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Meet me inside Crackstone’s crypt at midnight.
Nightshade. Wednesday thus poisons her dagger, before walking toward the crypt. It guarantees her safety, revenge, and hopefully victory. She does not tell anyone about Tyler's note, not even Enid. Wednesday does not know why – or maybe she does, but she refuses to admit it. She swallows that weakness like a chopped finger, letting it deteriorate inside her half-dead body.
Wednesday does not know whether she will find a monster or a human being in front of her. Maybe both. Maybe none. The truth is that Wednesday did not believe she could be fooled. The truth is that she thought people were trivial and boringly easy to predict, even without clairvoyance. Instead, Tyler surprised her, proved her wrong. He forced her to swallow her own words and beliefs as if they were burning needles. He showed not only that Wednesday could be tricked, but also hurt – and she likes pain, a lot, but she can’t say the same about humiliation.
How fragile the human heart is, she discovered. Even her own.
"Keep watch," she tells Thing, as soon as she reaches the crypt door. Thing tightens on her shoulder, unwilling to let her go. Wednesday straightens her back and points her feet to the ground.
"Thing," she says. "I have to go alone. If he attacks me, I’m sure you’d notice. Tyler has never been a quiet monster."
Oh, I would definitely notice, Thing replies. But you would already be dead.
Eventually, Thing paws down her back, landing with a rustle on the leaf carpet.
Wednesday stares at the crypt door. Monster, she thinks. Human. Tyler.
The crypt is dark. The flashlight beam glides along the walls. Her heart palpitates – it's fear, primal and delicious. Maybe it's a trap. Maybe–
Wednesday illuminates Tyler's face. It is him, but it is not really him. He looks like the specter of someone who smiles at her with fictitious sweetness in her memories. Tyler is emaciated, his silhouette floats in front of the stone walls like mist. Wednesday lets the flashlight caress his chest, arms, and hands. Wednesday seeks a sharp trace, a testimony of ferocity - claws, teeth, blood, anything. But she finds only his eyes, gleaming like bullets. They look wicked. Or maybe insane.
Or maybe just wounded.
Wednesday does not know what is in front of her. She wants to pierce Tyler's body with the tip of a pencil and see what’s hidden beneath his skin – flesh, fear, or homicidal madness? Wednesday finds the unknowns tantalizing only when she knows how to solve them. Tyler's unknowns, on the other hand, are disturbing and sickening, because she can’t approach something she doesn't understand. And it is so sad, losing herself inside a place – inside someone's eyes – she thought she knew well.
Wednesday stays still. She does not flinch, she would rather shoot nails into her knees. She plants her feet on the ground, lifts her chin, and tries to transform herself into something inviolable. Under the long sleeve of her shirt, she tightens her fingers around the handle of the dagger. Her grip is iron. She is ready to kill.
"Wednesday," Tyler says.
Monster. Human. Which one?
His voice. It is soft. Gentle, just as she remembers. It is the same voice Wednesday had learned to trust. And how rare it is, for her to trust. She was certain she would never, ever allow herself to feel safe in the rustle of someone else's lips. She was certain she would never, ever allow herself to be used as a pawn. Nevertheless, Tyler trapped her by taking advantage of the only thing she thought she didn’t have: a heart.
Tyler poisoned her with small drops. Wednesday was shocked, shocked because for the first time she had got it all wrong. Shocked because when she slipped her trust into Tyler's hands like a tip in the jar, and Tyler wrenched it away, the surprise was so abundant that it chilled her legs, like a sharp cascade of blood.
And of course a part of Wednesday liked it. Because she is not normal, because her distorted soul could do nothing but admire in fascination the meticulous work of a criminal. Tyler calibrated with extreme caution and exactitude everything to say and everything to do to get someone like her, wary and lonely by nature, to loosen up. An unquestionably masterful job.
However–
However, a larger part of Wednesday stares at Tyler and thinks I hate you. And I will destroy you.
"What do you want?"
Tyler smiles. "I just wanted to see you. I missed you. It's a bit lonely, here."
"I can make some calls if you want. I know plenty of people who can't wait to see you again."
"Wednesday, I don't want to kill you," Tyler says. Then he glares at her sleeve. "Even if you do want to kill me. Do you mind if I turn on some lights?"
