After two weeks and no news from the parole board, Franky's starting to fear the worst. If she has to spend another year being a slave to routine, they may as well give her a lobotomy, because all of this dumbed-down interaction is driving her bat-shit crazy. She's tired of the inane conversations and the same old drama, day in and day out, and even her Law degree is starting to lose its novelty. She's been dreaming of going up against a hot-shot barrister in court, winning a high-profile human rights case with lots of press coverage, but in reality she gets to hone her debating skills on a bunch of women who barely have two brain cells to rub together. What's the point in having a thirst for knowledge when she's just pissing it all away? And where's the acclaim in being top of the class when she's the only fucking person taking the course? Her tutor hasn't cracked a smile since she met him and his teaching technique is so bland, she may as well be reading straight from a text book. The ache to be able to do what she wants, when she wants, is overwhelming, and she wonders when this place will succeed in beating the last vestiges of spontaneity out of her.
Gidget's the only person who offers her a break from the monotony; the only person she can have an intelligent conversation with, and Franky craves her company almost as much as she craves her freedom. Franky's forgotten what it's like to be kept on her toes, to cultivate comebacks that don't involve hurling insults or making a crack at someone else's expense, but Gidget engages with her like what she has to say actually matters, and Franky hasn't felt like that for a long time. She's served her sentence, every agonising hour at a time, but every day she goes without speaking to Gidget feels like she's starting from scratch. She misses their sessions, and now she regrets all the time she spent ducking and diving and evading Gidget's questions, sitting in sullen silence to prevent her from scratching below the surface. She knows she has enough issues to make every shrink cream their pants, but she didn't want Gidget to see her as a patient, because there's nothing sexy about being a victim, and nobody wants to fuck the girl who's sobbing inconsolably in the shower.
Franky sighs, wondering what she's supposed to do with her life once she's read every book in the library and pumped enough iron to cross over into tranny territory. Even getting herself off is a chore nowadays, and as much as she likes to fantasise about all the things she yearns to do to Gidget – at least her imagination is still pretty vivid in that respect - it's still no substitute for the real thing. And people blame her for picking fights just to spice things up a bit?
Franky sighs resignedly, reaching for her Contract & Tort notes that are lying face down on the bottom of her bed. She barely manages to skim read through a couple of pages before a knock sounds on her cell door, and she raises an eyebrow, because the POs aren't renowned for their courtesy and most of the inmates don't wait for her acknowledgement before they barge in.
"Yeah?" she yells, and she nearly rolls off her bed in surprise when Bridget cautiously sticks her head around the door.
"You doing home visits now, Doc?" Franky teases, allowing a shit-eating grin to spread across her face, even though it barely manages to convey her delight at seeing the older woman, "Or have you finally decided to stop being such a prude and let me have my wicked way with you? I just hope you're not a screamer, because these walls definitely do talk... in surround sound."
"Franky!" Bridget protests, but she's laughing, and Franky's eyes crinkle at the corners as she realises just how much she enjoys making the other woman smile. It's a welcome change from doling out brutal paybacks and punishments, anyway, even if she never really had the stomach for inflicting them herself.
"Well, welcome to my humble abode, Gidge. As you can see, I'm currently reclining on a luxurious four-poster bed - complete with orthopaedic mattress - and just to the right, you'll find the bathroom suite, which I'm now really grateful I didn't have to use this morning."
"I love what you've done with the place," Bridget says wryly, casting her eyes over the lesbian erotica adorning the bulletin board on the far wall. She unconsciously licks her lips, and Franky can barely contain her amusement.
"Take a picture, it'll last longer."
Bridget abruptly wrenches her eyes away, and Franky's obnoxious smile widens even further when she sees that the therapist's cheeks are tinged with a rosy glow.
"So, what can I do for you, Doc?" she asks, wiggling her eyebrows up and down suggestively, but Bridget makes a concerted effort to ignore her proposition, reaching into her hand-bag to extract a slim envelope.
