Melody

Chapter 4: A Winter that Burns

Peter's POV

The morning started in relative calm. Relative, of course, being a generous term in my new reality. Annie had brought me breakfastㅡscrambled eggs and toast, with orange juice instead of waterㅡand hummed softly to herself as she set the tray down. She was in one of her “good moods,” which made her movements unnervingly gentle.

I ate in silence, watching her from the corner of my eye. Something felt off. Not that there had been a single moment in this house where everything felt right, but today, there was a tension in the air.

She sat in the chair beside my bed, her hands folded in her lap, and waited. For what, I didn’t know.

When I finished eating, she stood and cleared the tray, replacing it with a stack of papers I recognized immediately. My heart sank.

“Winter Echoes,” she said, her voice calm but cold. “I took it from your bag and read it last night.”

I didn’t say anything. What was there to say?

“I have to be honest, Peter,” she continued, pacing the room now, “I’m very disappointed. Very disappointed.”

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry.

“This isn’t you,” she said, holding up the manuscript like it was a piece of trash. “This is filth. Garbage. Smut!”

Her voice rose with each word, her face twisting with disgust. She threw the manuscript onto my lap, and I winced as the weight of it pressed against my legs.

“Annie,” I began cautiously, “I’m sorry you didn’t like it, but it’s notㅡ”

“Not what?” she snapped, her eyes narrowing. “Not for me? Not Melody?”

“No, it’s not Melody,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “It’s something different. Something new.”

“New?” she repeated, her tone mocking. “You call this new? It’s vulgar, Peter. All that profanity, all that ugliness. That’s not who you are. That’s not who I am.”

She grabbed the manuscript again, her knuckles white as she gripped the edges.

“I’m going to help you, Peter,” she said, her voice suddenly calm. “I’m going to help you find your way back to the light. But first, we need to get rid of this… this abomination.”

I knew what she meant before she said it.

“You want me to destroy it,” I said, my voice flat.

She nodded, her eyes gleaming. “It’s the only way, Peter. You need to cleanse yourself of this filth. Only then can you start fresh.”

“Annie,” I said carefully, “that manuscript is important to me. I worked on it for years. It’s… it’s my future.”

Her face darkened, and she leaned down, placing her hands on the arms of my wheelchair. Her proximity was suffocating, her breath hot against my face.

“I am your future,” she hissed. “I saved you. I’m taking care of you. And I’m telling you, this thingㅡ” she jabbed a finger at the manuscript, “ㅡis a sin. It has to go.”

She straightened and turned toward the door.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, her tone sing-song again. “Don’t you dare go anywhere.”

---

She returned a few minutes later, carrying a large metal basin, a box of matches, and a can of lighter fluid. My stomach turned at the sight of it.

“Annie,” I said, trying to sound calm, “this isn’t necessary.”

“Oh, but it is,” she said, placing the basin on the floor and kneeling beside it. “This is for your own good, Peter. You’ll see that in time. You'll learn your lesson.”

She poured the lighter fluid over the manuscript, the pages soaking up the liquid like a sponge. The sharp, chemical smell filled the room, making my eyes water.

“Annie, please,” I said, my voice breaking.

She ignored me, striking a match and holding it aloft. The tiny flame danced in her eyes, reflecting the madness that had taken hold of her.

“Do it,” she said, holding the match out to me.

“What?”

“You have to be the one to do it,” she said firmly. “This is your sin, Peter. You need to burn it.”

I stared at the match, the flame flickering dangerously close to her fingers.

“Annie, Iㅡ”

“I SAID DO IT!” she screamed, her voice echoing off the walls.

My hands trembled as I reached out and took the match. The heat of the flame was nothing compared to the fire raging inside me. Anger, fear, despairㅡall of it churned together in a maelstrom of emotion.

I looked down at the manuscript, the pages already warped and discolored from the lighter fluid.

This was my work. My blood, sweat, and tears. The thing that was supposed to set me free, to finally let me move on from Melody Caldwell and the world Annie loved so much.

And now, I was about to destroy it.

The match dropped from my fingers and landed on the manuscript.

The fire started slowly, licking at the edges of the pages before consuming them entirely. The flames crackled and popped, sending wisps of smoke curling into the air.

I watched in silence as the words I’d poured my soul into turned to ash.

Annie clapped her hands together, her face alight with joy. “Oh, Peter, I’m so proud of you!” she said. “This is the first step. The first step back to being the writer you’re meant to be.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.

I felt hollow, like the fire had burned a hole through me as well.

When the flames died down, Annie carefully carried the basin out of the room, leaving me alone with the lingering smell of smoke and charred paper.

I stared at the empty space where the manuscript had been, the loss hitting me like a physical blow. It wasn’t just a bookㅡit was my independence, my dreams, my hope for a life beyond this nightmare.

Annie had taken all of that from me, and I had let her.

I told myself it was necessary, that I was playing the long game, that keeping her happy was the only way to survive. But the truth was, a part of me had died in that fire.

And as I sat there, surrounded by the ashes of my work, I realized something else: I wasn’t just Annie’s prisoner.

I was her puppet.