Wednesday watches Tyler take a lighter from his pocket. For a moment, Wednesday thinks: there’s dynamite. Or gas. He will blow me up.
But Tyler crouches on the ground and lights a candle. And then another one. And then another one. Those are the same candles he put in the crypt for their first date. Those are the same candles that–
"I think it's enough," Wednesday says. "It's a crypt, not a Christmas tree."
"Oh," Tyler says, then smiles. "You're still angry."
"Angry? Oh, I’m sorry, you’re absolutely right, I should have given you a warmer welcome. Thank you for almost killing Eugene, by the way. And for almost killing Enid."
"And for almost killing you."
Wednesday nods. "Yes, that too."
"Just for the record, I wouldn't have done that," Tyler says. "I wouldn't have killed you, Wednesday. It was Laurel’s job, after all. Not mine."
"Really?" Wednesday asks, feigning surprise. "Now that changes everything. I'm sure I can trust a psychopathic serial killer."
"I thought you liked psychopathic serial killers."
"Usually, I do. Not when they hurt my friends, though."
"Friends," Tyler repeats slowly, like he’s tasting that word. "Wednesday Addams has friends. That sounds like a miracle, doesn’t it? But I'm happy for you. I really am."
Wednesday remains silent. Tyler looks at her.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"No," Wednesday hisses. "I'm the one asking questions here. What do you want? Use me again to get to the Nevermore? That's not going to work. Not again."
Tyler shakes his head. He looks sad. Wednesday, however, has learned not to trust what she sees, especially when it comes to him.
"I told you. I just wanted to meet you. You, on the other hand, can kill me or denounce my hiding place. Even though I know you won't do anything like that."
"How come you're so sure?"
Tyler smiles. "You like challenges, Wednesday. And you like twisted and sick things. I'm basically an early birthday present."
Wednesday admits he has a point.
"But you could transform. You could transform into a monster and bite my head off. And as much as the idea of such a bloody death appeals to me, I still have too many things to do."
She is lying. Tyler knows it, but lends himself to the game anyway.
"You’re faster than me," he says. "You'd be able to cut me before I complete the transformation. And if your dagger is poisoned with nightshade, as I believe it is, I'd be doomed. Besides, look at me, Wednesday. Do I really look dangerous to you right now?"
"No," Wednesday replies. "But you didn't look dangerous to me the first time I met you either. And you were actually already a killer."
Tyler smiles – and he looks so sweet.
"Touché," he says.
Wednesday hates him. She wants to bite his lips off. Slowly. Then she would tear his eyes, his cheeks, his heart. She would tear from his body, violently, everything that has sidetracked her. Because Wednesday can't stand that she lost, can't stand that she didn't notice his deceit, can't stand-
can't stand
that the boy
for whom she felt a vague romantic interest
she kissed and trusted
betrayed her.
The truth is that loneliness is a powerful weapon, but when it turns against you, it is lethal. Lonely people are invincible. They are invincible because they bear the weight of the world by their eyes alone. They depend solely on themselves. Loneliness is the highest state of independence. However, when lonely people – really lonely people – taste for the first time the warmth of another human being, when they discover the meaning of sharing and the effect of caressing skin and hands not with distrust but with gentleness, going back becomes impossible. Returning to the previous desolation, to that prison raised as self-defense when in truth it was only a trap, is heartbreaking and intolerable. You become always hungry for other bodies, always hungry for contact. When Enid left, Wednesday felt empty. And when she discovered that the bond with Tyler was nothing more than an elaborate illusion, Wednesday felt furious.
The truth is that she hates him. The truth is that she hates herself, viscerally, for letting her guard down. For believing herself invincible, untouchable, when in the end emotions are far more dangerous than any monster.
She can kill him. She can shred Tyler's life, she can cut cleanly through the threads that have weakened her, once and forever. She can extinguish every stain that proves her failure, her foolishness.
Wednesday stares at Tyler. She stares at him deeply. She searches for something, inside him, with desperation. She looks for the truth in the lie, the lie in the truth. She looks for something warm that she can swallow. She finds nothing, though. In front of her, there’s a boy and Wednesday does not know if that boy is a monster or a person. She does not know if Tyler is really as perverse and evil as he seemed to her when he confessed what he had done in the barracks, or if the tears he barely held back when he warned her mean that he is just the victim of an infinitely more ruthless monster, the real one.
