This was a fun scene to write about because it happens so quickly. OITNB, its characters and almost all the dialogue in this scene property of Jenji Kohan.
The Fence
"You ever talk to her? The dead girl, I mean," you ask Nichols as the two of you wander over to the make-out alley. You've got the blanket draped over your shoulder, and Nicky's swinging her arms, sweater sleeves pulled down over her fists.
"Once or twice," she answers, "You?"
"Not really," you shrug, "In the line for breakfast sometimes. She seemed nice,"
"Yeah, she was. She was sweet,"
"What d'you talk to her about?"
"Lesbianism," Nicky shoots back, without a beat. The answer and the bluntness Nichols delivers it with make you uncomfortable, as does the smirks she tosses you, so although you know the answer you change the subject by asking, "What was her name? Jefferson?"
"Jefferson's her friend, the fat one," Nicky explains, "The dead girl's Washington. Poussay Washington,"
"What is that? Poo-say," you frown, testing the word out. You hadn't heard her first name before. "Is that like French or somethin'? I mean, is she...a black French?". Is that even a thing? Isn't it the British who invaded Africa?
Nichols doesn't answer for a moment, which is unusual because she's normally straight in with an analysis or a snarky comment. She's so smart. You wish you were as smart as she is. You glance round. Nicky's gazing at you, a crooked smile on her face. Is she laughing at you? Was it the French who invaded Africa?
She sighs and you snip, "What?"
Nicky folds her arms across her chest and doesn't take her eyes off you. The look she's giving you is one that you remember from months ago, and it isn't a look she should be giving you now. Not anymore.
"What," you repeat in a flatter, suspicious tone, more of a challenge that a question.
Nichols saunters towards you, her eyes locked on yours- until they flick down to your mouth, and she uncrosses her arms to put one against the shed, caging you in between the her body and the wooden wall. Fuck, this isn't what you wanted. Her breath is on your face and you want to dodge away from it. You shouldn't be this close to her, but she's trapped you. You panic as she forces a hand down the front of your khakis, and glues her lips to your neck. You grip the ridge in the shed wall and try to squirm away, but Nichols is blocking you and you only ending up sliding down against the wall. Nichols slips her fingers round the edge of your underwear as her other hand catches your jaw. Her mouth's on your jaw and her hair's in your face and it's familiar but it isn't right. The fingers on her other hand glide around the join of your thigh to your hip, something which once made you weak at the knees. Not now, though. Now you struggle against her weight, gasping. Nicky's bigger and stronger and could probably break your arm if she wanted, and if she was a man this would be assault or something. Is it different because she's a woman? You're not sure, but either way you know that this is wrong. You're married, you're straight, you shouldn't be being touched by her this way anymore. She shouldn't be touching you like this anymore.
After a moment of croaking, you force out, "No. No, no, no". You wriggle, and Nicky catches your jaw in her grip; you're relieved that her mouth's off you, but you don't want her touching your face to make you look at her. To make sure, you give her a shove. "No!"
Nichols shoves her fingers into her mouth and sucks. You're not shocked by that- it's classic Nicky, and she can do what she wants with her fingers as long as they're not touching you.
"I'm clean," she insists in a moan. Her eyes are half-closed with lust and her mouth's half-open like it would be if it was on yours. I'm clean. Like that makes it okay, like you were holding off her because she was back on drugs and now she's clean she can do what she wants with you. You're her object, her plaything, her quick fuck because she's bored and lonely and enjoys going down on girls. You're her reward for staying away from heroin for five minutes.
You're worth more than that.
"Oh what, I'm your prize?" you challenge, "Your prize for gettin' clean, is that what I am?"
Nicky, fuck her to hell, nods and mumbles "Mmm-hmm," and you aren't sure if you're more hurt that she confirms it, or by the fact that you know she's only doing so because she isn't listening to you. Nichols smirks through her pout and leans into you again.
"How many fuckin' times do I have to tell you, I am married!" you shout, slipping out of the Nicky-shed trap. You hold your hands up, another separation between you and Nichols, and remind her angrily, "We're havin' a baby!"
He wants a boy obviously; you want a girl. You'll name it Carmela after mom, maybe Graziella or Minnie as a middle name after the girls in West Side Story (the Jet girls, obviously. Your daughter isn't being named after a Hispanic character, not even Maria. Besides, the girl who branded Chapman is called Maria. That was sick, you're not looking at your daughter and think of that every time you use her name). Vinnie can look after her until you're out of prison- only just over a year now, she'll be too young to remember you not being there. Then the three of you will get a house, big enough for the two more kids you're going to have. You'll go back to work, though only three days a week so you can stay at home with the children the rest of the time, and-
"No, you're not, y'know?" Nichols replies, laughing. You feel your hands tighten into fists, tears prick in your eyes, "Tha..it's...you're not!"
Hate for Nicky Nichols slams into your body. Your baby is real. What the fuck does Nicky know about kids, about marriage, about love? This is your baby and how can some fucked-up junkie whose been high for weeks, whose family never visit and who can't keep a relationship together longer than it takes to get a newbie inmate off in a grubby toilet cubicle- how can she know anything about your family? How dare she tell you that your life isn't real? How dare she laugh like it's some kind of dumb joke?
