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Wednesday Addams protected what was hers.
But not this time.
She can't do it. Not when he is haunted by the vivid memories of his past. Trapped in an endless loop that tormented him even in his waking hours. Worse, he was powerless to them; the nightmares that roused him from the deepest slumber, blood-curdling screams ripping from his throat that sent a chill down her spine, even the grasp that Laurel Gates had him from beyond the grave.
Some nights were easier than others.
Those nights, he would sleep through the night, not without tossing and turning so harshly that she would often be kicked in the shin or jammed in the sternum by a pointy elbow. Any reprimand on the tip of her tongue would evaporate once she fully came to it, seeing her beloved in distress.
Those nights, she would lay back down, push him over to his side of the bed if need be. She would not tell him about the bruises she occasionally encountered. He could never see them, it would be too heartbreaking for him to know, the knowledge that he’d struck her, even as unintentional as it was. He’d agonize over it, taking drastic measures to ensure it wouldn’t happen again. Carefully hidden with makeup, Wednesday made sure the bruises never saw the light of day.
The difference was noticeable in the morning. He would not be on the brink of exhaustion, on edge from whatever plagued him during the night. It gave him a false sense of security, a false sense of control that he desperately needed.
But those nights were sporadic.
Far too often, night after night, Tyler was forced to relive the gruesome days and nights spent in that cold, empty cave or to have the mutilated faces of his victims brought forth to the center of his mind.
It was simply too much for him. He would try his hardest to stay awake until the early morning hours, leaving little time to stare up at the ceiling should he be violently tossed from his sleep. It did not always work that way, however. Fatigue sometimes won out, fighting against him as he teetered on the edge of consciousness.
Try as she might, there was nothing she could do to prevent it. There was no potion anywhere in the world capable of taking it away, even for just a short while. It would never leave him, never giving him a moment’s peace. Wednesday knew that. Her mother had warned her the day they brought Tyler into their home. The smear left on him by Laurel Gates would never fade. It could never be undone.
And all the while, Wednesday had to witness this. The heart that she vehemently denied existing suffered excruciating pain every time he would latch onto her, seeking protection from his inner demons.
The silence that lurked in the dead of night was disturbed by a horrific scream.
He’d fallen asleep early, slumped over in the corner of the bed when she found him. Wednesday perched herself in the rocking chair by the window she often used to read in, waiting for the moment to strike. Now, she leaped to her feet, climbing onto the bed.
Tyler, delirious from awakening so abruptly, instinctively looked around for her . Eyes darting around wildly, adjusting to the darkness. His legs were entangled within the blankets, skin sticky with sweat. Wednesday did not want to startle him with sudden touch, instead she used her voice, firmly alerting him to her presence.
“Tyler, it’s me. You are okay. You are safe.”
“ Wednesday ?” He whispered brokenly. She didn’t have to peer into his eyes to see that they were filled with unshed tears.
“I’m here,” she cradled his head against her chest, his arms weakly looped around her midsection. She could feel him trembling beneath her, barely repressing a sob.
“Breathe, Mi amor ,” Wednesday murmured, her fingers caressing his disheveled curls.
“She’s here, Wednesday,” his whimper cut right through her. “She’s here.”
“No, Tyler, she isn’t. It is just us.”
Splattering Gates’ brain out on the concrete had been too merciful. Wednesday fiercely wished she could have done more, much more that would have had the woman begging for death.
Tyler’s breathing came out irregular, an all too familiar gasp that had him clenching her shirt to the point all the blood drained out of his fingers.
“Tyler-”
“I can feel her,” he interrupted her, the terror in his voice she was unable to ignore. “I can feel her on her me, Wednesday. She was putting me in her mouth.”
His voice cracked at the end, face burrowing in her as if that would take away everything.
It was rare that Wednesday would be affected by anything, but she can’t not be right now. She can’t pretend there wasn’t bile in the back of her throat. She can’t deny that there was rage bubbling beneath the surface. But she also can’t express any of this, for this wasn’t about her.
“She can’t hurt you anymore,” Wednesday said when she finally found her voice. “She won’t hurt her as long as I am here.”
It was all a lie. One that loomed over them like a dreary rain cloud. Wednesday could not free him from this agony no matter how much she wanted to. The wounds and scars from Gates would last an eternity, claiming him in a chokehold until his dying day.
Until the morning light came, they stayed like that. His choked sobs echoed throughout the room, the only noise in the deafening silence.