-ғʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀsʜᴇs🪁

Last Login:
July 5th, 2020

Gender: Female

Age: 33
Country: Australia

Signup Date:
January 22, 2018



[ This blog post is private ]

02/08/2018 07:51 PM 


I'm Sorry...
Pulling away. Withdrawing. Building walls and distance. Hateful words. Lies. They were all coping mechanisms for Franky Doyle. Coping mechanisms to keep herself safe. But this time they had been turned around. Instead of keeping herself safe, she was trying to keep someone else safe. As if that would make things better. 

But Franky had seen what could happen. What would happen if you crossed Joan Ferguson. And boy did she know she had crossed Joan Ferguson plenty. She would tear you down 

 And she didn't want to end up like Bea, nor did she want her girlfriend to end up like Allie. She would kill if someone even touched Bridget in a harmful way. And she had seen it starting already. She knew Joan knew about her and Bridget and she couldn't let Bridget get hurt because of her. 

So she had pushed. And pushed. And pushed. But to no avail. Bridget had refused to stand down. She refused to back off. She continued to schedule Franky every day and the screws made sure she went to each and every appointment. And she knew everyone was beginning to catch on, if they hadn't from her first stint at Wentworth. And so she pushed even further, testing every limit she knew Bridget had. She lied and she evaded and faked ill, anything to get out of the sessions. Anything to put Bridget at a distance. 

But then Bridget had come to her cell insisting they have a counseling session. And so she pushed again. Calling Bridget out on not believing her, even though they both knew that was a lie. Claiming she belonged behind bars, another lie. She had physically shoved Bridget away when the blonde had tried to soothe her, to comfort her. And then she had crossed a line she had never wanted too. She had been the one to hurt Bridget. She had attacked the love of her life in an act of pure desperation, desperation to keep the woman away. 

But still Bridget claimed she hadn't pushed her away. But by god, she had hurt her. And Franky could see it in her expression, in the dampness in her eyes, in the venom in her words. And boy did those words hurt. 

'You wanna hurt me, hmm? Well congratulations, Baby.'

The words bounced around Franky's head that night. She had let the tears flow when Bridget left her cell. She had slammed the door to her cell shut in frustration, not with Bridget, never with Bridget, but with herself. She hadn't meant to hurt Bridget. F uck she hadn't been thinking. She had been desperate to push Bridget away, to protect her, she had never meant to cross the line. She had never meant to yank Bridget's shirt open, never meant to grope at her as if the woman was an object. F uck, Franky hadn't meant to cross that line. She had been working on pure instinct,  but that was no excuse. 

The tears had flowed until they stopped. Until she could cry no longer. But her body continued to heave with silent and broken sobs. She had hurt Bridget. The one person who had stood by her through thick and thin. F uck from the beginning Bridget had been different. She hadn't even known Franky five minutes and she was jumping through hoops to get Vera to drop charges against Franky. And she had stuck by her side through so much more. Bridget was Franky's world and she had just hurt her world. She had done the very thing she was trying to protect the psychologist from. 

"F uck." It was a broken sob uttered as her fist made contact with the wall. She stared at the wall, the spot her first had just been. Numb. She didn't feel the pain in her fist even as she curled and uncurled her fingers time and time again. Her body was numb, but god did her heart hurt. 

'You wanna hurt me, hmm? Well congratulations, Baby.'

The words repeated again in her mind. Coming to the forefront of her riddled thoughts. She was replaying everything in her mind from the time Bridget approached her in the hallway for the very first time. Hell, she had known then that Bridget was something different, someone special. She just hadn't known the depth she would eventually fall for the woman. 

'You wanna hurt me, hmm? Well congratulations, Baby.'

The stricken look on Bridget's face flashed before closed eyes. "I'm sorry." Franky let the words out with a shuddered breath. And sorry she was. So sorry. She wanted nothing more to apologize, to pull Bridget into her arms, hold her close and assure the blonde she loved her and hadn't meant it. But she didn't even know if that would be possible anymore. She didn't know if Bridget would even let her get close enough to apologize. Her lover had said she had failed at pushing her away, but Franky wasn't so sure of that. 

'You wanna hurt me, hmm? Well congratulations, Baby.'

"Stop!" Franky shouted, the heels of her hands pressing against her closed eyes. She rubbed and tried to rid herself of the image of her lover, shirt ripped open, on the verge of tears. But the image wouldn't go away. And the words wouldn't stop repeating. 

'You wanna hurt me, hmm? Well congratulations, Baby.'

'You wanna hurt me, hmm? Well congratulations, Baby.'

'You wanna hurt me, hmm? Well congratulations, Baby.'

