Becoming Anne Again

Chapter Fifty-One

A/N Hello loves! This week, I'm going to be posting a separate author's note on abuse, because after several conversations, I really feel that I need to say say some things in conjunction with the themes of this book. As always, I'm incredibly grateful for you all, and incredibly grateful for all of the comments you leave. I love reading them! On to the chapter ;) 

True to Ms. Keller's word, despite Anne's grades, she stayed in the play. Which was part of what fueled the nasty rumors—although Anne seem to be drawn to rumors the way moths were drawn to a flame.

Prissy Andrews had been the star of every musical since she started Cape Cod Middle School. Before that, she had drifted in and out of the spotlight, dedicated to her craft, or at least as dedicated as an elementary schooler could be. She had been the lead in every skit and the leader in every theater project. And then all of a sudden, Anne Shirley comes to Cape Cod—whose dance experience was limited to the recent few dance classes and whose music experience came from public school extra-curriculars—comes in and snaps up the star role. To the kids on the playground, that was as good as "beyond a reasonable doubt." But, more than anyone, it was good enough for Josie Pye.

It was the final week before the musical, or "hell week", as Anne learned to call it. The stage, the set, the props, the costumes, the blocking, the lighting, the music, the elocution—everything had to be able to come together, and come together fast. And with Billy Andrews still slipping over his lines, Gilbert not quite able to properly dance with Anne in the finale, and the chorale still continuously off tune, it was as if they were in fact getting worse.

Anne felt like a taut string continuingly being pulled tighter by opposing forces, than let go, taut, then slack, then taut, then slack. She felt nothing, she felt all of the anxiety in the world, she felt numb, it was as if she was burning alive, she needed pain to even realize she was in fact still living, the worth of her entire existence edged on this performance. Back and forth, back and forth. Her own performance became shaky—sometimes she was off beat, sometimes she gave too much, sometimes it was as if she wasn't even there—worse than just a middle schooler tripping over her lines, she was an eerie apparition not reminiscent of Belle at all but of some ghoul that had sucked all of the soul out of Anne. In conclusion, hell week was the worst.

And to add insult to injury, Anne seemed to be constantly near Diana—whenever she was instructed to walk or dance back by the chorus, she was always so close to Diana. Sometimes their hands would brush, and in fact, in one part of the choreography, they did clutch hands. She was so close, yet so far away, and her resolve to stay away from Diana, to let Diana shine, was breaking a little more with every rehearsal.

On Wednesday, Anne felt like she was going to die. She was slouched forward on the cafeteria table, waiting for various Gaston scenes to be blocked, before having to go on again, wanting nothing more than to sleep for hours and hours.

"Hey Anne." Josie Pye slid onto the bench next to Anne, resting her elbows on the table.

Anne should have known. If she had any energy at all, she had half a mind to pummel Josie Pye, just because she could. But she didn't have any energy, so she just scowled, her fists clenched, her head still buried in her arms.

"Okay, whatever," Josie grumbled, shifting in her seat—although surprisingly not making a move to get up. "Listen, I know you don't like me—and I really don't like you, so it's like, whatever. But Prissy deserves better. I mean, musicals are her thing. Are you really so awful that you would steal someone's thing?"

"If you don't shut up I'm going to steal your tongue," Anne snarled, face still buried, because raising her head meant acknowledging Josie Pye and that was not something she was prepared to do.

"Oh my god, you're such a loser," Josie said, her voice raised dramatically. "Of course, I knew the whole time. I don't know how you've blinded Gilbert, but—"

And that was it, Anne's head whipped up, and with a hard shove, Josie landed flat on her bottom. "Oh my god, what are you doing? You're some psycho!"

"Stop saying his name!"

"Who's? Gilbert? Gilbert Blythe, Gilbert Blythe, Gilbert Blythe!"

"You were just obsessed with him, and you're upset because he doesn't hang out with scum like you!" Anne hissed cruelly, and somewhere, deep within her, it was as if something was cackling.

Was it something else, some other entity sharing her body, or perhaps some memory, some past trauma that was casting a new shadow on the sequence of events?

Or had it been just her all along?

Was she Anne, or was she Emily?

Josie Pye asked none of these questions, and truthfully, Anne was too consumed in herself to consider those questions at that moment. Instead, Josie Pye just jumped, fists clenched. "You're the scum you...you...slut!"

Anne lunged for her, but, due to Providence or fate, her hip caught on the corner of the table, digging into her skin and causing her to lurch forward instead of properly attacking. She ungracefully plopped onto the bench, which of course caused a mirthful glee to appear in Josie's eyes. But before Anne could properly make Josie Pye regret the day she was born, there was Ms. Keller's voice.

"Anne, we need you back, sweetheart."

"We're not finished," Anne hissed under her breath.

"No, we're not. Saturday, 12 o'clock. In front of the pole."

"10 o'clock, in front of the cove." If there was one thing Anne knew about negotiations, it was never to let them get the last word.

"Fine. Whatever. Be there."

"Trust me, I will," Anne said. Ever since she was ten years old, she had never walked away from a fight—ever since she found she couldn't walk away.

Anne felt like a foreigner on stage as they continued working. This wasn't her world, or at least that's what the sneaking voice in the back of her head told her. But maybe it was just because her body was already turning rigid, her mind already preparing itself for kill or be killed.

Maybe this was what it felt like to snap.

Perhaps, if Gilbert hadn't been so worried over the dance steps, he would have known. And perhaps, if Charlie hadn't been too busy cheering up Diana, he would have known. And perhaps, if Diana hadn't been so overwhelmed with Anne, if Matthew hadn't left for work so early, if Samantha hadn't been so focused on making sure everyone was on time for everything, that breakfast was on the table, that the house was clean—maybe she would have known.

But none of them knew except Anne, and she wasn't going to admit to herself she was spiraling.

What she decided to tell herself what that she was finally coming home.

A/N I know this chapter is short, but the next one will be longer.  

Does Anne seem like she's out of character in this chapter? It was important that she experience something of a relapse, and this kind of outburst can be apart of PTSD and depression. As always, I love to hear your thoughts! Love you all!