Wednesday stares at Tyler and cannot tell whether she wants to kill him, kiss him, torture him, hug him, vivisect him, cut him into small pieces and bury them around the crypt as if they were corpses.
Wednesday is tired. So she turns and leaves. Thing climbs on her shoulder and doesn't say a word.
Meet me inside Crackstone’s crypt at midnight.
He is a monster. Tyler is a monster. Wednesday has to kill him.
Thing slips off her shoulder and lands with a rustle on the ground. This time, when Wednesday opens the heavy crypt door, he finds Tyler sitting in the center and a few candles already burning. Wednesday shuts off the flashlight. Tyler smiles.
I want to rip your face off, she thinks. Tear it off and swallow it and then throw it up and bury it by a river. And I want to bury my heart too, and the memories I have of you, of us, because they make me vulnerable, like I'm handing my throat to a guillotine. I hate this exposed feeling, I would rather die quartered alive than feel this fragility at chest height spreading all around. I hate the subtle, almost invisible way you pierced my veins. And yet I admire it, I admire it furiously but I hate it. I wish you were just a monster. Everything would be easier.
Wednesday understands immediately that she will not kill him. Not that night, at least. The grip around the dagger has already weakened.
"I could tell your father you're here."
"What makes you think that he doesn't already know? That he's not covering for me?"
"Because I saw him," Wednesday replies. "And he's devastated."
"You shouldn't trust what you see," Tyler says with a half-smile. "Remember how it ended up with me?"
"I learned to observe more carefully," Wednesday says. "Thanks for the lesson."
"You're welcome. Consider it as a thank you for teaching me how to fix the coffee machine."
Wednesday remains silent. Tyler does the same. He looks so– so sad, sitting in the center of the crypt, candles flickering dimly scattered on the floor and near the walls, almost as if even they no longer have the strength to burn. Tyler seems unreachable. Isolated from the world, from himself. Tyler looks like her before Eugene, Enid, and Xavier came along. Maybe it is the loneliness that turns you into a monster. Maybe Wednesday before was a monster as well. Maybe she will always be.
"You haven't killed anyone in a while. Have you lost the good habit, or are you just waiting for the most appropriate time?"
Tyler smiles bitterly. "Nah, I quit. Although I think some people are better placed underground."
"People like me?"
Tyler stares at her. "No. No, Wednesday. You are–
(–amazing. No, seriously, you look beautiful.)
Wednesday doesn't give him time to finish the sentence. She turns and leaves the crypt.
She is going to kill him. She's going to kill him.
Meet me inside Crackstone’s crypt at midnight.
Tyler is increasingly emaciated, thin as a pencil line wielded by a trembling hand. Wednesday is not generous enough to bring him food. Wednesday is not generous, period. But she can't help lingering a moment too long on his hollowed cheeks, his dark circles increasingly purple. He's dying, she thinks. He is really dying.
Wednesday rests her back against the cold wall of the crypt. Tyler is sitting on the floor, between them that meter of distance that is the closest thing to salvation. It is shocking how things change. How Wednesday before felt safe when the distance was none. It's atrocious and sad, the story of their relationship, the story of that boy, and maybe that's why Wednesday is still there, maybe that's why she hasn't killed him yet, because sad and atrocious things enchant her.
"Tyler," Wednesday says. "Did you really like killing?"
Tyler looks surprised. Then he smiles.
"If I said no, would you believe me?"
"No," Wednesday replies.
"And if I said yes?"
"I don't know what to believe anymore. But I still want you to answer."
Tyler looks at her. Wednesday feels the warmth prickle lightly on her cheeks and fingertips, as if they were butterflies. Wednesday hates butterflies. Wednesday hates emotions because they flutter everywhere, uncontrollably, as moths do around lanterns.
"Have you ever killed, Wednesday?"
"As strange as it might sound, no. I prefer torture. It gives more concrete results."
