TW: attempted sexual assault by a family member. I have put a note in bold before and after the section in case anyone wants to skip it.

I debated removing this section entirely but decided to keep it to show that in real life abuse often worsens and abusers never stop or change. In this scene, Melissa realises that her fear and anger are most useful in protecting her when she acknowledges these feelings and responds to them with action. This scene also sets up some groundwork for Anna's story. That said, I want to approach the themes and experiences in this story with respect and I am open to feedback on my execution of this scene or its inclusion at all.

As always, thank you for reading and please take care of yourselves heading into this chapter.

Chapter Eleven

Apple Pie

-o-

Anna claimed that summer was not the season for pie, but she still placed the grocery bags onto the kitchen counter with a big smile. Melissa eyed the bags nervously, standing in the corner of the kitchen. She didn't cook very much, and she wasn't very good at it.

"It's like science," Anna said. "You like science."

"I like biology."

"Flour comes from a plant," she said, emptying the grocery bags onto the counter. "So does sugar."

Melissa smiled. Maybe, in a way, her sister was right.

They finished emptying the bags, then set about retrieving bowls and dishes and utensils to mix and fold and make. Anna, who used to make cinnamon pies when they were younger, set to work on the crust. Melissa tried to help but only succeeded in spilling flour over the counter. She flinched.

Anna gave her an easy smile, and spread out the mess over the workbench with one hand. She repurposed it, made her mistake into something useful. "We can roll out the dough here."

And Melissa, as she used to when she was smaller, watched from afar. She stood with one foot on top of the other, leaning against the counter. Her sister rolled the pie crust out flat.

"What was our mother like?"

The question startled both of them. Anna's hands stilled and Melissa's eyes widened. Their mother was like a curse in their house, someone they weren't supposed to talk about. But to Melissa, who was blamed for her death, it seemed strange that she wasn't allowed to know anything about the woman she killed. Meanwhile Anna, who was older at the time, was cruelly expected to pretend her mother never existed.

After a long pause, her sister continued rolling out the crust. She checked the size of it against the pie dish.

"She had freckles like you," she said slowly, "all over her face and arms. We went to the beach once when I was little, and I found one of those spotted shells. I remember thinking it reminded me of her."

Melissa smiled.

Anna, happy with the pie crust, got to work on making the filling. "She liked plants, I think. We went to the nursery a lot, but she only ever grew herbs." She looked up and pointed over at the window by the kitchen table. "She kept them there. Mint and some others. I don't really remember."

Anna handed her a knife. Melissa started peeling apples.

"When she told me I was going to be a sister, I was so happy I was going to have a friend," she said. "She was the best mother. I was even happier that you would have her too."

"I'm sorry," Melissa whispered.

Her sister looked at her, frowning. "For what?"

"Taking her."

"You didn't take her, Mel. Sometimes women don't survive childbirth. That doesn't mean it's your fault."

Melissa nodded. Her chin wobbled, and she tried not to cry. She knew her sister was right, but that didn't mean it was easy to believe all the time.

Anna smiled at her sadly, then bumped her with her hip. "Hey, you know that she picked your name?"

"Did she?"

She nodded. "Melissa. It means bee. She said you always kept her busy, buzzing away in the kitchen, making apple pie."

Her lips stretched into a faint smile.

-o-

Once they finished making the filling, and the pie was in the oven, and the dishes were all washed, the two girls snuck upstairs. Anna stood outside of their father's door, one hand on the doorknob.

"Do you want to see her?"

Melissa frowned.

"Our mother," she clarified.

Melissa bit her lip, unsure. She wanted to know what her mother looked like, to give a face to a woman she had only ever heard about, but at the same time if they were caught in their father's room he would not be pleased.

Anna seemed to sense her uncertainty. "Wait here," she said, then slipped into his bedroom.

Melissa held her breath until she returned, then heaved a sigh. Anna came out into the hall with a picture frame in one hand, which she held out to Melissa.

She stared down at the blurry image of the three people standing in the grass outside of the current Westbrook house.

"It's from the day we moved, I think," Anna said.

Melissa nodded, and studied the picture.

Her father was obvious, the only man in the picture, standing off to the side. Beside him was a pregnant woman in a flowery dress, her belly swollen, her face peppered with freckles like kisses. She grinned at the camera, one hand on her stomach and the other on a small girl's head. Anna stood at her feet, arms wrapped around her mother's legs, mouth open as she was caught in the middle of a laugh. Her hair was tied back into one neat plait, fastened off with a red ribbon.

