Chapter Text
Tick. Tick.
Enid stared at the clock on the wall.
“So, Enid . . .” a voice tried to gain her attention. “These voice figments you’ve been experiencing—”
Something within her rose, like gasoline to fire. It crackled beneath her skin, elicited an energy, and more than anything, it burned. Enid’s interruption was immediate. “They’re not figments.”
“Pardon?”
“The voices. They’re real.”
“Right.” A pause. “So, these voices . . .”
Enid’s therapist gave her a look of pity. Enid wanted to tear her eyes out.
Three weeks ago, Enid had barely escaped causing a scene in the middle of the quad. Yoko had pulled her into a secluded area and questioned her, pausing only when she saw the distress painting her friend’s face.
Not everyone knew why Enid had to be dragged aside.
When Enid had screamed aloud in the hallway, pleading for someone, or something, to stop, it had taken two people to anchor her back to the present.
She knew why she was here. Everyone did. At least, they liked to believe they did.
Enid Sinclair was hearing voices.
“. . . a part of grieving,” her therapist was saying. Enid was reluctantly lulled back to the present. The look she sent across the desk was bitter and tangible enough to be studied. It was something Enid would have shied away from a few months ago; now, she was its poison’s wielder.
Enid’s hands gripped the bottom of the wooden chair beside her legs. Her claws flexed, toying lightly with the leather underside of the support. She gripped until her skin was stretched taut and her knuckles were white.
Her therapist—Dr. Lavern, though she implored Enid could call her by her first name—shuffled a paper in her hands. She lay it atop a vanilla folder on the desk. Enid’s attention fell onto it. She was a spectacle in this room, little more than a string to be pulled at. Cat and mouse. She was an intrigue, a mystery. Dr. Lavern’s findings, her attempts to pick Enid apart and deduce something that needn’t be, were stuffed into that folder.
“Enid?” She followed her therapist’s fingers as they tapped lightly on the desk.
She flicked her eyes upward. Her mouth was in a neutral line. She retracted her claws, but only slightly. When Enid didn’t reply, Dr. Lavern continued.
“I asked if you’ve been practicing those methods we discussed last time. Do you remember them?” Dr. Lavern’s words were kind. Enid watched her, roved her focus over the lines creased beside the woman’s eyes. How much of this was a false sincerity meant to drag information from Enid?
Enid thought about the question. She had forgotten to practice the rituals Dr. Lavern had suggested. They weren’t in the forefront of her mind. Not much seemed to be. Enid was aware enough of herself to come to that conclusion. It was a brief realization given away only by the slight twitch of her brows.
Now that she had been brought back to them, Enid considered them silently. Breathing exercises were the main source of her therapist’s suggestions. One of them relied on Enid utilizing all five of her senses to ground herself. Five things she could see, four things she could feel, et cetera.
“Yes.” A lie.
Dr. Lavern watched her like she saw through the inaccuracy. Enid didn’t really care if she did. The woman tried to be subtle as she grabbed a yellow pencil and scribbled something on the top sheet of paper, but the attempt was futile when it was the only movement in the room.
“How have they been working for you?”
“They’ve been helpful.” Another lie. They were getting easier to use. She was starting to get better at it too, because this time, Dr. Lavern seemed to drop her previous suspicions.
“Good,” the woman affirmed, writing something else down. In an unexpected twinge of irritation, Enid wanted to rip the paper from her hands and break the pencil. “Have you had any more episodes since your last one?”
Episodes. What a bold thing to call them. Her claws unsheathed again and punctured the leather.
She had been walking down the hallway with the intent of heading to her next class. It was Werewolf Anatomy I, a class she had taken a liking to—for its subject, at least. The Furs that served as her classmates were less of an appeal to her, and so she had made her own space in a two-person table at the far corner of the room where she could duck beneath the warm lights and avoid the stares of her peers. She had departed Yoko and Divina moments before, having eaten lunch with the pair, and she was entirely alone when she felt a chill sweep at the back of her neck.