"I've got something for you," she announces, regarding Franky with sparkling eyes. "I think it arrived by carrier pigeon instead of Concorde, but at least it's finally here."
Franky's heart stops dead in her chest, and then begins thrumming ten-fold.
"So, what's the verdict?" she asks cautiously, chewing her fingernails in a futile attempt to alleviate her apprehension.
"Why don't you open it and find out?" Bridget urges, and she reaches across the space between them, handing the envelope to Franky.
Franky gingerly takes it from her, staring at the letter like it holds the keys to the kingdom, and she's so caught up in the throes of terrified anticipation, she barely notices when Bridget moves to sit on the edge of her bed. It takes her several moments to work up the courage to delve into the envelope – which has already been opened by one of the POs - and her hands are trembling as she slowly unravels the contents.
"Gidget - " she whispers, hardly daring to hope, and Bridget moves closer, leaning over Franky's shoulder so that they can read her fortune together. Franky gets the impression that the other woman's proximity is more for moral support than anything else, because it's obvious that Bridget already knows the fate that's about to befall her, and Franky doesn't appreciate her dragging out the suspense.
"Come on Gidget, what are you fucking waiting for? A drum roll? Just tell me if I'm getting out of here or not!"
"You've waited for this moment for a long time, Franky, and there's no way I'm stealing it away from you," Bridget informs her quietly, "So will you please just read the bloody letter?"
Franky takes a deep breath, and the piece of paper that she's holding is already starting to wilt in her clammy grasp. Then, with one final anxious glance at Bridget, she starts to read.
"Further to your recent parole hearing of 26th June 2015, we are pleased to advise you that your petition for early release has been granted by Judge Dana Burns. We would like to take this opportunity to congratulate you on your good behaviour and achievements to date and hope you will continue to honour the conditions of your parole, which are detailed more comprehensively overleaf. You will be released from custody on Friday 10th July 2015 and, in the meantime, we would strongly suggest that you liaise with your Parole Officer to ensure your re-integration into the local community is as seamless as possible. Arrangements can be made for you to stay at a halfway house if required, but in any event, you will need to provide a forwarding address and phone number for the benefit of your Parole Officer. Needless to say, if you breach the terms of your parole, you are likely to face automatic re-incarceration, but we hope this scenario never arises and wish you the best of luck in your future endeavours."
Franky stares at the letter unseeingly for a moment, and she has to re-read it three times before she finally manages to ingest the contents. She's paralysed with shock, because nothing good ever happens to her – and when the other shoe inevitably drops, it usually smacks her straight in the fucking face. For several seconds, all she can hear is her heartbeat clamouring in her ears,and she's half expecting The Freak to barge through the door shouting, "Gotcha!"
"Vera told me the good news this morning and I managed to persuade her to let me hand-deliver the letter. I told her it would be a lot for you to process and you might need to... Franky?" Bridget asks uncertainly, and Franky realises that somewhere along the line, she's zoned out completely.
"Sorry," she says, shaking her head in an attempt to snap out of whatever alternate reality she's currently inhabiting, because this is all starting to feel like some kind of idyllic daydream that she's desperately trying to cling on to, even as she can sense it slipping away.
"Franky," Bridget says softly, and Franky looks down to find the therapist's hand resting on her knee. "You did it. You're getting out of here. Two more weeks, and you'll be a free woman."
Franky can feel the tears starting to prick at her eyes and tighten around her throat, but she steadfastly blinks them away, determined not to let Bridget see her break down again.
"This is for real?" she asks falteringly, but it's more to convince herself than anyone else.
"Yeah, it's for real," Bridget assures her, reaching out to gently prise the letter out of her hands. It's only then that Franky realises she was gripping it so tightly, she was on the verge of scrunching it up completely.
"Do I need to pinch you or something?" Bridget offers with a wry smile, but she settles for bumping Franky's shoulder companionably instead.
