Chapter Text
Blessed be the fruit
May the lord open
Bridget had never seen such a shade of green before in her life. She’d known forest green from her numerous hikes during childhood with her father. She’d memorized the deep shade of the leaves as they trudged down warn pathways deeper and deeper into the woods. She’d seen the seafoam green of the oceanview she passed each day on her way to school seated in the second row of her school bus. She’d always made sure to switch sides so she could see the long stretch of rippling tides. She remembered the army green of her father’s uniform as she hugged him tightly before leaving on his next deployment. But none of those colors could compare to the shade of green she found herself lost in.
What color was it? Emerald? Olive even? The hue haunted her dreams at night. She found herself waking up in a cold sweat with those green eyes burned into the back of her own eyelids. She found herself wanting to see them more and more as time continued on. She craved to see them rise from their continuous position cast downward on the floor. Internally she begged to lift them upwards from a delicate touch under the chin. The only time she got to see them up close was as they stared up blankly at the ceiling with her head in her lap...and with a man between her legs. But as much as she longed to see them staring back at her own eyes, she knew that if she were to be met with them directly, she’d be burned alive by their heat. Behind the beautiful green lay a burning fire. Bridget wanted to be consumed by those smoldering eyes. Her heart hurt to sit by and watch the flames grow smaller and smaller, but it hurt even more to know that she was the reason.
Ofderek had arrived at the Channing household after a tumultuous stay with the Stewarts. Mr. Channing was desperate for another toy to play with while his wife was just desperate for a child of her own. Franky was unable to give either of them what they wanted. She left in the back of an escort car with her minimal belongings and an imprint of a red hand painted across her cheek. She’d been grateful for their Martha, a pair of eyes to watch over her. She had hoped that by being removed from the home would bring her peace. In another life she would have prayed for mercy, but she didn’t pray anymore, not when it was clear that no one was listening to her pleas.
When she’d arrived at her new lodging, she first marveled at the size. The home was twice maybe even three times the size of her former residence. Creeping up the sides of the home were long stretches of green vines. She silently wondered how strong they were. If they’d be able to hold her weight as she crawled out a window in the dead of night. She shook her head with a small scoff, as if she’d get further than the end of the block before being caught like a fish on a hook. She’d never make it to her sweet girl. No, instead she would bid her time and search the schools of children for her as they passed on the way to the market. Ofderek would find her first and then they’d make their escape North. But not until her girl was nestled safely back in her arms.
Once she made her way up the drive, she waited at the entryway with her head bowed low and her hands clasped for her new patrons to greet her. She had gotten used to waiting for people in this new life. Everything happened on their time. It was one of the only ways to gain power when the very thing they wanted was laying inside of her abdomen. She’d been resorted to a womb; a functioning one was worth more than any amount of gold that remained in the world. She kept this fact buried inside her heart. She held the key to their happiness. So if making her wait for their arrival gave them the illusion of control, she’d let them have it. For now.
Waiting there already was their Martha, dressed plainly with a bandana tied over her curly white-blonde locks. She smiled kindly trying to sooth the anxiety from the new Handmaid of their home. Already she looked healthier than their former charge, a healthy olive toned glow on her cheeks. Silently they waited together for close to thirty minutes for the heads of the house to meet them. Never once did the women in red falter. She continued to stand stoically staring at the varnished wood floors.
Finally, the pair had arrived dressed impeccably as ever. Bridget’s blue dress matched her eyes almost perfectly and it contrasted nicely with her delicate blonde waves.
“Blessed be,” Derek Channing spoke to the statue.
“May the lord open,” came the cannon reply. Finally the Handmaid’s eyes flickered upwards to meet theirs and Bridget’s breath was pulled from her lungs. Her eyes were so beautiful, trapped beneath the anguish she was trying to mask.
“What’s your name?”
“It was Ofstewart,” she whispered softly. If her former self could see her now, meek and compliant, she would have laughed and swore loudly. Too many cattle prods from Aunt Joan had stripped her clean of her old ways.
The couple exchanged a glance at the admission of her name. Franky knew that there were no secrets in Gilead. Hopefully her former household didn’t desecrate their opinion of her right from the very beginning.
“We are Mr. and Mrs. Channing. Now you shall be referred to as Ofderek,”
“Yes, sir.”
“My wife will show you to your quarters.”
“This way,” the blonde led her into the vast home. She showed her the essentials of the main level; the kitchen and service entrance. “This is Liz. She will be the one preparing your shopping lists for the day.” Ofderek nodded silently to the short woman.