Enid’s hair hadn’t stirred. Not a strand moved an inch, and yet goosebumps prickled on her skin and she spared a glance behind her. Nobody was there. Something akin to dread permeated her senses and dragged at her heart, hastening its beat until her breaths were shorter than before. She couldn’t do this to herself.
“Enid.”
The voice was slightly distorted yet gentle in its approach. The air around Enid plummeted into a colder temperature. She squeezed her eyes shut. Some students approached. She could feel their inattentive glances fall over her.
“Stop it,” she whispered once she opened her eyes again. She began walking away. The chill followed her.
Enid made her way to an empty classroom and shoved inside of it. Her hands shook when she placed them against the heavy door to shut it. The air returned to its normal temperature.
She forced down the lump growing in her throat, her breaths squeezed with the effort. She forced back the tears gathering in her eyes and blurring her vision. She dug her hands into her hair and sank to the floor against the door, her claws just barely pinching the skin of her scalp. It was grounding. She wanted them to cut.
She buried her face in her knees and forced away memories lined with shaking breaths and truths she only faced when she was alone in her dorm at night.
Enid could see the desk in front of her.
“One,” she responded. She went along with it. Placating. She wasn’t biting the hand just yet.
Dr. Lavern nodded gently, “What happened? Was it similar to your previous episodes?”
A moment of silence passed and Enid still had not graced the woman with a reply. She chewed on the inside of her cheek. She could see the miniature globe on the edge of the desk.
“Enid,” came Dr. Lavern’s voice again. “I want to help you. I really do, but I can’t do that if you don’t talk to me.”
I don’t want your help, came the instinctual rebuttal in Enid’s mind. She wondered idly when she had grown so adept to that.
The woman’s words sounded rehearsed and insincere.
Enid tugged her claws out from the bottom of the chair and pulled her hands into her lap, ensuring her nails had returned to their normal length before they were in visual.
“Different,” she said, and that was all. She watched the woman’s eyes flick over her, searching. Enid did not give an answer.
Dr. Lavern exhaled softly, her shoulders lowering, “When we grieve, our minds tend to supply that emptiness with things that aren’t really there. In this instance, the voices you hear and the things you seem to feel apply. It’s similar to a phantom limb. Do you know what that is?”
A nod.
“These sensations act as our ‘phantom limbs’—the reactions we have in the absence of the person who causes them. It is commonly linked with trauma. Many believe trauma comes from experiencing something traumatic in the moment, and that is true. However, trauma can also be a result of the aftermath of those situations, including the loss of a loved one.”
One of Enid’s fangs grazed the inside of her lip accidentally.
“It’s not something to be ashamed about, nor taken lightly,” the woman had been saying. Enid heard her muffled voice above the surface of the water. Enid was sinking beneath it. “Over time, it will get easier.”
She regarded the statement with the narrowing of her eyes. Enid didn’t want it to get easier. She didn’t want to forget.
Her eyes shot to the clock again. Tick. Tick. The minute hand straightened underneath the twelve. A timer disturbed the encroaching silence. Enid nearly jumped.
“It seems our time is up for today,” Dr. Lavern sighed, shuffling her papers together again. She slid the parchment into the folder. “Do remember that you are not alone, Enid. There are people struggling, too. Confide in them.”
Enid avoided looking at the woman’s face as she rose to her feet. She placed her hands firmly at her side, forcing them still against the itch to sink her claws into something and destroy it. She wordlessly walked away, ignoring the weight of the woman’s attention on her back. She opened the door at the opposite end of the room, inhaled shallowly, and trudged out the door. She was met with an empty hallway.
She wasn’t sure what was worse—feeling exposed under the whispers of her classmates or being left alone with the echoes painting the walls. Shadows crept along the walkway. She turned and made her way to the next destination, following a rigid path.
Not everyone knew the reason Enid was here.