Franky smiles a little at that, but when she meets Bridget's attentive gaze, she realises the other woman's face is taut with concern.
"What is it?" Bridget asks her quietly, and because her tone sounds more like a lover's than a therapist's, Franky finally decides to be honest with her.
"I just feel like if I let myself be happy - even for a minute – someone's gonna come in and snatch it all away from me again, and I don't... I don't know how much more disappointment I can take," she confesses, ducking her head, but Bridget slides an arm around her waist, giving her a gentle squeeze.
"Not this time, OK?" she vows, and she sounds so steadfast in her certainty, Franky almost dares to believe her. For the first time in a long time, a flicker of hope starts to kindle inside her chest, and this time, she doesn't fight to suppress it.
She reaches for Gidget's hand, tracing her fingers over the therapist's slender wrist.
"Your report really swung things in my favour," she acknowledges, and she hopes her earnest expression goes some way to conveying her gratitude. "I couldn't have done any of this without you, Gidget."
Bridget looks at her intently for a moment, and Franky bites her lip when she realises the therapist's eyes are shining with unshed tears. For one heart-stopping moment, she thinks Bridget might finally stop swimming against the current that's flowing ferociously between them, but then the other woman seems to snap out of her reverie, breaking into a good-natured grin.
"Then do me a favour," she proclaims unexpectedly, and Franky gives her a curious look, "Crack a fucking smile, would you?"
"OK, OK! Jeez," Franky concedes, dissolving into laugher, but Bridget still doesn't look fully appeased.
"What? You want me to jump up and down, too?" Franky asks, and she catapults off the bed, doing a goofy imitation of a fist-pumping victory dance.
Bridget looks thoroughly entertained, until Franky's movements become decidedly more provocative and she starts to sway her hips sensuously in Bridget's direction. Feeling emboldened by the unchecked desire in the therapist's gaze, Franky makes a move to straddle Bridget's lap, but the older woman clears her throat, hastily scrambling to her feet.
"Franky..."
"Yeah, I know, I know, I have to keep it PG-13. You really know how to rain on a girl's parade, don't cha?"
Franky sighs, regarding the therapist with puppy-dog eyes. "Do I at least get a congratulatory hug?" she asks, holding out her arms expectantly, and she watches Bridget have some kind of heated internal debate before she finally steps into her embrace.
Franky squeezes her eyes shut when Bridget's arms encircle her waist, and she breathes in the therapist's subtle perfume, making a little noise of contentment.
"I can't believe I'm actually getting out of this place," she proclaims, finally giving in to a heady sense of wonderment.
She impulsively lifts Bridget off the floor, breaking into a cheek-splitting smile as she spins her around in a dizzying circle. Bridget squawks her protests, but she's laughing at the same time, and when Franky sets her back down again, she doesn't make any move to pull away.
"I'm so happy for you, Franky," she says warmly, lightly squeezing the inmate's arms, "Nobody deserves this more than you do."
"Then I reckon you must be biased," Franky observes, and Bridget feigns offence.
"I'll have you know I pride myself on my objectivity."
"Yeah? So what went wrong?"
"I met you," Bridget retorts drily, but she's smiling as she lays a hand on Franky's chest, just above her heart. "I'll see you later, yeah?"
"I'm counting down the hours," Franky reminds her, "All three hundred and thirty six of them."
Bridget turns around to face her before she moves to open the door, levelling Franky with a sultry smile. "Me, too."
"Miss Westfall, I see you've submitted a holiday request for Friday 10th July," Vera informs her conversationally, and Bridget does her level best to maintain an indifferent expression.
"Yeah, the weather's supposed to be nice; I thought I'd drive up to the beach and make a long weekend of it," she says, and Vera regards her suspiciously.
"But isn't that the day Franky Doyle's due to be released? It's a bit of a...fortunate coincidence, don't you think?"