"You look so happy in this," Melissa said.

"I wasn't," she told her. "It was when he just started to change."

Anna took the picture back, and returned it to their father's room.

Melissa realised she was wrong about something she hadn't even known she believed to be true. Somewhere, deep down, she always thought she was responsible for the state of affairs in her family. That she had killed their mother, and that was the reason their father was the way he was. Melissa was to blame for all of it, and she was the reason she and Anna suffered. She had thought that if she was good enough, maybe she could reverse the damage her birth caused.

But that wasn't true.

Her father wasn't cruel because of her. He wasn't cruel because his wife died. He wasn't cruel because Melissa wasn't good enough.

He was cruel because he wasn't good enough. It was not Melissa who was lacking but her father, and it always had been.

-o-

Melissa and Anna stood in the kitchen, facing each other and balancing on one leg each. A plate of apple pie laid flat on each of their palms, and they ate their slices between comments about the crust and the filling and the sweet smell wafting through the house.

"It tastes like hers," Anna said. "The way I remember, at least."

Melissa grinned and ate another forkful. The pie warmed her mouth, her chest, her stomach. She felt closer, in a way, to a woman she had never known. Could picture her, freckled and gentle, sitting at the table and watching them.

They used to eat cinnamon pie like this, like two flamingos standing in the small green kitchen. They would mimic the food critics and chefs on television, commenting on the delectable aroma and the beautiful texture and the tender pastry. Then they would fall into a fit of giggles, because neither girl really knew what any of it actually meant. But now, older, they understood.

The apple pie they baked was special, not because of its pastry or aroma or texture, but because it brought three women closer, and there was nothing more powerful a dessert could do than that.

But the second they heard the front door open, their joy evaporated. They froze, looking at each other with wide eyes. Was it so late already? Was he already home?

Truthfully, the girls had no plan as to what to do. They didn't think about what would happen when their father came home and found them eating apple pie in his kitchen, an outlawed dish. They were too caught up in the joy of a summer's day, in a sudden hope not quite based in reality. It was the thought that they could escape their lives, leave them permanently to enjoy another very different existence. It was stupid and they knew it was when they thought of it, but they didn't want to admit it. Didn't want to feel the pain of the truth. Instead, they screamed at the top of a hill, baked a dessert, and loaned the other girl memories.

The truth was that they had not chosen to live; they didn't have the authority to make that kind of decision while they lived in his house. They had chosen to escape and their false reality, though pretty, was a dream. And it was a dream that collapsed the very second their father entered the kitchen.

His face was horrifying not because he looked very angry, but because he was cool and collected as ever. His eyes were clear, focused on the two of them, flicking between Anna to Melissa and back again. His jaw was set, mouth pressed into a grim line. He widened his stance and folded his arms.

"What the fuck is this?"

Melissa swallowed, eyes trained on him. If she looked him in the face, she could see the rest of him in her peripheral vision. She would see him move to hit her.

"Well?" His eyes skipped between the girls like rocks. "Whose idea was it?"

Silence. The two girls glanced at each other.

Dropping his arms, he moved towards them.

The girls scattered.

Melissa dropped her weight, and sprung forwards. She swept past her father, in the hall. Anna passed on his other side.

Anna headed to the right, towards the front door. She flung it open and sprinted out, tumbling and tripping onto the grass. She turned over onto her back and scrambled away towards the road like a crab, chest heaving. Her wide, frightened eyes glued to Melissa.

Melissa went to follow, shifting her weight at the last second. Her bare feet thumped over the tiles as she moved. Beyond the door, the summer sky was crisp and blue. Freedom. That was freedom.

Then, just as she was about to cross the threshold, to step out into the safety of the outdoors, she was caught. Like all of her errors, her hesitation, her uncertainty, was punished.

Her father grabbed the back of her shirt and yanked her away from the exit. Fabric cut into her throat. She squeaked, body still moving forwards, choked. Pain like a string across her airway, like a garrote. She slipped and fell back into her father. Nowhere else for her to go. Her feet kicked out. She wheezed. Her hands fought with the neck of her shirt, eager to find some slack.

It came quickly. Her father released her. Melissa slumped over, gasping. Her hands clutched her burning skin. Panicked, her eyes darted around her, seeking him out, deciding what to do next.

Her father had no interest in her for the moment. He walked around her. Melissa's eyes locked on him, watching as he moved to stand in the doorway. He rested one hand against the door frame, looking out at Anna. Through the gap between her father's ribs and arm, Melissa stared at her sister.

