The smell of bacon wafted through the house, waking a young brunette up. Small feet kicked a blanket off and swung over the side of the bed, hitting soft carpet. Those same small feet padded quickly to the bedroom door in which the petite child opened and hurried out. 

“Daddy! You’re cooking without me!” Huffed the small girl as she hustled into the kitchen. 

“I’m sorry, kiddo. You just looked so peaceful sleeping, I wanted to surprise you. I’m making scones, you wanna help?” Her father asked, moving to set the buttermilk on the counter. 

A grin spread over the girl’s face as she bounded over to her father’s side. “‘Course I wanna help!” 

Moments later the child was kneeling on the counter, reaching for the flour as her father pulled the rest of the bacon from the frying pan only to replace the meat with eggs. A small smirk spread across the eight-year old’s face as she turned to sit her bottom on the counter. Before her father could react, she had dipped her hand into the flour, gathering a small handful and tossing it at her father’s backside. She burst into a bought of giggles as she slid from the counter and hurried away, the container of flour forgotten on the counter. 

“Francesca, would you sh…” But the sound of her mother’s voice was replaced by a strange blaring noise, causing the girl to pause halfway down the hallway.

The sound of a blaring alarm roused the brunette from her dreams. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, trying to remember what her dream had been about. It took a moment before a frown spread across her features, bits of the subconscious created dream being pulled to the surface. 

“F*** him.” She muttered, reaching over to slap the beeping alarm. It had been thirteen years since the twenty-three year old had seen her father. Thirteen years since Alan Doyle had walked out of her life leaving her, a defenseless ten year old, with the bitch that was her mother. Her mother had been bad before Alan had left, but at least she’d had her dad to protect her. She had waited up too many nights waiting on a man who obviously no longer cared, now she no longer cared. 

“Oy, Doyle! Cameras rolling in forty-five. Ya better be up and getting ready.” Came a woman’s voice through the closed and locked door to the room she slept in. 

Franky rolled her eyes. Pennisi was growing on her nerves by the day. She wondered why she’d even tried out for the show, having no other answer than something in her subconscious told her to. “Shut it, would ya, I’m up!” She yelled back, sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the single bed she slept in. 

——————

Hours later found her fuming with anger and hatred. Pennisi had torn her a new one. She wasn’t classically training, she didn’t have any training other than those few years with her father whens he was a child and then having to learn to fend for herself. She knew how to cook, her dishes were great and she knew that. But she’d mispronounced a stupid technique. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. She told herself. But as if her own self-berating wasn’t bad enough, Mike had torn into her. She knew he was lying, she knew her dish was fabulous, but he’d spat it out. 

She’d been dismissed without a second glance from the television chef. Moving back to stand among the others, she only fumed further. Her anger turning from herself to the man who’d only made things worse for her. Or at least in her own self-sabotaging mind. 

She didn’t even recognize her own hand as it reached for the pan of oil she’d previously been using, didn’t recognize her voice as she uttered ‘hey mike’, didn’t recognize her hand as it threw the pan of boiling oil at the object of her anger. 

Franky stood motionless, staring at the man as he screamed, feeling not a single shred of remorse. He’d shat on her just like her mother. She didn’t care in that moment if he lived or died, she just knew suddenly she felt minimally better. She may not be able to gain revenge on her mother for the abuse she’d put her through, but by god she’d ensure no one ever shat on her like her mum did again. 

—————

As she sat in the back of the police car not long later, she found herself staring out the window, still a shell of emotionlessness. The thought of her father crossed her mind only for a second, a simple wonder if he’ll care now crossing her mind. 

“F***!” She snapped, kicking the back of the seat in front of her. F***, why did her mind do that to her? Her father was just as much of an arse as her mother, abandoning her without a second glance. Why should she care what the f*** he thought? She didn’t. That’s what she told herself. She didn’t give one single f*** about her father and what he thought. Or the man on his way to the hospital with severe burns. Or her mother. Or the foster brother at sixteen. Or the foster father at twelve. Or anyone else who’d ever hurt her. They could all burn for all she gave a f***.