Tyler chuckles. "You're right. But you see, killing with your own hands is unique. You feel something, under your fingers, slipping away. It’s a visceral experience of changing. And I'm not just talking about physical reactions, like breath stopping or blood flowing, I'm talking about the intensity of something that exists and suddenly doesn't exist anymore. Life is powerful. Fear makes it even more powerful, like a waterfall that screams, and screams, and screams. But then you find out that you’re enough to end it all. You’re enough to create a void that will forever stay silent. When you kill, you really understand what it means to be omnipotent."
"I find your speech tremendously fascinating, but you still haven't answered me. Did you enjoy it or not?"
Tyler suddenly looks tiny.
"Maybe," Tyler replies. "Or maybe not. Maybe I didn't like it. Maybe I tell myself that I liked it because it's easier to think that I'm really a murderer, rather than to live with the thought that I've been manipulated. I don't want to be a victim, because then I'd have to carry forever the guilt of having killed, and attempted to kill, innocent people. And that is something too big. It’s terrifying. It's easier to believe that I'm an evil monster than to face what I've done without really wanting to."
Tyler was tortured, Wednesday thinks. Tyler was tortured and Laurel took advantage of his trauma to manipulate him. Tyler also acted with full knowledge of his actions, at least from a certain moment on. But how much truth of his own is there, in that murderous euphoria? If there is one thing Wednesday managed to understand, it is that bending and being bent is much, much easier than it seems. Because human beings are so fragile.
"Wednesday."
Tyler looks at her. It is as if he is being crushed by something infinitely heavy and sharp. Wednesday, for a moment, feels the primal instinct to touch his cheek, his hand – with the sharp blade of his dagger, of course. But she stays still.
"I wish I could say that none of this was my fault. I wish I could say that all the harm I did to you, to your friends, to your school, and to all those people, wasn’t intended, because I was just a puppet in another person's hands. But the truth is that the power to end a life is intoxicating. And I wanted– I want to make my father and the Nevermore suffer, because they turned my mother's life into hell."
Tyler shakes his head. "I don't know what the truth is. You're not the only one who can't trust what I say anymore, I can't trust myself either. Where does the lie begin? Where does what Laurel pushed me to become begin, and where does the real me begin? Do you remember what I told you in the barracks? About how much I liked the taste of fear before I killed? That wasn't me. That wasn't me, I swear. Or maybe it was. I don't understand anything anymore. I don't know if I am the victim or the real culprit. I don't know if I'm terrified of hurting other people, or if I can't wait to hurt more."
Tyler stands up. Wednesday leaps toward the door and draws his dagger. Tyler shakes his head, slowly.
"I don't want to do anything to you. But you really should kill me."
"Is that why you ask me to come every night? You want to be killed by me?"
"Maybe," Tyler replies. "If I died, I think there would finally be peace. For everyone. For me. For you."
"I’ve never wanted peace, Tyler," Wednesday replies. "It's a utopia that frankly disgusts me."
And she leaves.
Meet me inside Crackstone’s crypt at midnight.
Wednesday tries hard. She strives with all her might to see Tyler for what, in fact, he is: a psychopathic serial killer. And yet–
And yet–
And yet, she also sees just a boy. Just a boy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, who was swallowed by the one true monster. Wednesday wonders if her stubbornness in justifying Tyler – at least partially – isn’t simply a reminiscence of how she feels about him, like a pebble stuck under the bottom of her shoes. It probably is. Probably her judgment is being influenced by the memory of a warmth that never existed.
If you allow me to be objective, Thing told her as he accompanied her, tapping on her shoulder, you should have stuck the dagger in his eye long ago.
Thing is right. Wednesday knows. Maybe she'll do it that night. Tyler is so weak and thin that all it would take to break him is to blow on his face - cyanide, possibly. But perhaps this is just a well-conceived plan. Tyler has been patient in sewing up his first deception. Perhaps Tyler wants to be seen in that state, as a defeated boy with nothing left but the darkness of the crypt, and then stab her and all the people she has grown to love in the back. Wednesday cannot afford to make the same mistake twice.
And yet.
"Hey," Tyler says. "Wanna watch a movie? The projector is still here."
Wednesday arches her eyebrows. A second date with a psychopathic killer. Her past self would have shot black fireworks out of irrepressible joy.