She was sprawled in the middle of the road now, her palms resting against the asphalt. The backs of her thighs were angry and red, burnt on the hot asphalt. Still, Anna didn't move. She didn't speak. She didn't do anything at all but stare. Her eyes bulged, teary with horror as she looked at her father.

He raised his free hand. Slowly, he wiggled his fingers at Anna, waving. Then he stepped back, and slammed the door shut.

Click.

Melissa, stupidly, for just a second, mistook the sound for her heart slipping through her ribs and hitting the floor. But no, it was the lock turning over. It was the sound of an exit sealed shut.

Her father turned to her. A sigh moved through his body. Melissa's eyes flicked from his face to his feet and back again. He didn't move, but there was something very wrong about his expression. Something that had her heart hammering away in her chest, and air shuddering in her lungs. It was his eyes, maybe. They were dark and wet like those of an animal. There was something almost predatory about his unblinking eyes. It was almost as if he was hunting.

Melissa swallowed. Her mouth was dry. She backed away from him very slowly, watching him all the while.

"What are we going to do with you?" He took a step towards her. "Hmm?"

Melissa stepped back. Her feet slipped only slightly on the tiled floor, slick with sweat. The word sorry rose from her gut and hit the back of her throat, bitter, tasting of bile. She swallowed it back down. She wouldn't let herself say it.

"I've tried so hard to be a good parent. You know that, don't you?" He tilted his head at her.

She glanced at his feet. Another step.

"It's just a pie," Melissa mumbled.

Her eyes darted away from him to the door, the windows. She ran scenarios in her mind, calculated the seconds it would take to unlock the door and get it open. How quickly could she throw herself out of a window, lift herself up out of the glass, and run?

"What's that?"

Melissa took a deep breath. This was it. This was her chance to take a stand, to challenge him, to do something with her anger other than swallow it. She dragged her eyes away from the exit points. She lifted her chin, looked him in the eye-

And shook her head. "Nothing."

"Are you sure? I could have sworn you said something stupid."

He took another step towards her. Too close now. Melissa moved to back up further but there was nowhere to go. She bumped into one of her father's precious custom-made tables. A crystal bowl sitting on top wobbled.

"Watch it, you clumsy bitch." His face twisted, angered by her mistake.

He lifted his arm and reached for her.

But already, Melissa was ducking out of his reach. His fingers caught in the ends of her hair. A sharp pain spread through her scalp when he pulled on a tangle, but she didn't stop. The hair ripped from her head as she darted past him and into the living room.

She turned, not wanting to give him her back.

He lumbered over to her, orange threads still tangled between his fingers. He pulled them from his hand and examined them carefully.

"You shed more than that fucking cat," he said, rolling the hairs up into a ball between his palms. His eyes brightened with what Melissa had long since learnt was horrible, frightening innovation. He marched towards her, the ball of her hair bunched up in one closed hand. "I wonder if you'll cough it up like a cat if I shove it down your throat. Let's find out."

Her eyes widened. She ran to the other side of the room. The lounge sat between them, along with a heavy coffee table. Melissa dropped her weight again, ready to spring away in either direction.

"Oh, you want to make this difficult?"

He launched himself forwards, leaping over the table and onto the couch. His shoes sank into the cushions, and all Melissa could think for one very long second was that she wouldn't have lived to see another day if she did something so disrespectful. But then reality hit her once more, right in the face, when he jumped over the back of the couch, landed in front of her, and struck her.

The sound of his open palm against her cheek echoed in the room, and suddenly the house fell very, very quiet. Heat blossomed over her skin. Melissa's ears rang. A symphony of bees buzzed around her head.

Don't feel, she told herself.

And she didn't. The pain dulled, barely registered.

Her gaze fell away from his narrowed eyes and drifted to the living room window. Her sister was gone, swallowed up by the road. But there was still the glass between that place she had disappeared to, and the house Melissa's spirit haunted all her life.

The buzzing grew quieter and quieter, and the house grew loud once more. Her father grabbed her by the collar of her shirt. He lifted her onto her tiptoes. She turned her head. His angry face was inches from hers, red and twisted. She wondered where her dad went. Where did her dad go when her father came home?

"Are you even fucking listening?" He shook her, and her limbs flapped. He sighed, dropped her back to the ground. "Is it my fault that you're like this?"

"What?"

"Is it my fault you're so fucking stupid? I tried so hard to teach you how to be good," he said. Then something in his face morphed again. "I'm starting to think that maybe it wasn't comprehensible input."