Bridget hopes her discomfort isn't as obvious as it feels, but when Vera starts to smirk, she realises that she's become painfully transparent. Still, she isn't about to let the younger woman stand in the way of her plans, and after hearing the aching vulnerability in Franky's voice when she finally let down her guard and confessed that she wanted to be picked up by a hot girl, in a hot car, and driven off into the sunset, Bridget has every intention of making her fantasy become a reality.
"What exactly are you insinuating, Vera?" she counters, hoping that the Governor's tendency to shy away from direct confrontation will work in her favour.
"I had to review all of the staff's personnel records when I took over from Miss Ferguson. You indicated that you were a lesbian in the Equality & Diversity survey you completed during your induction," Vera observes, and Bridget laughs disparagingly.
"So naturally it follows that I'm attracted to every lesbian that crosses my path? Maybe I'll try my luck with 'Juicy Lucy' next time," Bridget says sardonically, but Vera doesn't bat an eyelid at her sarcasm.
"I saw you two embracing after Doyle's parole hearing. You can't tell me that was professional concern."
"No, that was empathy, and if you thought otherwise, then why didn't you intervene at the time?" Bridget challenges her, and Vera regards her curiously.
"Look, there's no denying that you've been a good influence on Doyle, we've all seen the change in her behaviour - "
"So what's the problem?" Bridget interjects, and Vera regards her with discerning eyes.
"The problem is that your relationship isn't strictly platonic. The inmates have noticed it, I've noticed it - "
"Vera, I don't know how many times I have to tell you this, but I have not - nor would I ever – engage in a sexual relationship with someone under my charge. Yes, I care about Franky, and yes, I'm thrilled that she's been granted parole, but everything I've done for her has been borne of a genuine belief that she deserves a clean slate and the chance to fulfil her potential, not because I'm harbouring the secret desire to get into her pants."
"And after she leaves?" Vera ventures, regarding Bridget with a knowing smile.
"With all due respect, Governor, what I do outside of this establishment is none of your business," Bridget informs her flatly.
"So, you don't deny that you intend to pursue your relationship with Doyle when you're free to do so?" the Governor presses, in a triumphant tone.
Bridget remains silent, refusing to negate or corroborate Vera's assertion.
"Haven't you thought about how that's going to look to the Board?" Vera asks her, raising her eyebrows pointedly. "Aren't you worried that it's going to undermine your professional credibility?"
"Why? Do you have a problem with my performance, Vera?" Bridget counters, regarding the other woman with her chin raised defiantly. "I mean, I like to think I'm more of a help than a hindrance to the women, but have I ever given you any reason to doubt my ability?"
Vera looks taken aback for a moment, but then she slowly shakes her head. "No, but - "
"But what? You stood back and watched Ferguson abuse her authority for over a year and didn't say a word to anyone; you watched her destroy these women in the most cruel and insidious ways possible, and now you want to take me to task for caring too much? For trying to help someone who's been through hell?"
"You know that's not the issue at hand. We're not supposed to be playing favourites, Miss Westfall, but everyone knows that Franky Doyle is your protege," Vera points out. "They think she got parole because of her relationship with you, not because she earned it, and what kind of message do you think that sends to the other women?"
"I'd hoped Franky's release would inspire the other women; encourage them to re-evaluate their own situations and strive for something better - "
"Then maybe Miss Ferguson was right about one thing. You are incredibly naive," Vera observes, but then her expression seems to soften slightly. "I'll grant your leave request on this occasion, Miss Westfall, but if I ever catch you in a compromising position with Doyle - "
"You won't," Bridget assures her, grateful that Vera can't see the beads of sweat that are trickling down her back in the wake of her unexpected interrogation.
She turns on her heel, ready to walk away with as much dignity as she can muster, but she stops in her tracks when she hears someone frantically screaming for help. It takes her a moment to recognise Sue Jenkins' hoarse voice, because it's distorted by alarm, but when the word "Franky" registers amongst Boomer's garbled cries, Bridget sets off at a dead run, leaving Vera trailing behind her.