'You wanna hurt me, hmm? Well congratulations, Baby.'

"F uck I'm sorry, baby." She sobbed. "I'm sorry." She whispered and tears slipped from her eyes again. She had thought she was done with the tears, but it seemed she wasn't. She had royally f ucked up this time and she wasn't sure how she would fix it.

TW: Mentions of past child abuse

[Skär] A mark left by a healed wound, sore, or burn.
A lasting aftereffect of trouble, especially a lasting psychological injury resulting from suffering or trauma.
Any blemish remaining as a trace of or resulting from injury or use.

To say Franky Doyle had many scars would be an understatement. Both physical and psychological they had plagued her at one point in time.

She had the usual childhood scars; a skinned knee which she’d picked at the scab until it eventually scarred; a jagged scar up the inside of her arm from a day when she’d been climbing a tree and slipped, catching her arm on a broken branch; a few that were either from bug bites or when she’d gotten the chicken pox at age four, she didn’t remember which were which anymore.

And then she had those that told the tale of five years worth of prison fights. A scar that faded into the flaming dice on her left breast from a time she’d pissed Jacs off, and not for the first time. A scar to her abdomen from an upset user who’d deciding a shiv was the best way to get what she wanted. And of course the small little lines here and there, turned white and barely visible with time, from countless fights with Jacs or Cindy Lou or Bea or any of their crews.

But it wasn’t any of those that bothered Franky Doyle. Those had stories she could tell, stories she didn’t really care if others knew. Everyone was a child at one point. Everyone knew she was a former prisoner. It was common sense or common knowledge to be able to explain away those scars.

The scars that bothered her were those that she covered. Covered with hundreds of dollars in expensive art work. Art work that covered and hid the stories of years worth of child abuse sustained at the hands of her mother. It was almost as if she could pretend they weren’t there. As if the bumps to the skin were the work of a needle jabbing the skin hundreds of thousands of times.

She could pretend to forget, ignore the memories and scars to the best of her ability. That was until someone asked questions. And no one asked questions, because no one knew unless one could feel them. Surely Bridget knew. Bridget would have known even before she’d ever touched Franky, even before Franky opened up about what she’d been through as a child. Bridget had seen her file. But Bridget never asked and for that Franky was thankful.

So she would continue pretending they weren’t there, until one day while watching a movie with Tessa (Secret Life of Pets, it was her favorite, the four year old finding it hilarious that her sister was going to marry someone named after a dog). Franky paid Tessa no mind as the toddler traced one of her tiny fingers over the tattoos gracing her left arm. She paid her no mind until little fingers stilled over the star on her forearm. Blue eyes turned to the younger brunette as the tiny version of herself looked up with a quick ‘What’s that?’ Blurted from her mouth as she prodded at a scar hidden behind black and red ink. Franky pulled her arm away gently, folding both arms over her middle. ‘Nothin, watch your show.’ Was her simple reply,

Tessa happily turning her attention back to the movie playing on the television, forgetting quickly about the patch of scars there that Franky knew matched the much larger patch that spread from ribs past her hips. Tessa didn’t know and didn’t understand, nor did Franky ever want her too. Her sister was too innocent and Franky would do whatever was needed to keep her that way. Tessa didn’t deserve to know the horrors of the life Franky had lived.

Tessa didn’t need to know that there were possibly a hundred more scars just like that one hidden behind the pink and brown ink that scaled her left side in the form of cherry blossoms. The ones on her forearm were a miss on her mother’s part. Franky’d tried to fight her mother off at ten or eleven years old, but the cigarette had simply burned into the flesh of her arm rather than the skin of her side. Franky hadn’t been bluffing when she told her father she remembered exactly the way it felt to have one’s skin melted away under the burning tip of a ciggy, or the way flesh smelt as it burned. Those exact remembrances were what flashed to mind when Tessa asked. ‘Want an ice lolly, Tess?’ She had asked in an attempt distract herself from the thoughts running through her mind, her walls momentarily broken. Franky got up even before her sister mumbled her agreement amongst giggles as something apparently funny happened on the screen.

Franky stood in the kitchen, hands pressed into the edge of the counter, arms straight out, as she watched Tessa in the living room. With the scent of burned flesh still dancing around her mind, she thought to herself that she was happy her baby sister would never have to go through what she did. And God help the person that even thought about hurting the tiny brunette, for there was nothing more precious to Franky Doyle than those that were close to her, than the few people she trusted and loved with her whole heart. 

Francesca 'Franky' Doyle
Something I thought of during my rewatch of Wentworth, always with the character deve-lopment with me. 


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***.

Francesca "Franky" Doyle.

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