking forward for more! |
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| strummingalong | Dec 5 2007, 05:55 PM Post #7 |
Down the Block
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You've got something wonderful here. Very unique and quite vivid. And I'd take something that is deliciously dark with a dash of grim anyday when it is written this well. Cheers! |
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| BG3655 | Dec 7 2007, 10:36 PM Post #8 |
Down the Block
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Hi all, yessss, feedback!! Sapphire Glad to hear you're interested despite the Grim! When my betas mentioned it, I was a bit startled: Oh! Really? Hmm. I was so far inside the piece I was more focussed on what prison might do to someone like Nikki, emotionally: the Grim is part of what takes us to that other place, I hope. Or, after living with it for a while, I'd managed to institutionalise myself, would be the other view. :lol Lahbiblover Again, so happy to hear it's working for some people, that's quite reassuring. To explore Nikki, I wanted to try to imagine what it might be like from the inside, what strength of character it might take to withstand the whole setting. And as Kellykrackles said, it helped me maybe get to know Nikki better, too. So the 'atmosphere' was another way of looking at Nikki's internal climate, as it were. iwoman Thank you, your comments were interesting and encouraging. I'm angstily aware it's not 'like' other fanfictions (that I've seen)... so I want to get a sense of how people are receiving that. I know it's different. Hearing about the 'flow' from a reader is also very important to me. :smile I didn't want to break it up at all and worried about that for some time. It's a bit too long to read in one sitting, and not paced for that anyway, but, I don't know... it's of a piece. (Or feels that way in my head.) But I knew if I posted all at once it might max people out... I tried to find a way to strike a balance. So it does feel odd to post in bits and pieces, but after a lot of encouragement from one of my betas (again with their greatness), I finally worked out places where breaks felt logical. We'll see. strummingalong Cheers mate! Your enthusiasm reminded me: the mood of the piece might overshadow it at first, but there's humour here, throughout. It's meant to mitigate the Grim though it might be just me, that sort of thing is always a bit subjective I suppose. Humour is a characteristic of Nikki's that we see through the whole show, and I believe it's part of what makes her so resilient. Thanks to everyone who wrote! Anything you want to comment on is fair game, keep 'em coming! :lol Update info Second bit up tomorrow or Sunday latest. It's brief, so I will post another midweek... and then back to week-long intervals or so, it will be nearly the holiday by then and everyone will be busy with other things I'm sure. // bg3655 |
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| unlikelyheroine | Dec 7 2007, 10:48 PM Post #9 |
Out of Dorm
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Very well-written. Really gets inside Nikki's head and I was wrinkling my nose up at all the vivid smells you described... Ugh!! Looking forward to more! |
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| Cassandra | Dec 8 2007, 05:34 AM Post #10 |
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A great, evocative start to a story. Not sure I would have described it as bad as grim though. It's certainly an area that few fanfic writers seem to address for some odd reason. Too realistic for a happy, love story? Or maybe they think since Nikki is strong, spirited and respected that she has adapted seamlessly to prison life. Whereas I can certainly imagine her dark and brooding when left to her own thoughts in spite of the humour. Look forward to the next chapter. I haven't read any of your fanfics before but I liked your take on the N&H letters.
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![]() You can't control destiny ... but YOU can control this storyline ... by writing a para! HOTCHPOTCH - A Helen & Nikki Story with a difference (click to enter)
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| Jeanna | Dec 9 2007, 11:51 PM Post #11 |
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I said SIT IN THAT CHAIR
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I don't often comment on the fanfic, but this, as those above me have pointed out is particularly well written (which I deeply appreciate) and I have to echo as well in reiterating "vivid" and "evocative." I can fully accept this as Nikki's internal monologue. Excellent job at capturing the voice and the atmosphere. |
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H&N Music Vid by me and ekny Something To Talk About YouTube My BG Music Vids On YouTube My vids You Tube removed Click Here OR HERE BAM for Beginners BAM Channel | |
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| BG3655 | Dec 10 2007, 05:32 AM Post #12 |
Down the Block
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Hi unlikelyheroine! I wanted to explore what might be hinted at in the show, but which we don't see, or can't access as directly. As for smell... media is all about seeing and hearing but not so great with the rest of the senses. :lol Cassandra, glad you liked the letters! I have one other thing here, Liberties, which is as close to lighthearted as I'm likely to get, so you might want to check that out some time. hee. I feel the same about the 'grim'... I didn't think it was horribly so, given the setting. But after my betas both reacted to that, first, I thought maybe I should warn people or they'd get turned off. But if one suggests something is grim then people will read it with that in mind. Perhaps my lesson there is, less said the better!
