I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.
I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.
Wherever You Are
The Rest of Your Life
And he would have done it too.
Daddy would have totally lost his shit and gone and done something really bad to Gary that he couldn't take back.
Something worse than the car.
Something bloody and terrible and wonderful.
And then he would have gone to prison because people got caught for stuff like that now.
Even ex-carnies who had killed before.
So she didn't tell her parents.
Save for her one mistake of going to the college authorities for help, she decided she was never going to tell anybody else either.
She would just . . . put it away.
I hate him.
He's never doing that to me again.
And nobody else is either.
She would just put him away.
I can't trust anybody.
But I'll be okay. I'll be better.
Eventually.
Eventually.
This Annabel promised herself as she watched the clock tick slowly on to midnight on New Year's Eve.
1980.
The first year of the rest of her life was one day longer than typical.
And that was about it.
Contrary to the previous year, Annabel Margaret Walker could not have been less interested in romance.
She was all about self focus, self improvement.
And sometimes . . .
"What's up, buttercup?"
"Nothin' green, jelly bean."
"Want to come hang out?"
"No. I'm good. Thanks though."
"Okay."
. . . just self.
She went to class.
Am I am an agnostic now? I don't know. I know I need an aspirin now. Huh. Made that rhyme.
She went to the Caf'.
" . . . Salisbury steak is good."
My Moms could make it better.
She went hiking.
"Did you ever just want to jump off the side and fly?"
"Okay, Ana, step away from the edge."
"I'm not gonna jump; I'm not suicidal. But haven't you ever just want to be free?"
"Okay, seriously, you're freely freakin' me out."
And she did hang out with friends.
Some.
"Hey, Annabel, there's this guy-"
"No."
"But he's-"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Well . . . can I have him?"
"Knock yourself out, Jenny."
She watched history happen.
Prison riots and earthquakes.
The U.S. went into recession. Again.
"How much for gas?! That's it! I'm selling my car!"
"You are not selling your car."
Voyager I discovered a new moon.
"Jupiter, really? Doesn't it have enough already?"
Six men tried to rig the lottery.
"What a bunch of rubes!"
"Jack, you sound like Bugs Bunny when you say that."
"So, Annabel. I see your major is English with a minor in Philosophy."
Stuffy old office. Lined with books, stacked with papers, typewriter thunked in the corner.
"Yes, Professor."
She couldn't tell if she loved it or hated it.
"And what do you plan to do with your degree?"
It was cozy and all that.
"Well, I, uh . . ."
It was just full of questions she didn't know how to answer.
And her professor, the old fart, was just trying to help, she knew.
"An industrious young lady like you would do well as a secretary."
With his balding combover.
"Many different types of companies need secretaries."
And his down the nose glasses.
"Uh, I don't want to be a secretary."
Looking over the rims at her quizzically.
"Then what do you want to be, Miss Walker?"
Waiting for a reasonable response.
I, well, I . . .
"I don't know."
Shit.
"Then why did you come to college, Miss Walker?"
No, she definitely hated it.
"I, uh, I have to go, Professor Himes."
And then because she didn't have enough obstacles in life.
"Hi, Ana."
"Hey."
There was an interested boy or two as well.
"I'm Alan. Nice to meet you."
"Mmm, you too."
But Annabel just couldn't bring herself to care yet.
The guy did though.
"Hey, Ana."
"Oh. Hey, Alan."
At least he tried.
"Nice day."
"Mmm."
"Want to go for a walk?"
"Oh. No, thanks."
"Oh. Okay. Um, want to go to the Caf'?"
"No."
"Uh, want to study together?"
"No."
"Hang out and talk?"
"No."
Baffled pause.
"Okay. Can I come by and see you later?"
"No."
"Can I call you?"
"No."
"Can I . . . write you a letter?"
"No."
"Ummm . . . okay. Well. Bye, I guess."
"Bye."
"Hey, who was that new guy you were talking to?"
"Oh. I don't know."
"He's cute!"
"I guess. I wasn't really paying attention."
"How could you not?"
"Just not interested, I guess."
She watched The Blues Brothers instead of Blue Lagoon.
Cannibal Holocaust instead of Xanadau.
And of course, . . .
"Holy crap! No way!"
. . . when she went home for summer break . . .
"He's his . . . are you seri- . . . What?!"
. . . she saw The Empire Strikes Back . . .
Hey, new arm, huh? Look at that, even looks real after they close up that little window thing.
Lucky bastard.
. . . with her father.
Afterward, walking arm in arm down the street, bellies still content with cheeseburgers, fries, and cokes, no new age tofu and fennel for the non-Colorado Walkers, Jimmy made a light observation.
"I hope they keep making these movies. I like this tradition of ours."
"Me too, Daddy."
She worked at the grocery store that summer and dutifully continued learning to sew from her . . .
"No matter your job, it always pays to be able to sew, Annabel."
"Did you know I read even soldiers in the military have to be able to sew out in the field?"
"You're kidding."
"It's true!"
. . . moms.
And all of a sudden, she would stop.
Concerned and appalled and feeling suddenly . . .
Are they getting older or is it just me?
. . . very surreal.
What am I going to do if they-
Wrapping them up sudden in a tight, not-quite-ready-to-panic hug . . .
"Annabel?"
"Darling?"
"I just love you guys. That's all."
"We love you too, darling."
"So much."
. . . before going on to her CPR class with Aunt Lucy.
She read The Stand, The Shining, and Jonathan Livingston Seagull.
She listened to Men at Work and Billy Joel and, of course . . .
". . . ashes to ashes, funk to funky . . ."
What the what?
". . . we know Major Tom's a junkie . . ."
. . . her Bowie.
The Bowie with the Eyes.
The Special Eyes.
The Eyes that were like hers.
Still, I do miss Ziggy Stardust.
Who was evolving again.
Changing.
Even with those eyes.
Eyes.
I'm not thinking about eyes right now.
Or anything else real important.
Leave me alone. It's my damn summer.
I'll be twenty soon.
Twenty.
Secretary Annabel. I can't quite see it, can you?
Little shout out to both realism and 9-5 there.
And no, David Bowie did not have heterchromia. His eye differentiation was actually a result of a fistfight that went wrong.
Crazy, huh?
Well anyway, thanks to brigid1318, midnightrebellion86, and autumnrose2010 for reviewing the previous unpleasantness.
