The Saturdays Drabbles

the notorious

ᴀᴜ ғᴀɴғɪᴄ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛ: The Saturdays become an infamous gang more properly titled The Notorious once they are changed by life in prison.

   In 2007, a promising girl band was conquering the world by storm in their mile-high stilettos and killer vocals. Part of their success was purely their talent, the other half won by their charm and charisma. Very young and ambitious, the world couldn’t get enough of their lives, and they fed them right out of their hands.

   So early in their lives, no strings attached, free and wild and bursting with energy, they seemed to have met a premature prime. They brought in money with rakes, girls styled themselves after the same fashion and appearance, and men drooled at the latest pictures the press fought over to publish. Yet, if they had been any older, or any less popular, their downfall would not have been so traumatic and so consequential.

   Without abandon, they fell into the wrong crowd. At first, it was private. Experimenting with the wrong substances and interacting with the wrong people. Then, little by little, it leaked out to their kingdom, shocking their populace and infecting the media. In an effort for redemption, they scrambled for the right management, and so desperate to find the right one to reclaim their throne, they sunk deeper and signed with the worst company.

   In 2010, The Saturdays were arrested, charged, and sentenced life in prison.

     ~*~*~*~

   "Bloody hell,” Frankie grumbled under her breath, sitting at the metal lunch table and setting her gaudy red plastic tray down with a snap. Vanessa didn’t even start at the noise, picking at her stale eggs with a plastic spork. “Couldn’t they just hand out those little boxes of cereal? Why do they have to put effort into our breakfasts if it still turns out shitty?”

   "Good morning, Frankie,” Vanessa deadpanned, stabbing a bit of her eggs. She fixed Frankie with a deadpan stare, the latter returning it. “Have a good night’s rest?”

   "Like sleeping on a bed of roses,” Frankie hummed sarcastically. She looked down the table, at another gaggle of girls she caught glancing her way. Instead of looking away herself, she held her gaze steady, an even expression on her face but with malice in her dark eyes. Even without seeing her, one of the girls whimpered and picked up her tray, scurrying away. Returning to Vanessa with a weary sigh, “Where are the others?”

   "Here!”

   From beside them, Mollie bounced over, taking a large bite out of a Snickers candy bar. Out of all the original Saturdays, she remained the least unaffected by their unjustified imprisonment. Tailing, Rochelle and Una rounded the table and sat themselves, Una with a bag of Lay’s chips and Rochelle with a Gatorade.

   Looking at their snacks, Frankie dropped her spork, mouth gaping. “Well, where’d you get that?”

   "New credits today, Frank,” Una replied evenly, her Irish accent the least bit changed. She popped a crisp into her mouth for effect.

   "Oh, and no one bothered to tell me as I sit here eating dung?” She gestured at said food.

   "Don’t look at me,” Vanessa retorted, still playing with her eggs. “I wasn’t aware. If you’re so bothered, go buy something yourself.”

   "Tossers,” Frankie muttered, standing and seizing the tray with one hand. She brushed shoulders with Mollie, who still stood at the end of their table, as she passed for the trash cans. Dumping her hardly touched contents, she threw the tray on top of the container and stormed off down the barren, cracked stone hallways for where the prisoner’s store they could buy necessities from, time to time, was located. Her leather boots slapped the floor as she walked, laces untied and untucked, and her horribly orange pants sat low on her hips, the pants shoved unceremoniously into the collar of her shoes. By her choice, she bought a simple leather jacket that she never failed to leave her little cubicle of a room without, and it flared open as she strode past all the other inmates, no longer caring about the few choice lesbians who blatantly stared at her chest where she had torn the v-neck collar to reveal a little more skin. Hey, she didn’t get to perform on stage anymore, wearing hot-ass outfits that displayed the body she worked for, so she had to make do with what she was given.

   Approaching the store, several women caught sight of the most volatile of the Saturdays and backed away, allowing her to progess up the line. When she saw she wasn’t going to get any further, she scoffed and leaned back against the wall, kicking a foot up and inspecting her nails. After several minutes, the queue had finally traveled enough for her to peek inside the glass-contained store room that housed any and all necessities as well as oddities that the inmates could want, so long as they saved their credits. With how much The Saturdays still had banked outside of their new prison life that— lawfully— no one could touch, they were given a limit for the entirety of the girls, and those credits were spent fast.

   However, upon a quick perusual of the store room while a couple more girls in front of her were buying, Frankie scoffed again, this time out of anger. With a fierce shove, she knocked all three girls that remained in front of her out of the way of the speaker to communicate with the nurse that also manned the prison store.

   "What the fuck happened to all the food?” Frankie demanded, darkened eyes still scanning the empty shelves. She could hear the dismissed girls swearing and grumbling under their breath, but it was all the same to Frankie now, and so long as they didn’t lay a finger on her, she couldn’t give a rat’s ass about their existence.

   "Ms. Sandford,” the nurse tried reasoning, all to accustomed to this particular prisoner’s behavior.

   "Don’t 'Ms. Sandford' me,” Frankie snapped, fixing her glare on the woman behind the little counter. “I’m fucking tired of the shit they call breakfast here and new credits were just transferred. I want a fucking Poptart!”

   "Ms. Sandford,” the nurse addressed calmly, blinking slowly. She probably hated working here as much as Frankie hated being here. “The store hasn’t been restocked. The delivery trucks are behind schedule.”

   "Oh, that’s bullocks,” Frankie spat. Finding no more use here, she turned. Her glare swept across the women that had been watching her dramatics, and the majority of them cast their eyes down. With a growl in the back of her throat, she stormed her way back to the cafeteria, easily finding their group sectioned from the rest of the room and prisoners.

   "Have you already eaten?” Rochelle asked as Frankie threw herself down on the seat, back against the table and elbows propping her up on the edge.

   "No,” Frankie replied, scoping the room. Now she was hungry and they weren’t allowed seconds. Who could she torment today for their breakfast?

   "Want a bite?” Mollie offered from behind. Over her shoulder, Frankie glanced at Mollie eating what seemed like the same Snickers.

   "How many did you buy?” Frankie questioned, twisting in her seat. At the exact moment, a looming figure shadowed her, and she looked up to the usual Officer Bailey that had taken a liking to making her life a living hell. As if prison wasn’t that already.

   "Are you planning on sitting here correctly?” Officer Bailey sneered, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Or do you need room for your dick?”

   "Watch it,” Frankie retorted, eerily calm now. “I was just getting ready for the right moment I could pop in from behind you.” She winked.

   "Sit the right way or I’m taking your ass out of here,” Officer Bailey warned, losing the ill-humor.

   "Please do,” Frankie quipped, swinging her legs over to sit correctly on the bench. But it seemed she had gotten under Officer Bailey’s skin earlier in the day than usual because she was suddenly torn from her seat by the scruff of her jacket, Officer Bailey picking the girl up easily. He set her on her feet haphazardly before shoving her in the middle of her back, urging her to leave out the opposite doors she had gone for the store, which meant he wanted her out in the yard.

   "Go bake yourself in the sun since you can’t get baked anymore,” Officer Bailey said, shoving her again to get her moving.

   With a malicious smile, she looked over her shoulder as she sauntered out of the cafeteria, with all eyes on her, and replied, “You would know all about the struggle of that, wouldn’t you, Bailey?” Adjusting her jacket by the lapels, she left the cafeteria.