I hear you, and yeh, it's an interesting question. 'Happy' doesn't suggest 'lacks depth', to me. The opposite, in fact. Perhaps it's also about whether one likes or understands drama to be about 'external' things (job, family, etcetera) or perceives it to be about what's 'internal'. It may just be a matter of taste too. :lol
That might well be what it's about... again, I don't think there's a disparity: one doesn't have to preclude the other. How Nikki presents herself would not be the same as how she might feel in private--everyone does that, has those places they keep to themselves. It must be especially necessary in prison. She protects others, but she still needs to keep herself safe too. Jeanna, hello and thanks so much! I was just going to put up a little snippet when I logged on to see your post. I'm glad you like the writing, hopefully there will be more to come! :lol /// Update info: Very short update follows; another will be posted mid-week. // bg3655 |
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| BG3655 | Dec 10 2007, 05:40 AM Post #13 |
Down the Block
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----- ------ ------ Next she made a total cock-up of the drugs policy, cost me more than a bit of my pride. But she came to apologise, again, I had to give her that. I tore a strip off her but after I'd had a chance to calm down, I revised my opinion of her. Again. Just a bit, the slightest bit. Which kept happening. It wasn't a steady thing; all the while she'd been banging on about finding the women who did drugs in order to help them, I kept thinking, You haven't a clue, have you. I rather felt my encounter with the squat squad qualified me for a special exemption from this kind of proselytising. Evidently not; she'd caught me outside the showers and seemed to feel the need to make her case right there, despite the fact that I was in my dressing gown and made my disinterest plain. She'd have been shocked, no doubt, to learn a woman got raped for her stash. All that muck about drugs and no one ever found out the one crime that did matter. Typical. Though when she was faced with a real crime she took it seriously enough—much good it did—and again, I found myself unwillingly giving ground in these ongoing tussles she seemed hellbent on us having. So it crept up on me, really; you get a fresh suit, everyone stands back to see how the so-called new regime will make things worse. Because things always get worse. But not this time. Not much improved, at least not straight off, but a few little things functioned closer to spec: most of the bogs in the main loos now worked on a good day; there was a bit more hot water than usual; rubbish disposal actually began following a schedule. Though there was always something else to foul up the machinery. She was gutted when that poor kid Rachel topped herself, you could see that. Worried for her job no doubt, but upset too. For real. Women kill themselves, fall ill, go mad—and the screws make jokes as they clean the cell out, you'd hardly believe it if you didn't see it for yourself, just more shit clogging up the works. Garbage in, garbage out, alright. I know EMTs and the like have graveside humour but there's no call for that if it's not your usual job. And it might as well have been, here, for all the feeling they showed when some junkie OD'd or some desperate mum who'd just lost her kid cut herself, knee to thigh, seeing no other way out. That was when I first got here, gave me the smell of the place, and it never went away. Helen Stewart didn't seem to find events like the suicide of Rachel Hicks remotely amusing. It made her angry. You could say we had that, at least, in common. More startling, though, when trivial things went sideways she was the same—angry, concerned. A sad creature who turned out to be Denny's mum—can you imagine anything more ghastly than ending up in the same nick with the woman who'd abandoned you as a baby?