I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.
I do own gray hair. Which is better than not growing any hair, right? ;)
And Baby Makes Four
When You're Not Looking
He hadn't really been paying much attention.
He'd been too busy.
Work.
Home.
Trying to be a good husband.
Trying to be a good father.
Busy, busy, busy.
He did look at himself.
He did see himself.
He just didn't notice.
Not really. Not anymore.
He just wasn't that important to consider deeply.
But now . . .
Son of a bitch.
He couldn't turn away.
He couldn't unsee it.
And he couldn't pretend that he hadn't seen it in the first place.
"Bette? Dot?"
He didn't yell.
Not exactly.
He just . . . called.
Eyes wide.
Face slanted, expression disbelieving.
The girls arrived a moment later.
His beautiful, loving wives.
With their slightly lined faces and their graying hair.
Shared body only a little thickened by the slow march of time.
Identical in physicality but individual in nature.
And he loved them so.
He needed them so.
Especially in times of duress.
Such as this.
And they were there.
Dot smiling, Bette worried.
"Yes, Jimmy?"
"Everything okay?"
No, everything is not damn okay.
"What the hell happened?" he asked them dumbfoundedly.
They shared puzzled expressions.
"What do you mean?"
"What is it?"
And he just stared.
Couldn't they see it?
Didn't they notice?
Maybe he had gone crazy and was making the whole thing up.
I mean, it is a little blurrier than I remember.
So it could be that.
Or maybe they knew, had known all along and had been deliberately lying to him this entire time.
He shook his head in bewilderment.
"I'm old!"
His wives stood together, a still life picture of innocence and unassuming deception.
"Did you know about this?" he questioned urgently. "Why didn't you say anything?"
Dot's expression softened as Bette spoke gently.
"Say anything about what, darling?"
Jimmy gestured a hook toward the mirror into which he had been staring in abject horror.
"This! Me! I've got . . . gray hair and . . . wrinkles and . . ."
He trailed off, lost again in himself.
Then he stood up straight again, gesturing to his midsection, covered by a slightly aging white sleeveless undershirt.
"And I'm fat!" he spat out, wondering where his flat, lean stomach had run off to. "I mean, what the hell?"
He knew underneath his shiny, metal prosthetics were wrinkled, old stumps of flesh where his lower forearms had once met the upper flesh of his lobster-handed wrists.
Those stumps that sometimes ached on rainy days, sometimes burned and itched if he wore his hands too long.
Those stumps that on very rare occasion cried out that there were still hands, still fingers, still muscles and sinews and veins and nerves below them.
Those stumps he knew had withered over the years. He stared at them everyday, if only for a long second.
Missing his real, working, living lobster hands.
Strong and sure and freakish and real.
And then he'd move on with his day, accepting his life, focusing on the positive.
Looking on the sunny side, as he had once been fond of admonishing his fellow freaks to do.
So he knew the aging of his stumps.
But the rest . . .
"Dot? Bette?"
Their darling husband was looking at them piteously, as if someone had salted his sugar.
Oh Sister, I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
What has he done every time we've had one of our patented breakdowns, Bette?
You're right, Dot.
And so they went to him.
One hand each reaching up to gently stroke his darling, handsome face.
"It's not as bad as you think it is, Jimmy . . ."
". . . you're just as handsome as ever to us . . .
". . . you're just more . . . mature and experienced now . . ."
". . . we're so grateful you're here with us . . ."
". . . and happy and healthy . . ."
". . . so what's a few wrinkles matter?"
"Or a few gray hairs?"
"Or a few pounds?"
"We're together."
"We're raising a beautiful, bright, completely darling daughter together . . ."
". . . and we love you so much."
They gazed at him with their love and adoration pouring out of their two sets of dark, glittering eyes.
Fingers gently stroking the morning scruff at his face.
"You love us as we are . . ."
". . . and we love you as you are . . ."
". . . alright?"
Jimmy had visibly relaxed as they had spoken, worriedness leaving his dark eyes just a little.
Breath sighing down just a little.
Tension ebbing away just a little.
And now he smiled.
Just a little.
"Alright. If you say so."
Bette nodded reassuringly.
"We do."
Dot concurred.
"Yes, we do."
They sealed their assurances with a kiss.
Several.
Because they . . .
. . . love him so much.
Yes. So much.
Jimmy calmed down a little after that.
He wasn't really fat, not really.
Only a few pounds and the softening of his midsection brought on by the absence of manual, back breaking labor of the freakshow.
He did stop filling his plate quite so much at supper.
Bought a pair of eyeglasses at the pharmacy for what little reading he did do.
Eyeballed the hair color commercials on TV a little more.
And the nightcream commercials.
But ultimately, save for eschewing seconds of the lasagna, he continued on quite happily as he was.
Because, in the end, forty-eight was still better than being dead.
And he wouldn't miss it for the world.
Honestly, I'm not forty-eight. Not yet.
But I am getting to the point where I look in the mirror and go, 'hold the freakin' phone, what the hell is that?!'
Haha.
Anyway, that's okay too because as I have always said, it's much better than being dead. ;)
So, bit of a shorter chapter here because we're about to get into some dark and heavy teenage angst that's gonna last awhile so I thought we could have slightly unimportant, somewhat comedic middle-aged angst to amuse us before the shit starts really hitting the fan.
But it's actually for a reason. And I know where we're going.
So, trust me.
Oh, and if you don't like it, speak up, okay?
Of course, you're most than welcome to speak up if you like it too. ;)
Thanks to brigid1318, autumnrose2010, and midnightrebellion for your encouraging reviews!
