Becoming Anne Again

Chapter Seventy-Three

A/N So it's been awhile, and I apologize for that. I'm going to try and tentatively set a schedule for every other Friday, because I think things are finally settled down. In the meantime, here's a short chapter. I hope you are all doing well!

Warning: depictions of abuse/torture. Summary will be provided at the end if this is triggering!

Two and a Half Years Earlier

Anne crouched beneath the bannister, her legs shaking from the exertion, but she was so afraid to alert anyone that she didn't even dare drop to her knees. Instead, her fingers clutched onto the wooden railing, so tight that she was beginning to lose feeling in her fingertips.

In the kitchen, just in her line of eyesight, she could see the back of Emily Lyn and the leering face of Russell O'Keafe. Emily's hands snaked up around his neck, standing on her tip toes to reach him. At fourteen and a half, she had just barely reached her full height, but even that was not enough to match Mr. O'Keafe's towering figure of 6'4. If he just looked Anne's way, she would find herself shrinking, and even though he didn't know she was there, she found her heart pounding in her chest. Still, she found she couldn't flee, even if she could find it in her to move a muscle. Her eyes were glued to the scene playing out in front of her.

"Thank you," Emily said, lips pursed as she looked up at him. "I'm so glad I pleased you." The words caused a bitterness to gather in Anne's gut, twisting in on itself as her mind screamed wrong.

Russell O'Keafe's smile softened, although Anne could still see the predator in him. "You're welcome, darling," he said, his voice utterly grating against Anne's ears. Wrong. "I really do appreciate the work you've done for us—helping out with the younger girls."

"I'd do anything for you," she replied, her words becoming breathy in her supposed adoration. Anne didn't know if Mr. O'Keafe bought it—based on his pleased expression, it would appear he did—but Anne herself knew better. Whether it was a result of child-like clarity or practiced perception she didn't know, nor did she have the means of even being able to unravel her own self in a personal philosophy that was beyond even her. Anne wondered if Emily was always the sadistic liar, or if she was like Tinisha—she just adapted to survive.

Anne wondered if she would one day be like Emily.

She was torn away from her thoughts as Emily stood on her tip toes to passionately kiss the older man, clutching him by his collar while his own hands wandered to less innocent places. If Anne wasn't so frozen, she would have run her hands over the places he had touched on her too—she would have had to run the length of her entire body.

Emily whispered something in his ear, that villainous grin spreading over her face.

"Of course, sweetheart. You can take care of it."

It. What Anne had needed to know, why she had been spying on them—to figure out what would happen to the two girls who had tried to run.

She saw Emily reach for a metal rod, and Anne's heart dropped.

In the adjoining living room, a woodfire was already crackling in the fireplace, the homey sound strangely out of place in the O'Keafe house. But then Emily started whistling—Anne didn't know the song, didn't want to know, only knew that it made her want to puke—and strode into the room, right past Anne.

Anne closed her eyes, evening her breathing. What did Tinisha say?

Don't move. Be still. People are attracted by movement. Stop breathing if you have to, just don't give them a reason to look at you.

She held her breath, her muscles contracting as she forced herself not to tremble. She was invisible, nothing more than another ghost of the house. She wondered briefly why the thought that she would come back to haunt the house flickered across her mind.

Emily stuck the rod into the fire, and Anne's heart stopped completely. For a moment, Emily's fingers danced across the heated rod, a slight sizzle from the movement. She never stopped whistling. It reminded Anne of another thing Tinisha said—They don't feel pain the same way we do. You can't just hurt them, you have to take them out.

Emily did grab a glove before fully grasping the rod, its peak a bright orange and blending in to a flaming red just as the fire itself had run up the rod. Anne needed to get out.

Be still. Don't breathe. But she had to breathe, her lungs were burning and dots were appearing front of her eyes. She took a deep breath, the faintest sound escaping her.

It didn't escape Emily.

"Carrots," she said, loudly enough for Mr. O'Keafe to jerk up, his heavy footsteps echoing behind her, Anne being too afraid to actually turn around to face him.

"What did we tell you about spying?" He said gruffly. "Look at me, girl!" He grasped her chin, and she cried out as he forcibly snapped her neck up. Her eyes filled with tears, which he regarded with a sick joy.

"You want to join them?" Emily said, her voice sickeningly sweet as she walked up to Anne. She held the rod out, closer and closer to Anne's face until she felt the heat radiating onto her skin. If she moved at all, her cheek would be pressed up against that orange, the circle branding itself onto her like cattle—

"Step back, Emily," Mr. O'Keafe said, and Anne let out a breath of relief even as Emily scowled. "I think it will be good for you to see what happens to disobedient little girls. Come on," he said, jerking her up and dragging Anne behind him as he walked upstairs to the locked room where all the bad little girls went.

Anne wanted to scream, but the sound was caught in her throat.

The door creaked open, revealing two naked girls, their cheeks puffed up from the gag tied so tightly it embedded itself into their skin. It was a macabre sight, but Anne tried focusing on it nonetheless—it was a lot better than seeing the way they were trembling uncontrollably or the utter, paralyzing fear in their eyes.

There were a lot of things in the O'Keafe house she wouldn't remember, the trauma twisting her memories, sometimes in relief and sometimes in torment. But she would always remember that day. Mr. O'Keafe held her against his body, one hand around her mouth and the other around her neck, just tight enough to make her breathing shallow.

Emily winked at her, her hips swaying, for Mr. O'Keafe's benefit no doubt, and then drove the rod down onto the girl's bare skin—over and over and over, sizzling against their skin, their screams muffled but yet Anne felt like she could hear them, like she could feel them in their bones, the intensity embedding itself into her soul. Over, and over, and over—

Emily didn't stop grinning, not even when the girls slumped over, appearing almost dead.

She was a monster, and Anne didn't know if it was who she was, or if the house made monsters out of all of them. 

A/N I know I've said this a thousand times, but if you have ever experienced abuse, please know that you are not alone. You are loved, and there are so many people who want to help you! There is a way out. I love you and am praying for you!

Summary: This chapter takes place two and a half years earlier, with Anne in the O'Keafe house. She tries to spy on Emily and Mr. O'Keafe, who appear to be having a torrid affair. She is caught, and is forced to watch as Emily tortures two girls who tried to run.