Becoming Anne Again

Chapter Fifty-Nine

A/N So why do I even bother having a schedule? I'll go back to adhering to it at some point, but right now I'm about in tears over a research paper I have to write and I need to do something that feels productive. Anyway, love you all and hope you enjoy this chapter!

Everything was black—abysmally black, she would have said in former days. Her hands pressed against the concrete wall, moistness seeping under her skin. The jagged edges of the concrete dug into her, but still she pressed against the wall, the pain, even the blood keeping her grounded. She took a deep breath, then another. She would not panic. They wanted her to panic—and Emily's sneer still echoed in her mind, "If you scream too much, you'll run out of air, and then you'll suffocate. Then we can finally put your body to use." She didn't want to know what that meant.

She hadn't gotten a good look at her surroundings before the voice had mocked, "I hope you're not afraid of the dark," and the storm cellar doors had clanged shut behind her. But she wouldn't panic, she wouldn't run out of air, she wouldn't scream—she was just going to keep walking the perimeter. She had to forcibly keep her breathing steady, because her heart was beating out of its chest, but she just pressed her lips together, flared her nostrils, and ground her fingers against the wall. Good. Pain. That was familiar.

One, two, three. She counted her steps, intentionally putting one foot in front of the other, counting out in the most precise measurements she could manage. Four, five, six, seven, eight.

On the ninth step, her fingertips brushed against something cold and rusty. She took a deep breath again, the pads of her fingertips shredding as she pressed them harder still into the wall. It was the iron anchor that held the chains in place. She knew, if she knelt down, she could follow the chains to the iron cuffs, that had snapped around her wrists. Below that anchor, another anchor, leading to matching cuffs for ankles. She did not kneel down, but only shuffled her feet, still counting while carefully not tripping over the chains. Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. There. Her fingers met a corner, and she nudged her foot forward to tap the adjacent wall. So there it was. She pivoted, her fingers never leaving the wall, and started again. One, two, three.

Something ran across her knuckles, and her mouth opened to scream. She clamped her left hand against her mouth, biting into her skin to contain herself. In horror, her hand was ripped from the wall, and she madly brushed at her skin. Steady. Breathe. It was just a spider. Still, her hand trembled as she reached out to the wall again, finding the cool stickiness of her own blood. Four, five, six.

Her foot nudges against something soft, and she felt like her heart had fallen out of her stomach. She couldn't hold it in anymore, every part of her started trembling uncontrollably. Control yourself. Don't panic, if you panic, they win, don't panic, don't panic, don't panic...

"Hello?" She choked out, slowly kneeling down, but then collapsing as her legs gave out from under her. "Hello?"

She reached out, her hand met with cold, clammy flesh. But no answer. "Hey, hey, I'm here," Anne said, voice still trembling as she ran her hand down the tiny arm, fingers running over the cuffs securely attached. She stopped, for a moment at the wrist.

No pulse.

Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic...

But there was an emotion welling up inside her that was so far removed from panic. She should move on, she should be cold—kids died, it happened. But then she thought about the girls who had walked into the O'Keafe's arms to never be let go, to be forgotten, and then she thought about how she was destined to be one of those girls, wasn't she?