"Yes, I am!" you hiss, hurling the blanket onto the floor. Your breath is heavy and your words come out stiffly, as you grit your teeth to stop yourself screaming at her, stop yourself clawing at her face. It's cruel to want to do that to someone, you know- but you're a mother protecting your child. You feel proud of that instinct.
"You junkie...addict...liar," you continue, seething.
You nod at her, raising your eyebrows to say Yeah? Yeah, I know. We all know the truth about you Nichols, that you don't know shit about love or families or anything that doesn't come in a needle or a rizla. Her teeth are gritted from when she was angry at you a moment ago, but her mouth around them has gone slack. Nicky's eyebrows are tense and her huge dark eyes are drooping like she's about to cry. I hope she is, you think viciously.
"Yeah, you like that?" you taunt, twisting the knife, "How long's it gonna last this time?". When she had you up against that fence you were frightened of her, but you're not now. Now you're the one making her feel guilty and uncomfortable. The power's intoxicating and you can't stop. "What are you gonna sweet and low for it cos it ain't gonna be me". Nichols' shuts her mouth and her eyes narrow. "No sir," you hiss. What are you gonna do Nichols? You don't own me. You don't control me. Go crying back to Red or to the Hispanics and their drug business. You don't get comfort from me anymore. Nicky's shaking. You've never felt more powerful.
And then she shouts.
"Y' psycho!" Nichols snarls, shoving hard. You stumble backwards and scurry away from her but Nicky pushes you again so that you stagger to the wire fence, your back bouncing off it. Nicky clamps you back against the wire. "What's the truth!? What's the truth, huh?" she screams urgently. "What's going on?" Nicky demands, and there's a cruel, tearful smirk on her face, "I I wanna know! I mean, what kinda... contortions are your brain acrobats doin' up there in ya fuckin' head circus, huh?"
You're already on the verge of tears when she smacks you on the head. She's trapped you again, though this time it's her eyes which have you cornered. They're wide and brown and fierce. It's astounding how quickly you're afraid of her again. What kinda contortions are your brain acrobats doin' up there in ya fuckin head circus? Brain acrobats. Contortions. Head circus. What's going on? What's going on?
"I'm fuckin' everything up, okay?" you confess hoarsely. Nicky's mouth drops open. There's lines all over her face. "It's 'appening again... I'm watching it happening," you explain, gasping, moving your fingers like cogs- although that isn't what it feels like to watch. It feels...you don't know how it feels. Painful. Terrifying. "And I can't stop myself," you squeak, voice cracking because you're scared, you're so scared. It's lonely and confusing and comforting and sexy and it's so, so frightening.
"And he's gonna leave me because of it," you squeal, spasming hysterically, "And then what'll it do?...I do?" That's the most horrifying part of all. You've ridden this rodeo before and the first time ended up with you in prison. Where is there to go from here? Where's worse than prison? You don't want to find out. "What'll I do?" you screech at Nichols. You hate her, you hate Vinnie and Christopher and the dead French black. You hate God for giving you this brain which does these things, and more than anybody you hate yourself.
The smile cracks Nicky's face. "Ya happy now?" you accuse her, feeling both broken and breaking, "Ya happy cos it's ruined now? Y-
"Of course not, okay?" she answers, laughing like a dead person, "Come on, a junkie addict liar, eh? Happy people are not that," she says. Her voice jumps on the Ps. Nichols saunters round to lean on the fence beside you- you watch her face but she's is looking away. You turn your gaze back out onto the grass, feeling miserable and hopeless and lost. Instinctively, you link your arm through Nicky's.
"Wonder if she's got family?" she says at last, exhaling heavily.
What? You can't remember what you were talking about before and you don't care. "Who?" you ask, confused.
"Eh, come on," Nichols mumbles, then elaborates, "Washington. The French black, RIP. You know, I imagine my mom gettin' that call. I can't decide what's worse- she heard I did it to myself. Or that it went down like this,"
The dead girl. The dead French black, still on the cafeteria floor. The junkie addict liar and the psycho, leaning against a wire fence with their arms linked. Everything's a mess. Everything is a huge, awful, horrible mess.
"Well, that's like asking if it would hurt worse to get your leg cut off or yu' arm," you say with feigned airiness.
Somebody walks past in the distance. A bird twitters. It's cold.
"I's your leg," states Nichols, her voice lower than usual as if she's swallowing tears. "Obviously,"
You shrug, pulling a face.
"Hey, what are we gonna tell Red about this place?" Nicky asks, "You think it's okay for a garden?"
"I guess," you mumble. The garden doesn't seem important anymore.
"Well," Nichols announces, hands on hips, surveying the patch of grass, "Sh'll we...go tell her?"
"Yuh. Yeah, alright," you whisper. You feel tired and miserable. You want to lie down on your bunk and sleep until this awful day is over. Nichols pushes herself off the fence and starts to walk away. You follow, picking up the blanket and slinging it back over your shoulder. You walk back to Red beside Nichols, in silence and holding hands.
Thank you for reading, please review.