She rounds the corner too fast, nearly colliding with the opposite wall, and her hand flies to her mouth in consternation when she sees Boomer cradling Franky's slumped form protectively in her arms. She's sat on the floor with Franky lolling listlessly against her, and even though Franky's eyes are swollen shut and her face is caked in blood, Bridget can see from the inmate's limp stance that she's unconscious. Bridget feels the bile rising in her throat as she takes in the mottled bruises that are already starting to form on Franky's exposed arms, and she feels sick to the stomach when she sees the blood oozing from the open gash on her temple. Only the sporadic rise and fall of Franky's chest stops her from losing it completely.
"I heard them saying they were going to give her a send off to remember, and I tried to get there in time...I tried," Boomer chokes out through her tears, "But it was too late."
"OK, Boomer, listen to me," Bridget says, and even though her voice is supposed to have a calming effect, she can't hide how much it's shaking, "We need to get Franky to medical, yeah? Do you think you can carry her there for me?"
Boomer nods through her tears, and Bridget resists the urge to cry out when she watches Boomer heave Franky off the floor. Boomer's clearly trying to be as gentle as possible, but Franky already looks broken beyond repair, and Bridget silently wills the other inmate not to drop her.
"Come on Franky, don't do this to me," she pleads, even though she knows her prayers are falling on deaf ears, because Franky isn't showing any signs of regaining consciousness.
"What the hell happened?" Vera asks, regarding the carnage unfolding before her with an aghast expression, "Jenkins, who did this?"
Boomer just shakes her head, and her lips remain tightly sealed as she continues to plough through the doors that Bridget hastily opens for her.
"Get out of the fucking way," Bridget practically yells at Will Jackson, who's currently the only thing standing between Franky and Nurse Atkins, and Will hastily moves aside, following them into the sick bay with a concerned expression on his face.
Boomer gingerly deposits Franky onto the bed, and Bridget moves to stand by her side almost immediately. Her fingertips are trembling as she painstakingly smooths Franky's matted hair away from her face, and her stomach roils when she realises that it's clumped together with dried blood.
"Franky? Franky, can you hear me?" she implores, and she has to force herself to move aside when Nurse Atkins reaches for a pair of scissors and starts unceremoniously cutting open Franky's blood-stained tank top. It's the first time Bridget's ever seen Franky's sculpted physique, but it wasn't supposed to be like this, and instead of admiring the inmate's toned stomach and drinking in the inviting swell of her breasts, she can barely bring herself to look at Franky's black and blue torso.
"Miss Westfall, I think it would be better for you to wait outside - " Vera starts to inform her, but Bridget shakes her head violently.
"No! If you want my resignation, Vera, you can have it, but I'm not leaving her here, not like this - so please don't ask me to," she practically begs, and she can't stop the tears from spilling over or the raw sob that escapes from her throat. It feels like the first breath she's taken in the last five minutes, and she hastily swipes at her eyes. Boomer looks at her in open-mouthed shock and Vera regards her like she's an embarrassment to her profession, but she doesn't try to forcibly evict her from the room, and right now, that's all Bridget really cares about.
"All right, Jenkins, we can take it from here. Go back to your block," Vera commands, but Boomer shakes her head resolutely.
"Nah, I'm fucking staying, too," she objects, and Bridget holds up her hand when Will moves to man-handle her out of the door.
"Boomer, Franky wouldn't want you to get in trouble, and I promise you, nothing's going to happen to her on my watch, OK? I'll make sure you're kept up to date with any developments, but you need to get out of here so Nurse Atkins has enough room to work."
Boomer hesitates, so Bridget compels her attention by laying a hand on her forearm.
"Hey," she says, willing the inmate to meet her understanding gaze, "I care about her as much as you do, OK?"