"You can poison me, if it makes you feel safer," Tyler continues. "Poison me, and then we can watch it together while I die. Look, there are all your favorite things: a dark, creepy crypt, a horrible movie, and a very, very painful death."
"It's a tempting suggestion," Wednesday admits, and for the first time she moves closer. She slides the dagger out of her sleeve. Tyler watches her come closer, ready to hurt – to kill. Wednesday is close, she is close to him for the first time in months. With a lightning-fast movement, she brings the dagger blade just a few millimeters from his throat. Tyler stays as still as a stone. He would let her cut him.
"You knew," Wednesday says. "You knew it was a feint. Otherwise, you would have transformed. Or at least, you would have tried."
"Are you sure?"
Tyler looks at her with deep sorrow. He almost looks miserable. Wednesday wants to rip his face off again. She wants to go get the nail gun she promised Enid in case Ajax broke her heart.
"I just want to watch a movie with you. Even if it's just for five seconds. I don't care what happens after that."
It's all so macabre, Wednesday thinks, as she places the dagger on the ground and crouches next to him – next to a serial killer, a monster, a boy – on the dusty blanket. It's all so macabre, sick, wrong, and distorted, as if someone has smashed the mirror of the reality in which they are moving with a hammer.
Maybe that's why a microscopic part of her, in that moment, is smiling.
Meet me inside Crackstone’s crypt at midnight.
Along with the dagger, Wednesday this time carries food. He hands Tyler stuffed sandwiches and two bottles of water.
"Unfortunately, it's not human meat," Wednesday says, shrugging. "You'll have to be content with ham."
Tyler does not laugh. He stares at the sandwiches as if they were aliens. Then he stares at Wednesday as if she were an alien.
"You really changed, didn't you?" he murmurs. "Enid did wonders."
"Not just her."
"Sorry," Tyler says, with a bitter smile. "I forgot Xavier."
"Enid. Xavier. Eugene," Wednesday stares at him. "You. Even if nothing of that was true."
Tyler remains silent. He simply takes a sandwich from the basket. He takes a bite, small, then a larger one. He finishes the first sandwich and takes a second, then a third. Wednesday stares at him as he eats ferociously. Wednesday stares at him as tears slide down his cheeks, as he tries to choke back his sobs.
There is nothing monstrous at that moment. Just something tremendously vulnerable, tremendously human. Wednesday would like– would like to do something warm. Light. Like a caress, like taking his hand. But she doesn't.
She thinks about the hatred that Tyler harbors inside. How his soul has been corrupted and crumbled by resentment, time, rejection, and loneliness. She thinks of his mother, a hyde, whom the academy refused to help. Wednesday tries to empathize with Tyler’s story, tries to think about how she would feel if it were her mother who was the dead one, the ignored one, the one abandoned to her own, the victim of a condition she couldn’t control because no one ever wanted to teach her how.
Wednesday thinks that if her past was like Tyler's, she would be a far worse monster. Oh, the brutal ways in which she would kill everybody.
I've done terrible things, Tyler once told her. But I'm not a terrible person.
Maybe that's the only true thing he ever said.
Meet me inside Crackstone’s crypt at midnight.
Wednesday always carries the poisoned dagger with her. And she keeps wondering if she is again trapped in a web that Tyler has woven around her unnoticed.
When she enters the crypt, Wednesday finds Tyler fiddling with a stereo.
"What are you doing?"
"I wanted to put on some music. But this stupid thing doesn’t work."
Wednesday stares at him. She drops the sandwich basket on Tyler's lap and grabs the stereo. The stereo starts singing after five seconds. Tyler stares at her, impressed.
"Wow," he says. "You are wasted as a clairvoyant, trust me. Do you wanna dance?"
Tyler stands up and holds out his hand to her. Wednesday stands up on her own and stares at his increasingly broken silhouette. I have to help him, she thinks. I must destroy him.
"I don't want to dance," she replies.
"Come on," Tyler insists. "Please. One last time."
Wednesday says nothing.
"Wednesday," he says. "In this crypt, right now, for a few seconds, I want to think about nothing. And I know it's wrong, I know it's pointless, but I want to do it anyway. It's just you and me. A couple of teenage tearaways. Please."