—she dropped her cutlery one day, so sick from the shakes she could barely force her arms to move. Bodybag was being a perfect wretch, as usual. Stewart saw it all, and she gave the old cow a good bollocking while still trying to help the woman up and get her a cuppa. I was there; she didn't do it because people were watching, she did it because it was the right thing to do, the decent thing to do. ----- ------ ------ I'd waited and kept my usual lookout, expecting her to get hardened to the place—that's what almost always happened, it's how you cope, screws and cons alike. Oddly, she didn't. The more opposition she encountered, the more she dug her heels in. Either the woman had character or she was bloody stubborn and far less intelligent than she appeared. Stubbornness might not be the most virtuous trait but again, you could say it was familiar to me; I rather admired her for it, however grudgingly. She learned quickly and rarely repeated mistakes. I'd been wrong about her, at least in part, I could see that—after a while—but I wasn't about to admit it, certainly not to her: she was waging some kind of private campaign to get me on her side, she'd been doing that from the start, too. As if I'm going to be a grass for anyone, much less the Wing Gov. Making a one-shot deal—while down the block, no less—didn't change a thing, a fact that wouldn't have escaped the greenest screw: still, she persisted. I'd blow her off time and again, yet she kept on. Always finding excuses to run into me for this or that, suggestions, questions, advice, even—as if this stubborn little Scot genuinely cared about my opinion. Being a murderer affords you a certain kind of status inside, like it or not. I knew it, she knew it. It'd been so long since anyone had shown any kind of simple, human interest I suppose I was rather thick about it until it began to catch up with me. I realised her job or, likely, how she was going about it probably isolated her from those under her command more than usual—they certainly didn't want any changes. But the way she confided in me, or tried to... a bit odd, that, like a person coming home after a day at work. Sometimes I thought she just wanted someone to talk to; it struck me the woman was more than a bit lonely. Which had to be mistaken, made no sense given her appearance and outgoing demeanour. Wing Governors don't cosy up to convicted felons without good reason. It wasn't as if we were about to become best mates. I shrugged it off—she'd been kind but whatever was on her plate wasn't my business, or my problem. I had problems enough: prison or no I was focussed on Trish. Though I knew in the place I didn't want to look, the night-place, it was only a matter of time. I spent a lot of mine fretting over her—you can't ask someone to wait on you for ten years, maybe more, not really. And things had been slipping long before the disaster that changed both our lives. But the idea of her, out there—I couldn't let it go, I had nothing else. I kept Trish separated from all the rest, inside, the one safe place I had. Like a small vault that would somehow protect what little remained. A vault inside a vault. I tried to lead Stewart in the right direction with Rachel. She asked and... she was right, it was the least any of us could do. After the fact. The very least. To be fair... the woman didn't make promises she didn't intend to keep, and she seemed sincere. More than sincere, she seemed to give a damn. I'd begun to think her relative youth might be just that: ambitious but too fresh on the job, too naive to see how things really were. Naivety's a luxury no one can afford in this place, not with a prayer of surviving it. She needed to know what kind of snakes were in her garden. But in the matter of Rachel Hicks, I could've told her to save herself the bother: she should have just pointed at every one of us and had done with it. |
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| LahbibLover | Dec 10 2007, 06:45 PM Post #14 |
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I said SIT IN THAT CHAIR
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This is just a beautifully flowing story. Your writing is just spot on with Nikki's character and her thoughts about Helen. |
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| 5mins | Dec 10 2007, 06:45 PM Post #15 |
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G2 landing
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OK, I am hooked. Very interesting, BG3655! It's like watching it all from inside Nikki's mind. Can't wait to read more. When does she get that certain feeling about the lovely Miss Stewart? Well done.
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"You look at the world with smiling eyes and laugh at the devil as the train goes by" - Alison Krauss + Union Station | |
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OK, I am hooked. Very interesting, BG3655! It's like watching it all from inside Nikki's mind. Can't wait to read more. When does she get that certain feeling about the lovely Miss Stewart? Well done.

8:47 AM Jul 11