I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.
I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.
Wherever You Are
High Life and High Emotions
Sarasota . . . was . . . awesome.
There was tons of shopping.
You know, for music and stuff.
And restaurants, usually the high-end, expensive kind that they just sort walked past.
The beaches were free. If you could, like, find a spot.
And some suntan oil.
There were art galleries and museums.
A botanical garden and an aquarium.
There was a state park and playground parks.
And mansion tours and ballgames.
There were walking trails and horse riding trails.
There was insane traffic and yuppies and leftover hippies.
And people just wanting to par-tay.
And even homeless on the street.
"Will work for food."
Those poor people.
Which was not awesome.
And no Ma-Da and no Ma-Ba and no Daddy.
Which was . . .
"Hey. I wonder if we could get Moms to make, oh, uh-"
"What?"
"Oh. Uh, nothing. Want to have . . . mac and cheese for supper tonight?"
"Sure. I think we got a box."
Ugh. Powder. Moms use real cheese.
. . . fine.
We lived on our own in Color-, in coll- before. I even lived alone by myself in my little shoebox and everything.
But what they hadn't done in the before time, what Annabel had been planning to do in the before time, was . . .
"Hey, Jimmy, time to go to the potty."
"No. Play."
. . . raise their own damn child.
"But you're going to have an-"
Oh.
Okay then.
"Come on, kid. Let's change you and give you a bath."
All. The. Time.
"No. Play."
"No, bath."
"No, play."
"Play in the bath."
". . . Okay."
Which was fine.
It was good.
"Eat your carrots, please."
"No. Ice ceam."
"Ice cream isn't supper."
"Ice ceam."
People did it all the time.
And Annabel wasn't a bad mother.
"Time for bed."
"No. Play."
And Patrick was a great father.
"Come on, let's pick out a bedtime book."
"Mmm . . . okay."
She, they, she could fairly judge, just weren't used to doing it all . . .
"Okay, who wants scrambled eggs?"
"Fop farts!"
. . . by themselves.
"No, scrambled eggs. Pop tarts aren't good for you all the time."
But it was good, it was fine.
It was . . .
"Fop farts!"
. . . growing experience.
And Annabel Margaret Walker Anderson . . .
"Is he asleep?"
"Um, yeah."
"So we're watching Smurfs for us now?"
"Yeah. The remote's way over there."
"Oh. Okay."
"Sorry."
"No. So, this is pretty awesome, huh?"
"Yeah. It actually is."
"I love you, Patrick."
"I love you, Annabel."
"We love you, Jimmy."
"Snore."
"Okay then."
Their rented house was pretty much standard.
Not quite a thousand square feet.
Eight hundred maybe.
Two bed . . .
"Jimmy, baby, don't you want to go sleep in your own bed?"
"No. Stay with Mommy."
. . . one bath . . .
"Jimmy, paper towels do not go in the potty."
"Frog."
"What?"
. . . galley kitchen . . .
"Okay, Jimmy, where'd you put your milk cup?"
"Gabbage."
"What?"
. . . dining nook . . .
"More mashed potatoes, Jimmy?"
"No. Fop farts."
"Jimmy-"
"Fop farts!"
. . . and living room.
"Hey, uh, Jimmy's gonna wake up from his nap soon-"
"I know. But he's in our bed and I'm not doing it in his room. The bathroom's just gross and the kitchen's too small!"
And it was not all that different, they figured.
Scruffy Sam the Sublime seemed to like it alright.
"Hey, poochie, you okay?"
Tail wag.
Where they were, he was.
Wagging up on ten years, they thought, and only slightly sleeping more . . .
"Scuffy Sam want to go outside?"
"Whine."
. . . than before.
"Maybe later. It's raining."
"Want to go outside!"
"Jimmy-"
They had talked about it before they'd moved.
". . . couple of weeks, just 'til we get settled."
"If you think so."
"Yeah, I mean, it'll help with the transition and all. Especially for Little Ji- I mean, Jimmy."
"Oh."
It was her idea.
She was already hired, starting training next week.
"Okay. If you say so."
"I do."
And they would be moving to a new house, a new town, an hour away from what they had known for nearly three years.
So it really kind of was . . .
"Okay. Cool."
. . . a good idea.
"-'s going to stay home with The Baby for a few weeks while we adjust to life. And find a babysitter."
Who the hell is going to be a babysitter for them?
Us! We were! And we were doing just fine, thank you!
Now some . . . outsider?! Somebody who doesn't even know him?! Love him?!
Someone who doesn't even understand him?!
A stranger?! I don't feel well.
He's just a baby!
And he was doing so well with us! I feel sick.
We all were doing well! Until she decided to move!
Don't remind me!