(TW: attempted sexual assault by a family member)

And before Melissa could make sense of anything he said, his hands were on her shirt again. Both of them on the collar. But he didn't choke her or lift her up or throw her onto the floor. His hands grabbed the fabric of her shirt and ripped it right down the middle. Her bra was visible, as was the freckled skin of her chest and belly.

No.

No.

No no no no no-

"Who are you wearing this for?" His finger dipped under one bra strap. He pulled the red elastic away from her skin, then released it. It snapped back against her shoulder. "It wouldn't be that Cullen boy, would it?"

Bile burnt her throat. Her slice of apple pie rose from her gut, now sour. She was forced to swallow it back down.

"You think I don't hear about you? Everyone in town gossips about that family. And they talk about you too, always running off into the forest with him. What do you really do out there with that boy?"

Melissa pushed against his shoulders, eager to get away. Her father grabbed her by the hair, holding her in place. She cried out.

"You have no idea what you put me through. I could barely show my face in town for weeks when they started talking about it," he said. "I was so ashamed I raised not just one slut, but two."

"No," she whispered.

She didn't want to cry in front of him. She wanted to be cold and sharp like glass. She wanted to be angry, not scared. She wanted to do something. Tears fed her father. She learnt that long ago. So she swallowed them back, and lifted her head, and glared at him.

Anger flooded her veins, a welcome friend. It was hot and sharp, pricking her skin, reminding her of everything he had taken from her. Everything he had done.

"No?" he repeated. "You're denying it?"

Through clenched teeth, she seethed, "It was just a pie."

He smiled slowly. "Let's see then."

His fingers moved down to the waistband of her cotton shorts. He pulled the drawstring, untying them.

Rage abandoned her instantly. Fear stole its place. Her blood ran cold. The air stilled in her lungs. She didn't want this. She knew what was happening, and there was nothing she wanted more than for him to stop. Every cell in her body screamed at her to do something but all Melissa could do was stand there as the two ends of the braided cord brushed against her upper thighs.

"Don't," she said.

Her father looked her in the eye, and she begged silently for her dad to come back. To come back and save her the way he was supposed to. But he was nowhere in sight. There was only her father staring back at her, cold and dead behind the eyes. Melissa realised that was all there had ever been. Her dad left a long time ago. Maybe he'd never even existed.

"I'll be quick," he said.

His fingers plucked the waistband of her shorts away from her hips.

(End of TW content)

Adrenaline surged. Melissa screamed.

"Shut up," he hissed. The hand tangled in her hair smashed against her mouth.

Her teeth cut her lip. The taste of blood filled her mouth. With her hands, she pushed against his face. She scratched his cheeks, his eyelids, his mouth. Her nails bent back painfully but she didn't relent. She writhed, legs kicking up. And then she opened her mouth, and bit down on the fleshy part of his palm.

"Stop it!"

She didn't. Like a dog, she bit harder and didn't let go. Her father yanked his hand back. Melissa seized the opportunity and pushed him as hard as she could. He stumbled back half a step. It wasn't much, but she would take it. She ducked around the couch to the other side of the room, by the stairs.

Melissa's eyes darted from the staircase to the entrance to the living room. Her body trembled. She looked back at her father.

He stared at her, chest heaving, backlit by the window. His nostrils flared. His eyes narrowed at her. "Get back here."

She sprinted out of the room and into the hallway. Her feet slipped over the tiles. She tried to shift direction, to head towards the laundry room, to the backdoor. Her father caught her calf and pulled. Melissa fell to the floor, head narrowly missing the corner of a table. She landed on her shoulder. Pain shot through her.

She raised herself onto her elbows, ignoring the way her shoulder protested. But before she could crawl even an inch, she was flipped onto her back.

Her father loomed over her, his face unrecognisable. Monstrous.

"Let me go."

But it was a pointless request. He would never grant it. If she wanted to escape, she would have to tunnel her own way out of this house with her fingernails. She would have to dig her way out of her own grave.

His hands wrapped around her neck and squeezed. Melissa wheezed. Her eyes bulged. Her hands lifted to his. She scratched, pulled, dug her fingernails into his flesh. Panic washed over her, ice water. Her lungs begged for air. Her brain pleaded with her for just one breath. She clawed harder, tried to pull his hands from her throat but he wouldn't budge.

She was going to die.

He was actually going to kill her.

Her desperation grew. Her hands flew out. Crazed, she patted the tiles around her for something, anything. Her finger knocked against something solid. She turned her hand over and grabbed it. A table leg. She pulled, and the piece of furniture inched over the floor with a sickening whine.

