Anticipation II: You Can't Always Get What You Want by Rebecca Rusnak DISCLAIMERS: She's back! One narrator for sale... SPOILERS: None RATING: PG-13 CLASSIFICATION: SA SUMMARY: No, you can't leave me! NOTES: This is a sequel to my short story, Anticipation, and that story should be read in order to understand this one. Please see more complete notes at story's end. E-MAIL: rrusnak@Lconn.com **** 33 Hours after Anticipation ends... **** Dinner is the most important meal of the day, I say as I bustle about the kitchen. I wave a sauce-covered fork at you. I know they say breakfast is, but take my word for it. It's really dinner. You say nothing, but your unblinking gaze follows me around the kitchen. I drain the pasta, stir the sauce, cut the garlic bread. You stare at the knife with large eyes, but you remain quiet. I approve of this. At first you talked constantly; then you just screamed. Either way, I didn't like all the noise. I much prefer your silence. Ta-da! I say, putting dinner on the table with a flourish. I say grace, thanking God for you, for the wonderful gift that you are. I eat heartily, enjoying the fruits of my labors. You pick listlessly at your meal with your free hand. The other is cuffed to the chair back behind you, but I got a little carried away during one of our games, and you can't use it anyway. Aren't you hungry? I ask. You glance at the food, then up at me. I wait for your reply, wanting you to answer me, my patience shrinking rapidly as the moment stretches out. Some toys have a string you can pull to make them talk. It's much more difficult with you. **** Halfway through dinner, the doorbell rings. You look up, and wild hope fills your eyes. Quickly, before you can move, I pull your other hand behind you and pinion it to the chair. I stuff a damp dishtowel in your mouth and point a stern finger at you. Not a sound, I say. Or you'll make me very angry. You shudder. Already you know this is not a good thing. Already you do your best to please me, to make me happy. A young woman is at my door. She wears pastels that clash horribly with her red hair, and enough perfume to make me sneeze. She smiles at me brightly. Good evening, she says. My name is Diana Lipsky, and I'm your local Avon representative. She waves a perfectly manicured hand to the tote bag at her feet. May I interest you-- She stops, startled, as glass shatters in my kitchen. I'm sorry, I say. My cat-- The Avon lady nods understandingly. I had a dog that did the same thing once, she says. Perhaps some other time? Sure, I say, then close the door, just as you yell out. **** I stalk back to the kitchen, my fists clenched. You sit in your chair, a puddle of milk spreading at your feet, the remains of the glass scattered across the linoleum. The dishtowel I had forced in your mouth is on the floor, slowly soaking up the white liquid there. Your eyes are locked on mine. You are afraid. I smile sweetly. What was that all about? I ask in my gentlest voice. Your fear grows, and you lick your lips. Listen to me, you say. You can't keep me here. Someone will find out-- Sure, I snap. Because of *you*. I bend down and retrieve the biggest shard of glass from the floor, being careful not to cut myself. What did I tell you, I say warningly. Didn't I tell you to keep quiet? Please, you say. In vain, you pull back, the handcuffs around your wrists jingling against the wooden chair. Terror darkens your eyes. A lock of blood-stiffened hair falls over your forehead, and small sounds escape you. I smile delightedly. Truly you are a wonderful toy. How did I ever survive without you? **** Later, I clean up in the kitchen. The milk makes my dishrag smell, but the blood is harder to get up without staining. You are quiet now, no more moans from the bedroom, but I can still hear your ragged breathing, so I know you are awake. I smile fondly. Silly boy. You can't fool me. Time for some after-dinner entertainment. I choose a carving knife, and walk towards the bedroom. I am nearly there when my front door bursts open, followed a second later by my back door. Black-garbed people flood my hallways. Guns come up, and are aimed at me. That red-haired Avon lady leads the charge. Mulder! she screams, and from in the bedroom, you cry out once, a wordless wail. She runs down the hall following the sound of your voice. Men scream at me to Get down! to Drop it! to Put your hands behind your head! Scully, you cry weakly, and the red-haired woman looks at me briefly. Her blue eyes are aflame, her tiny jaw set. She means to take you away from me. In fury, I turn and hurl the knife at her. She ducks, and it sails harmlessly over her head, burying itself in the wall behind her. And I am suddenly flung backwards, slammed into the wall. I hang there for a moment, then slump downwards onto the floor. Now it is my own blood that pools on the floor. I close my eyes as they read me my rights. I will be dead soon, anyway. At least I can die with the knowledge that I had you. Even if it was just for a short time, I had you, and you were mine. I don't think either of us will ever forget that. **** END Author's Notes: I struggled long and hard over whether or not to write this, let alone post it. My feedback for the original Anticipation was evenly divided between those who were on bended knee begging for a sequel, versus those who did not seem to want one. However... I must admit that while writing Anticipation, I always held, in the back of my mind, the knowledge that in the end, things would be all right. I even felt guilty for posting the story without once hinting to the readers that a happy ending was the final result, even if I didn't actually write it. With the sequel rattling around in my head, I finally felt compelled to write it, and now, to post it. I would love to hear your thoughts on this. Has posting this sequel been a good thing? Would you have preferred it if I hadn't? You can reach me at: rrusnak@Lconn.com **************** "I have traveled the paths of desire Gathering flowers and carrying fire." --October Project, "Paths of Desire"