Becoming Anne Again

Chapter Eight

A/N: Due to the content of the next few chapters, I probably won't be posting an author's note at the end. But know that I appreciate that you have read this far!

TW: Mentions of sexual abuse

Matthew bundled Anne up with an old quilt given to Matthew and Samantha the day of their wedding, used for no other purpose than to be draped over the couch as decoration. Anne didn't say anything, but her small smile was enough for Matthew, and wordlessly he went to the kitchen to make Anne some hot chocolate.

Anne knew that irritation was soon going to replace the emptiness in her, but for that moment she just felt dull. She felt as an eagle who came crashing from the sky, and tears began to run down her cheeks.

"Anne?" Matthew sat down beside her, a steaming mug of hot chocolate in one had as he smiled at her hopefully. She took it, sipping and staring into the fire.

"It's going to be a cold night, I reckon." Anne said nothing in response, just continued to be entranced by the flames. The way they licked the air above them, dancing sensuously, like girls rocking their hips. It was a dance she had seen before, and a dance she knew. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes and gulping down her drink. It was scalding hot as it burned her throat, but the pain felt so good, or at least better than the guilt inside of her.

Anne had hardly been at the green gabled house long, nor would she consider herself to be Anne of Green Gables. But somehow, even as her short lived world at Cape Cod came crashing down around her, she felt as though another bridge was breaking underneath her feet. Maybe it was time for her to throw in the towel. Hadn't she tried enough?

"Anne?" Matthew asked uneasily. The sad expression on her face was enough to wrench his heart in two, but he also had no idea what he was supposed to say to the red head. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

Another long pause, both souls instead focusing on the crackling of the fire. Outside, the howl of the wind mixed with the crash of the waves, and somewhere, Samantha was trying to smooth things over Mrs. Blythe, but Anne didn't care.

Her lips began to tremble, and shaking she stood up. "I'm sorry," she said curtly, tiny chin turned up so as not to admit complete and utter defeat.

Her body was so tired, and she felt so haggard that even if the nightmares were going to return, she couldn't keep her eyes open. She trudged up the stairs, each step heavy as she walked away from her trial and towards what seemed like her execution.

The door was closed behind her, and quickly she stripped herself of all of her clothes, standing for a moment by her window and feeling the cold encircle her, the pain like an old friend. But it wasn't good enough, so she took her little sharp piece of glass and began to retrace over old scars so blood once again began to overflow from them.

It was from that little window that Samantha could see the outline of Anne's naked body, and nothing, not the harsh wind, not the pleading face of Gilbert Blythe, not Mrs. Blythe's anger, not Mrs. Lynde's "that's what's" or "heaven knows" could tear her away from that figure. Her heart felt as though it was in her stomach, and she clenched her fists by her side. What had she been thinking? She was not Rachel Lynde. She was not Marilla Cuthbert. But somehow, she still got so wrapped up in herself that she forgot about the tiny human being who didn't know what love was.

"Samantha, are you listening? Well, of course not. Why would you be listening? It's not like I've raised six children," Mrs. Lynde sniffed, causing Samantha to roll her eyes. "Oh, I see how it is. Well, I just don't know how you're going to be able to handle her, Samantha, but if you want to wait for her to burn the house down, be my guest. I wash my hands of this whole matter."

"She threw a rock at my son's head!" Mrs. Blythe spat, no longer able to settle with Mrs. Lynde's passive aggressive nature. "He could have been hurt."

"Oh, shut up!" Samantha suddenly yelled, her eyes shut tight. Samantha didn't yell. Samantha was meek. Samantha smiled. Samantha listened. But the white noise was too much, and her eyes flashed between the other two women, who appeared as bewildered as Samantha would be if she cared. "I'm not saying Anne was right, but don't you get it?"

"What's there to get, Samantha? She's trouble, that's what," Mrs. Lynde said coldly, arms crossed over her chest in indignation.

"I can't believe I was too dumb to see it," Samantha said, the outside world no longer heard by her as her heart ached and tears fell from eyes. Her lips trembled, but with the angered voice of Mrs. Blythe, she set her jaw. "Elizabeth," she said, straightening her back, "I'm sorry for what Anne did. But she's a part of our family now. Deal with it." The curtains had been closed in Anne's room, and Samantha got a sinking feeling in her chest, which grew to pure terror. "Anne," she whispered ,breaking out into a run, her legs feeling like lead as she tried to run without abandon.

The door was slammed behind her, and she didn't even take the time to take off her coat and shoes. Instead, she ran past Matthew as began the ascent up the stairs. "Anne!" She pounded on the door, but she barely waited for a response. "Samantha," Matthew faltered, but it was to no avail. Samantha had already forced her way into the room, where Anne stared up at her, razor still raised in her right hand and blood dripping from her left.

The tears flowed freely from Samantha's eyes, and without a second thought she grabbed the razor from Anne and held the red headed girl so tight against her that it was impossible for Anne to wriggle out. Nor did she especially want to. She was uncomfortable with Samantha's wrapped around her as they were, but this act—this was supposed to be love, right?"

"Oh Anne, I am so, so sorry," Samantha faltered, stroking the back of Anne's head. Matthew dropped behind her, arms encircling both, and he dropped a kiss on Anne's head, his own face forlorn as he looked at the broken girl.

Anne sniffled, but she couldn't keep it in. The years of misery, the days of hopelessness, the nights of fear, they all bubbled to the front of her mind until they could no longer be kept inside. Her sobs were muffled against Samantha's shirt, but they were there nonetheless.

Samantha gently separated herself from Anne, brushing away Anne's tears with her forefinger as she talked. "Anne, you don't have to tell me now, but what happened to you?"

Anne didn't want to answer that question. There were other questions they should have been asking, and those were the ones she wanted to answer. "Gilbert called me carrots."

"Is that why you were upset."

"They used to call me carrots."

Anne appeared to be lost in her own world, so Samantha took the hint and only listened, not asking who they were, although she knew the answer would make her sick. So the trio all sat on Anne's bed, clinging to each other for dear life else the horrors of the outside world invade their home. And if the FBI hadn't already marched into that fatal foster home, if there hadn't been a gun that had already been pressed to her scalp, and if she hadn't already given her story to SSA James, then she wouldn't have told her story then. But it was too late for the truth to be kept inside, and Anne needed to tell her lest she burst.

"The guys who raped me. They called me carrots." 

PSA: If you have ever been abused in any way, please tell someone. You don't deserve that. It is not your fault, ever. It doesn't matter what you did or how you dressed, the only person who deserves hell is whoever did that to you. If you need to talk to someone, here's the US National Hotline http://www.thehotline.org/resources/victims-and-survivors/. 

No matter what you were told, know that you are loved, because I love you, so, so much.