Boomer must see something in her expression, because she finally relents, moving towards the door, but then she turns around to address Franky's prostrate form.
"I'm sorry I stayed mad at you for so long, Franky," she says, like it might be the last time she gets the opportunity, and Bridget finds herself blinking back tears again.
"Those druggie bitches are gonna pay for this," Boomer adds under her breath, and Bridget's the only person who's close enough to hear her. She knows she should step in, that she should dissuade the inmate from enacting any kind of retribution, but instead she gives Boomer a curt nod. Then she turns her attention to Nurse Atkins.
"How bad is it?" she asks anxiously, and the Nurse regards her with a grim expression.
"Her pulse is a little thready and I'm worried about internal bleeding. I can't deal with her here, she's going to have to go to hospital."
"OK, Will, call an ambulance and tell them it's an emergency," Vera commands, "You can accompany Doyle to the hospital, but don't come back until you have the names of the inmates who did this to her. Understood?"
"Yes, Governor," Will says obligingly, but then he casts a conspiratorial look in Bridget's direction. "Should I take Miss Westfall with me? Doyle looks like she's been through the wringer. She could probably use a sympathetic ear when she wakes up."
Bridget doesn't really give a damn whether Vera allows her to accompany Will or not, because she intends to go to that hospital come hell or high water, but that doesn't stop her shoulders from sagging in relief when the Governor nods her approval.
"We'll continue our conversation later, Miss Westfall," she says curtly, and Bridget knows she's dangerously close to losing her job, but right now that's the least of her worries.
She reaches for Franky's hand while Nurse Atkins tends to the inmate's head wound, but her desperate grip immediately loosens when she sees how badly bruised Franky's knuckles are. They're completely raw - split open across the middle - and Franky obviously didn't go down without a fight.
"Come on, Franky, don't give up on me now," Bridget urges, stroking the inmate's wrist with her thumb, "You've got your whole life ahead of you."
"What is wrong with these women?" Nurse Atkins asks her, shaking her head in disgust. "One of their own finally makes parole, and yet they'd rather see her leave on a stretcher than walk out of here a free woman. I don't get it."
Bridget thinks back to what Vera said to her earlier, about how some of the inmates think that Franky's screwed her way to salvation, and she wonders if this is partly her fault; if Kim's jealousy and this vicious attack all boil down to her inability to maintain a professional distance.
"Franky, wake up," she whispers desperately, and for one heart-stopping second, she thinks she sees the inmate's battered eyelids start to flutter in response, but her hope quickly turns to despair when Franky's hand remains limp in her feather-light grasp.
"She's in here," Will announces, re-emerging with two paramedics in tow, and then Bridget's pushed to the side amidst the hubbub of activity that ensues. She watches the paramedics load Franky onto a mobile stretcher, and listens for any tell-tale signs of concern as they check her stats, but when Will pulls out a pair of handcuffs, poised to shackle Franky to the bed, Bridget can't quell her objections any longer.
"Will, for God's sake, she's getting out of here in a week," she reminds him. "For all intents and purposes, she's not a prisoner anymore."
Will looks genuinely contrite, but he shakes his head nevertheless.
"I'm sorry, but after what happened with Smith, we can't take any chances."
"In case you hadn't noticed, she's unconscious! She's hardly a flight risk."
"Governor's orders, Bridget," Will asserts, and his tone isn't quite as compromising anymore. "Now do you want to come with us, or not?"
The paramedics are looking back and forth between them, waiting for them to hash it out, and Bridget realises that they're wasting precious time, so she raises her hands in a momentary armistice.
"OK, fine, let's go!"
It's been a long time since Bridget has sat tearing her hair out in a hospital waiting room. She knows what it's like to watch someone she loves suffer, and the shiny floors and sterile walls are bringing back memories she would rather forget. She tries not to think about her father's turbulent battle with bowel cancer and how the hospital's maze of corridors became synonymous with watching him waste away, but making small talk with Will isn't much of a distraction and all she can do is sit here and try not to drown in her sense of impending dread.