She then continued to show her upstairs and paused briefly at the second level.
“This is my husband and my floor. You are not allowed on it unless it is for the ceremony or we have given you permission.” Either side of the hallway contained several closed and, no doubt, locked doors.
“Yes, ma’am,” she whispered. As if I’d want to be near either of you, she pretended to roll her eyes in her head. These people were so full of themselves.
The two continued upward to the highest level of the home that only contained two doors; one to the left and one at the very end of the hall. The woman in blue walked over and opened the door on the left.
“Bathroom,” she motioned inside for her new ward to inspect. I’ve seen a fucking bathroom before, lady. She stepped closer and peaked inside. Bridget then walked to the end of the hallway and opened her quarters. The Handmaid followed her into the space and looked around its bare bones. It had all of the essentials. Pressed against one wall was a bed, slightly larger than the one at her last placement. The added length would be long enough for her tall form. She wouldn’t have to sleep with her legs pulled up to her chest any longer. There was a small dresser along the other side of the room. No doubt her belongings were already tucked safely inside. The white undergarments still made her feel like a child. They were nothing like the wild prints she had to leave behind. The petite blonde then moved to open the closet where her red robes were stored.
“Is there anything else you need?” How about a gun?
“No, thank you,” she responded instead.
“Alright, I’ll leave you to get settled.” Bridget stepped towards the door before pausing on the threshold. “We’re happy you are here. We’ve wanted a child since I can remember.” She wasn’t sure what possessed her to say the words aloud. Perhaps she was trying to make the young woman feel more at ease in the current situation. No matter how much time passed, Bridget still felt terrible for the women with whom she shared her home. By some grace of god above she was able to avoid the same fate. And to think, she used to consider her malfunctioning ovaries as a negative when in actuality that had been what saved her. She wondered what kind of psychological support the women were receiving, if any at all. What kind of lasting trauma were they being put through all for the so-called greater good? It helped if she refused to think about it. Never in her life had she feigned ignorance. Until now. It was absolutely true what they said; Ignorance is bliss.
“I’m happy to be here,” she lied. Ofderek was certain that she’d never be happy again.
“You will try won’t you? It’s just that our last Handmaid, she…she conceived and then...” Bridget whispered, emotion causing her voice to crack. They were so close only to have her dreams ripped away.
The Handmaid lowered her head again, her wings covering her face entirely while she gave herself time to breathe. Kimmy, she remembered. They’d known each other in a former life. They’d met in a bar and tumbled into bed with laughter bubbling out from their chests. She hid that bit of herself deep inside of her head and in the back of her mind. She knew what the fate of Gender Traitors was. She’d seen them strung up like Christmas lights on the bridge. She stamped her true feelings down in the well of her chest never letting it see the light of day. Not with so much to lose. Kimmy had been charged with murder of the unborn child and then executed in front of her sisters in red. Ofderek vowed never to meet the same fate. She would do everything they asked of her no matter how much her mind screamed for her not to. She would survive.
“I will try my best,” she promised, pulling her eyes up to make contact with their blue counterparts.
“Thank you,” Bridget smiled briefly before exiting the room and closing the door behind her.
Franky finally released the breath that she had been holding. She removed her wings and her bonnet, unpinning her long brunette locks from their confines. She disrobed and revealed her hidden tattooed flesh. She remembered how Aunt Joan had looked at her with such disgust for the designs inked permanently onto her skin. It was the only thing she had left of her true self. She hung her clothes and climbed under the bed linens. She pulled down the white slip covering her chest to see the cursive ink etched just over the heart in her chest. She closed her eyes and began to whisper the same repeated lines
“My daughter’s name is Tess Doyle, and she is five years old.” Will she even remember me? Franky wondered as she stroked the name on her chest with the pad of her thumb. When she closed her eyes she could still see her face so clearly. She could see her rosy cheeks and big smile that took up nearly all of her round little face. She longed to cup those pudgy cheeks in her hands again. She longed to kiss her forehead and brush her dark tangled hair. She held tightly to the good memories, and not the ones of her ear piercing screams as her baby was ripped from her arms. She clung to the way her sweet little voice would call her momma, not the fear painted tone as she watched her mother beaten into submission. She fought back the tears from falling. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
She then pulled up her camisole and turned her sights to the tattoo along her ribcage.
Illegitimi non carborundum
“My name is Franky Doyle, I am thirty-five years old,” she continued with her speech. “And I will not let these bastards will not grind me down. I will survive.”