It was closer now. She could see it from the corner of her eye, looming above her, beyond her father's face. One of his stupid artisan tables, the crystal bowl sat on top. She shook the table leg back and forth as hard as she could. The bowl wobbled.

The world began to grow dark, the edges of her vision closing in. This was death, she knew. This was death coming to see her. It lived in those dark edges. Somehow, she just knew.

She was going to die if she didn't do something.

She shook the table harder. The bowl teetered, then rolled over.

Smash.

It missed his head, shattering on the floor next to her. Shards of glass sprayed over her skin. Her fingers raced over the floor. She barely recognised the sharp edge cutting into her hand. She closed her fingers around it, lifted her arm above the two of them. With what remained of her strength she brought it down as hard as she could, driving the chunk of glass into her father's back.

He flew off of her, screaming.

Melissa rolled over, the world spinning with her, and coughed up blood onto the white tiles. She wheezed, sucking in air greedily between coughs. She moved onto her hands and knees, glass slicing her skin. Still coughing, she crawled away.

She scrambled to her feet and stumbled down the hallway, towards the back of the house. She passed the laundry room. There were no more doors out, just windows. She ducked into the little yellow bathroom on the ground floor, and slammed the door behind her. With trembling fingers, she flicked the lock. Seconds later, the door shook in its frame, rattling under her father's heavy blows.

Fire ravaged her throat as her eyes darted around the room. She looked over the toilet, the sink, and the rack of towels. Her eyes shifted to the window. She moved towards it and shoved it open. The window slid over with a sickening whine, and the pounding on the door stopped.

Melissa looked over to the door.

It was still. Quiet.

She frowned, and turned back to the window. It wasn't very large, but she could fit through it if she squeezed. She slipped head-first out of the bathroom, dangling over the windowsill. She reached forwards and put her palms down on the earth, then hauled herself out of the house. She collapsed in a heap on the grass, exhausted. Her ears were ringing. She looked up.

The sky above her was cloudless, an endless shade of blue. A gentle breeze swept over her skin. She nearly cried. She wanted to close her eyes. She wanted to nap in the sunshine, but she couldn't.

Outside didn't mean safe. The back fence circled around her, standing between her and a freedom that stretched on forever. She got to her feet just as she heard a door swing open.

Her father stepped outside, through the backdoor. Parts of his shirt were stained red. He glared at her, eyes trained solely on her.

Shit.

Melissa froze, staring at him. She felt like the deer, that bleeding deer in the woods. She stood there and waited for him to drag her away and finish her off.

"Go back inside," he said.

She shook her head. She wouldn't. If he wanted her back in that house, he would have to drag her.

"The neighbours will see."

"Maybe," she croaked, throat in agony, "you shouldn't do things you don't want them to see."

"What did you say?"

"It's you. All of it's you." She cleared her throat. Bloody phlegm rattled in the back of her mouth. She leant over and spat it out on the grass. The bubbly glob of crimson blood soaked into the soil.

He narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

She glanced helplessly at the back fence. When had it moved so far away? A flash of light appeared suddenly, bright and white. Melissa squinted. She peered out towards the edge of the forest behind the house.

"What is it?"

She shook head. She didn't know. Couldn't make sense of the bright light scattering in hundreds of directions, like the rippling surface of the lake in the woods. Scraps of colour bounced and darted and swept past, drawing blurry lines of blue and yellow and green in her vision.

"Enough of this." She heard the grass under his feet as he came closer. "You're going to learn."

"There's nothing to learn," she said, eyes still trained on the fence line.

"There's plenty for you to fucking learn."

"I won't do it."

"Oh yes, you fucking will."

She shook her head. "I won't."

He took another step towards her.

"I hate you." She turned to look at him. Her voice was hoarse, her throat on fire. "Just kill me already!"

Thump.

The sound of a body hitting the grassy earth. Melissa followed, falling to her knees in the yard. Her father turned towards the sound, facing the intruder who had dropped over the fence line like a seed falling from a tree. Melissa looked over, following his gaze.

Nature had come out to meet her. The woods had stretched over the fence to bear witness to her scream. A wave of calm washed over her with this knowledge, the gentle lap of the lake by the muddy bank, the cool shade, the cold water. The natural world, dressed as Jasper Hale, had come to help her at last.

She smiled dumbly and leant forwards. Her forehead pressed against the hot, ticklish grass. She sighed, breathing in the smell of dirt. Spots danced in her vision. They waltzed to the symphony of bees in her ears until, finally, she closed her eyes.

-o-