It feels like hours before a Doctor finally approaches them, and Bridget has to clasp her hands behind her back to keep from wringing them.
"Miss Doyle took one hell of a beating," he informs them gravely. "There's a lot of soft tissue damage, but thankfully, the CAT scan didn't show any signs of serious head trauma. She has a couple of cracked ribs and a concussion, so I'd like to keep her overnight for observation, but she should make a full recovery. She's going to need a comprehensive pain management program, though, because she'll be sore for a few weeks."
Bridget can sense Will watching her, as though he's trying to glean something from her reaction, so she just nods her thanks, feeling her heart rate slow to something resembling a normal rhythm.
"She's awake now, if you want to speak with her," the Doctor adds, and Bridget breathes a sigh of relief.
"Thank you," Will says perfunctorily, and then he heads straight for Franky's room, with Bridget hot on his heels.
She tries not to gasp when she sees Franky's mangled face, which inexplicably looks even worse now that the blood has been cleaned away, but it's the remote look in the inmate's eyes that bothers her more than anything. She tries to catch Franky's gaze, which has been reduced to little more than a squint by the swelling around her eyes, but Franky won't look at her, and it takes all of Bridget's self restraint not to reach out to her.
"How are you holding up, Doyle?" Will asks her, before Bridget can even form the words, and Franky offers him a warped smile.
"Let's just say, now I know how Mr Fletcher felt after he got wiped out by that van."
"That bad, huh?" Will acknowledges with a sympathetic smile. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me who did this to you?"
Franky lets out a humourless laugh. "What do you think? Just because I'm getting out of here doesn't mean I'm going to start singing like a fucking canary."
"Franky, we can put you in protection. There won't be any reprisals," Bridget rushes to reassure her, but Franky shakes her head, wincing.
"Forget it."
Will clears his throat, gesturing to the door.
"OK, well, I'm going to let Miss Westfall try and talk some sense into you. I'll be outside if you need anything."
"You can take her with you," Franky informs him flatly, "I've got nothing to say to her."
The words cut Bridget to the core, but she knows what Franky's doing. She gestures for Will to leave the room, and then she perches on the end of the inmate's bed.
"I know you try and shut everyone out when you're hurting, Franky, but I thought we were past this," she says softly, but Franky still won't look her in the eye.
She maintains a stoic silence, and Bridget finally lets the day's events catch up with her.
"Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to see you like this?" she demands, and her voice is raw with repressed emotion. "I was so worried about you, I nearly told Vera to go and fuck herself when she tried to stop me from seeing you - " she admits, wiping away the tears that are starting to stream down her cheeks, but Franky seems completely unmoved.
"I actually believed you, when you said that it would be different this time; that I had something to look forward to," she informs Bridget, in a tone that's laced with betrayal.
"You still do," Bridget hastens to reassure her, reaching out to stroke her arm, but Franky yanks it away from her, even though the abrupt movement causes her to hiss with pain.
"I told you, Gidget. I'm not the kind of girl who gets a happy ending," she asserts, in a hollow tone that suggests she's past the point of caring. "So do me a favour, and get out."
"Franky - " Bridget pleads, and for the first time, Franky looks at her, and Bridget almost wishes that she hadn't, because she's never seen the inmate look so dead-behind-the-eyes before.
"I said, GET OUT!"
Franky rolls over with obvious difficulty, purely so she can turn away from Bridget and face the wall, and Bridget has no choice but to oblige. She ignores Will's quizzical look as she hurries past him, heading straight for the ladies' bathroom, and she slams the cubicle door shut with shaking hands, kicking it for good measure. She draws in a shuddering breath, fighting for composure, but she can't seem to rein in the emotion, and she sinks to her knees, finally giving in to the racking sobs that have been threatening to overwhelm her all afternoon.