Anticipation by Rebecca Rusnak WRITE ME: rrusnak@Lconn.com DISCLAIMER: Not mine, except for the narrator. She's mine, but I'm not so sure I want her. SPOILERS: None. CLASSIFICATION: A for angst. Story? Vignette? You decide. RATING: Let's say a strong PG-13 SUMMARY: I've been watching you for a long time... **** Your voice, when you answer the phone, is as sexy as I'd imagined. I grip the phone hard, get a grip on myself. I tell you I have been abducted by aliens, that I stole some of their technology, and that I would bring it to you, but I cannot leave the house with it, the sunlight destroyed the one item I took outside. Now all I have left is one piece, and I desperately want you to see it. Will you meet with me? I ask. You say, Yes, of course, and in a tremulous voice I ask if this is an open line, if anyone can hear us. And you say the words that doom you. No, you say, no one is around. My partner hasn't come in yet. Exultant, I arrange a meeting at what you think is my house. It won't take long, I say. You can be back by lunch time. Please don't tell anyone, don't use my name, I am afraid *they* will come find me. No one will find you, you reassure me. I hope not, I say, and it's too bad you can't see the grin on my face as I say it. **** You pull in front of the house at the appointed time, driving a nondescript blue car. I am standing in the driveway, and I clutch the short strap of my purse in both hands, its bulk bouncing against my knees as I walk toward your car. I wear sunglasses and a hat, a shapeless flowered dress. You get out of the car, but I say, No, this isn't my house. You frown at me, but get back into the car. I don't live too far from here, I say. Why did you lie? you ask. I was scared, I say. I didn't want anybody to see us. I wasn't followed, you say, and I am proud of you. Of course you would think to check. I direct you to my home, a ranch-style house looking like all the others on the block. I make you park in back. It is mid-morning; everyone is either in school or at work. Nobody sees us exit the car and enter the house. I didn't know who else to turn to, I say as I unlock the back door. I've seen you on TV, and I thought you could... Where is it? you ask. Your eyes are bright with excitement, although you keep your face expressionless. In the bedroom, I say. Won't you have some iced tea? You are torn. But you were raised to be polite, and the psychologist in you wants to put me at ease, so you sit down at my kitchen table. You smile as I pour you a glass of iced tea, finishing up the pitcher. You sip from your glass as I pour myself a drink from a brand-new pitcher. You ask me about myself. About my abduction experiences. About the technology I stole from their ship. Your voice is soft, your questions leading, your eyes expectant. This is why you came here, and so I do not disappoint you. I repeat my rehearsed story, and by the time I reach the end, you are reluctantly asleep, your head resting on the table, your half-finished glass of tea beside you. **** For someone so thin, you are very heavy, and I have a hard time dragging you into my spare bedroom. I pull out your handcuffs and stare at them, turning them this way and that, watching the light glint off them. I wonder how many people you have arrested, how many people you have killed, and I shiver with excitement. It is too hard to lift you onto my bed, so I settle for propping you against it in a sitting position and cuffing your hands to the bedpost behind you. I stare at you, drinking you in. In sleep, your lips part slightly, the lines of your face soften; you could be a little boy who tried to stay up all night Christmas Eve, waiting for Santa. I can be Santa. I have lots of gifts for you. I take off your tie, your shoes and socks, your suit jacket, although I have to cut it to get it off. I unbutton the cuffs of your shirt, and the top button at your throat, giving you a rumpled look that I just adore. I reach up and ruffle your hair, turn your head so you face the other direction. Even asleep, you make a delightful toy, and I smile with pleasure. **** When you wake up you will be angry with me, however, and you will try to escape me. And I can't let you do that. I can't ever let you leave now. I lay your dark tie across your lips, mesmerized as your rhythmic breathing puffs the fabric in and out. Reluctantly I push the material between your jaws and tie the ends behind your head. Later you and I will talk of many things, but for now I must keep you quiet. I have neighbors to watch out for. I stand up and pad into the kitchen. You didn't notice I've pulled up all the carpet, did you? I worried that you might, but I see I was right about you. Your eagerness for my story blinded you to your surroundings. The butcher knife has a nice heft in my hand, and I walk back into the bedroom. Already you are starting to wake up. Your eyelids flutter open, giving me a tantalizingly brief glimpse of gold-on-green, then fall closed again. A small sound escapes you. I drop to my knees before you. I hate to do this, but I can't let you leave. Just remember: This hurts me more than it hurts you. You scream as I sink the knife into the sole of your foot. Your eyes open and you bolt upright as I work it in deeper, pulling it forward. The handcuffs around the bedpost jerk you up short, and you double over as much as you can. I pull the knife out and cut your other foot the same way, ignoring your cries. I wish you would stop squirming; you're making this harder than it has to be. I just can't have you trying to walk out of here, is all. Really. It's that simple. There is a lot of blood, and I stand up before I can get my dress too dirty. You slump back against the bed and watch me leave, your eyes dark with shock and pain. I come back with a bowl of water and some gauze. I clean you up as best I can, and bandage your wounds. The only medical knowlege I have comes from watching TV, but it seems to work good enough. I sit back on my heels and watch you when I am done. Your head is thrown back, your eyes are closed, tears of pain streak your cheeks. I'm sorry, I say. But I had to do that. I can't have you leaving me. You open your eyes and stare at me. I cannot read your thoughts, and I frown. I don't like you hiding things from me. You swallow hard and try to control your breathing. Your eyes drift down, glancing at the bloody bandages around your feet, then you look back up at me. But that's all over with, I say. No more hurting. I smile. I reach for the knife and say, Now it's time for us to have fun. **** END Questions, comments, curses? Write me, at rrusnak@Lconn.com **************** "I have traveled the paths of desire Gathering flowers and carrying fire." --October Project, "Paths of Desire"