Becoming Anne Again

Chapter Seventy-Seven

A/N Hello my loves! This was a harder chapter to write for me, but a necessary one nonetheless. 

Trigger Warning: Suicidal Ideations

Present Day

Anne didn't go to the hospital. She watched as the ambulance drove away, the harsh lights of the sirens bathing her in red. It seemed like her entire body, her entire soul had been dyed red—red hair, red splattered hands, red lights, red, red, red...everything was red. She decided there wasn't a color that she hated more, that was more demonic than red.

She gave some sort of statement when the police arrived—in truth, she couldn't quite remember what she had said. Everything was blurring together, and words escaped her as soon as they left her mouth. She wasn't even sure if she was coherent, but they left her alone as they went to interview the others. Anne crumpled to the floor, her hands trembling as she pressed her forehead against the heels of her hands. Her head dipped low, until she was completely curled in on herself. Her breath became haggard, until it felt like she was breathing half-time—when her lungs began to burn, she had to force herself to accept air, and the cycle would repeat itself.

For a moment, she was caught up in remembering previous blood-bathed dreams—was it possible that was what this was? Nothing but a nightmare? But despite the fact that the nightmares from the night and waking hours often merged together, she nonetheless knew the difference. She was awake, even if her soul was wretching itself out of her body to escape this miserable existence.

She tried to steady her breathing, intentionally counting the seconds, one, two, three, breathe in, four, five, six, hold, seven, eight, nine, breath out, ten, eleven, twelve...

Just breathe.

But then it was like she couldn't get enough air, and she was gasping for breath.

Somewhere, it registered that Matthew had struggled to sit beside her, that he had wrapped his arms around her, that he was trying to get her to breathe normally, but it was still nothing more than background noise.

Anne had known for a long time she was perceptive, but in that moment, there was something more.

She remembered the feeling a few times before. The earth would still, and the inhabitants of that house would all look at each other, their heartbeats becoming one, for one last moment. The sisterhood was together once more, and then one of them was gone. They could feel it, when one more soul was claimed victim, when they were one weaker than they had been.

When the queue for them all was just a little bit shorter.

In that moment, there was no one for Anne to look too, no one else in the room whose heart was melded to the other. The moment went unheeded to the residents of Cape Cod, to the raven haired girl and the freckle faced boy—even the fatherless son had no knowledge of the darkness that descended over the earth.

Anne did.

And then Anne felt everything. And everything hurt.

The way the salty air seemed to dig into her skin and in her eyes, the cacophony of smells that suddenly overwhelmed her, the feel of her screams as they climbed up her throat. She felt such immense agony that it hurt, every cell suddenly screaming in pain, every wound reopening. Every phantom knife that had ever penetrated her skin pierced her again, and she found herself falling forward.