"Well, sounds like you have it all worked out then."
"Patrick will be wonderful at home with The Baby, we're sure."
At least they have that.
But for how long?!
Until they hand him over to some . . . some . . . stranger!
I expected better from Patrick!
"Are you saying I wasn't?"
"Of course not, darling."
Oh, who cares about her feelings?!
"We just meant-"
She obviously doesn't care about ours! She's taking our grandson away!
"-since he's the one that going to be staying home-"
"-he will be good at it."
Little brat. We raised a little brat girl.
And we're still doing it!
"Oh. Okay. Cool."
Please. It is most certainly not cool.
Especially in this heat.
And it did go well when they moved.
"Okay, gotta go! Be back around two?"
"Okay. Love you."
"Love you too. 'Bye, Jimmy!"
"'Bye, Ma!"
At first.
"Hey, how was your day?"
"Great! We made pancakes for breakfast. Jimmy helped. And then, well, we cleaned up after the pancakes . . . anyway, we took Sam to the park and he went on the slide with Jimmy-"
"Whine."
"-ack and ate some peanut butter crackers before nap."
"Cool."
"Then we read some books and colored."
"Oh, cool."
"Whine."
"We also threw the crayons."
"We?"
"Jimmy."
"Whine."
"Okay. I threw some too."
"Whine."
"Okay, alot. But we cleaned it up."
"Whine."
"Mostly."
"Cool. What's for supper?"
"Sloppy Joes and fries. Oh and a side salad."
"Cool."
Really well, in fact.
"Hey, how was your . . . day?"
"Ma!"
"Hey, Jimmy! Whatcha got on you, baby?"
"Paint!"
"Heyyy, Annabel!"
"Patrick! What happened to . . . what in the . . . what's on your legs?"
"Paint."
"Why?"
"Jimmy painted me."
"I can see that. You look like the Jolly Green Giant."
Smoother than ever before actually.
"Hey, how's my boys?"
"Hey, Ma!"
"Hey, Annabel."
The house was cleaner than ever.
"Hey, Patrick, where's my clothes I threw in the washer last night?"
"Cleaned and hung up."
"Oh. Thank you."
Food was on the table every night.
"What's for dinner?"
"Chicken a la King."
"Wow. I'm impressed."
"It's just chicken and vegetables and biscuits and gravy."
"I know. It's still cool."
"Thank you."
And Patrick and The Baby seemed to be getting along really well.
"Jimmy, want to sing the ABCs to Mommy?"
"A, B, E, D . . ."
"Well, we're working on it."
"Patrick, how long have my mothers been writing to you?"
Patrick looked up.
Annabel held up the letter . . .
Dear Patrick,
. . . she had found on the dresser.
We were so glad to see you Sunday.
Not exactly accusing.
Little Jimmy is growing like a weed.
But a little confused.
It is clear and evident . . .
And slightly, well, she didn't want to admit what else she slightly was.
. . . that you and Annabel are caring for him so well.
Because, . . .
We're so proud of the two of you for being such good and loving . . .
. . . well, . . .
. . . parents to him.
. . . I thought they only wrote to me.
"Since we moved."
I'm their kid.
"Is that alright?"
Not you.
Then she realized how . . .
You're their son-in-law.
. . . awful that sounded.
"Yeah."
Would sound aloud.
"I mean . . . yeah."
And how hurtful it would be to her orphan husband.
"It's totally cool."
And she decided . . .
"I just can't believe they have so much to say."
. . . to stop being such a bitch about it.
"Oh yeah. They definitely do."
"Dear Bette and Dot . . ."
Oh, Sister-
I just love that he writes us back.
"This week is going well."
Annabel never writes us back.
"Little Jimmy thinks he's too big for naps now."
You'd think she had broken hands or something.
"So I've been running him at the park in the mornings . . ."
She's just so . . . forward all the time.
". . . and now he's decided he actually readily still likes them."
Never slowing down.
"He likes to pile his blankets and pillows . . ."
She loves us though.
". . . on top of his head . . ."
Of course she does.
". . . and sing himself to sleep."
This boy, on the other hand-
"I worry he'll suffocate."
Oh, this precious boy-
"But Annabel said he was a little . . ."
I do love him so.
". . . whack-a-mole . . ."
Oh yes. So much.
". . . and even though I'm not sure what she means, . . ."
What should we write him in our next letters?
". . . I guess he'll be fine."
Let's give him our peach cobbler recipe.
Yes!
So Patrick's living his best life, huh? ;)
And I hope you all are living yours, whatever they may be.
Thanks to brigid1318 and midnightrebellion86! You are always such kind and supportive reviewers. I really appreciate that. And Fop Farts? My four year old. XD