There is so much pain in his eyes. So much tenderness in his voice. It's like opening her hands wide under a warm, golden storm. Wednesday lets the dagger slide across the cold floor. Then she arches her back and starts swinging her arms like a zombie, spinning like a gothic doll to the rhythm of the music. Tyler laughs, tries to imitate her moving like a rusty robot. She flashes a smile, too.
Maybe there is hope somewhere. Maybe Tyler can start over. But then Wednesday remembers how ruthless he has been, how he manipulated her as if she were soft clay beneath his fingers. Wednesday cannot afford to fall into his trap a second time. She would never be able to look at herself again. It would be an intolerable dishonor, and she wants her bloody revenge.
Wednesday wonders if people can actually change.
The song ends. The world returns dark, and sad.
For the first time, Tyler leaves her no message. Wednesday goes to the crypt anyway with the dagger clutched between her icy fingers, the sandwiches inside her bag, and Thing on her shoulder.
Something is wrong, she thinks, as she quickens her pace. Something is very wrong.
She starts to run. The frigid air slams against her heated cheeks. She opens the crypt door wide. She expects to find blood and corpses, the new victims of a monster. Instead, she finds Tyler hanging with a rope around his neck. His feet dance in midair.
Wednesday does not scream. She throws herself forward and clutches Tyler's legs as Thing climbs up her body. Wednesday hands him the poisoned knife, and Thing cuts the rope that keeps Tyler hanging. Tyler collapses on top of her. He is so thin that Wednesday is able to hold him up without any trouble.
He is alive, she thinks, with a relief that sickens her. He’s breathing.
Tyler stares at her with bloodshot, teary eyes, pale as a ghost. He opens his mouth wide to say something, but his voice dies in his throat.
"Next time you decide to hang yourself," Wednesday says, "invite me. Attending a hanging has always been at the top of my bucket list."
Tyler shakes his head in disbelief and exhales a crooked, stained, choked laugh. A purplish ring encircles his neck. Wednesday wants to lick it.
They stand still, staring at each other. Wednesday thinks: he was going to die. If I had arrived a moment later, Thing and I would have found him dead. His timing was a little too perfect, though. Maybe this attempted suicide was planned, too. Or maybe he really is just desperate.
Wednesday cannot continue to live in paranoia, because Tyler cannot continue to consume himself inside the darkness of that crypt – even if part of her thinks he deserves it.
Wednesday must kill him once and for all, cut off the problem at the root, or she must give him a chance to start over, to replace all the pain inside him with something kind.
"You didn't have to save me," Tyler murmurs. "You didn't have to save me."
"I do whatever I want," Wednesday replies. "Tyler," she then adds. "You should go home."
"I don't have a home."
"That's a lie. Your father is desperate, I see him in town. He wants to help you. He– he loves you."
Tyler stares at her. And it is as if he is searching for something inside her dark eyes, as if he glimpses something he cannot explain. Wednesday feels exposed, naked, but she allows him to see inside her.
"Do you really believe that?"
"Yes. I do."
"And what about you?" Tyler asks. "Do you love me, Wednesday?"
Wednesday's eyes widen. Love is a big, big word. She writes, therefore she knows exactly the heavy, indelible weight of its meaning. She cannot say yes to him. But she cannot say no to him either, because she is still there, despite everything.
They exit the crypt. Thing tightens around her shoulder. Tyler stops.
"I know I have no right to say this, but thank you. For everything."
Thing flips him the bird. Wednesday says nothing. Tyler looks at her as if he wants to hug her, touch her, kiss her. Or maybe kill her. Wednesday has realized she is not good at finding the difference.
And yet–
"Tyler, wait," Wednesday says. "We're coming with you."
So I can keep an eye on you, she thinks. Because unfortunately, I understand you. I know it's not easy to stop harboring hatred and resentment. That's why I don't trust you. That's why I want to help you.
Wednesday brushes his wrist with her fingers. Tyler’s skin is icier than hers. For once, Wednesday is the one spreading warmth. It's a strange feeling, but not as unpleasant as she thought. Besides, she has always liked cold things.
Tyler says nothing. He just takes her hand gently. Wednesday lets him. Then she squeezes it.