Few outcasts knew the truth: Wednesday Addams was dead, and Enid was hearing her voice.
. . .
When Enid returned to her room, only half of it was decorated.
She stood in the doorway a moment, resting her hand against the wood. She ran her fingers over the grooves in its surface before she stepped inside and shut it behind her. The pressure of the outside world unfurled from Enid like heavy armor, and she allowed herself to buckle under the sensation.
Her knees trembled as she made her way to her bed, following the line that separated the window pane from myriads of coloration and a dull likeness. An unbidden swath of emotion countered the hardened exterior she had been building over the past hour. The next breath she took shook upon its exit.
One of the boards creaked beneath her foot. She stepped over the next one, for she knew it, too, elicited a rather unpleasant noise, and sat down on the edge of her bed.
Enid sank into it. Her body begged her eyes to fall closed, begged her to fall back onto the mattress and into a reality unlike her own, and yet she could not give what was pleaded of her. She could make no bargain. As soon as her eyes shut, as soon as an inky darkness perpetrated her vision, memories plagued its surface. It was a projector for her inner turmoil, deception disguised as repreive.
The werewolf looked down at her hands in her lap. They trembled beneath her gaze, heavy-lidded and silent. She shuffled sideways so that she could sprawl out atop of her bed. She watched a fleck of dust pirouette in the sunlight creeping through the window until it disappeared. She blinked, eyes burning and hot.
Enid sat upright. Something swept across her vision. A woodland stretched before her, its foliage creating a plethora of shapes scattered across the ground.
She glanced upward. The sky was a blackened canvas, devoid of stars. The white pinpricks—the lack thereof—were unaccompanied by their nightly sister. A red hue spread across the canopy, weaving between the trees and reflecting off of the still air.
Enid walked forward, watching the rays of scarlet light filter through the leafless branches. They swam in tendrils of thin fog, dancing in and out of its reach. A mist coated her skin, kissing her face and clinging to her hair. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. She glanced down at her feet, an uncertainty taking homage in her chest.
There was no sound.
Werewolves knew what to expect upon entering their domain, whether it be to pursue prey or solely to occupy themselves with a leisurely walk. There were signs one took into account along their trek, no matter how short.
The forest silences when the wolf enters it. The forest knows when a predator is near. Tonight, Enid was not that predator.
Something was very, very wrong.
She was the prey.
The silence lingered as Enid walked forward. Crimson washed over her figure, turning her clothes a different shade and flushing her skin. Her heart thumped in her chest. It quickened with every step. She could feel it in her throat. Its wings beat against her ribs like a caged bird. It wanted to be set free. She felt like it was going to rip out of her throat. Another step. Something rustled. Another—
Sound.
Enid didn’t have to turn in the direction it came from. It lay before her, beckoning, a path carved beyond her perception. It had been crafted with her as its subject before she ever knew it existed. The trees parted before her. There was another rustle. It sounded like a wounded animal, struggling in the brush and waiting for its demise.
She swallowed thickly. Dread crept over her like a cloud. Its lightning sent impulses into her heart. Its rain made movement difficult, even though there was nothing around Enid stopping her from walking forward. Her body lurched.
She was in her wolf form, snarling against the Hyde. She snapped her frothing jaws at its flank, her drawn mouth quivering with an unfathomable rage. Leaves sprayed around the opponents and dirt flung into the air as Enid forced the grotesque beast backward, kicking it into an abyss of red mist.
Silence drew on for another minute, occupied by the violent pumping of adrenaline through Enid’s veins. She won. She won, she protected—
The wounded sound invaded her senses again. She was stumbling blindly through unfamiliar terrain, her pale hands scrambling for purchase on her clothes as she searched with increasing urgency.
A metallic scent pervaded the area, unmistakable. Enid lifted her hands. Through the dim luminosity, she could see dark liquid coating them. When she dropped them, a gasp tore from her throat.
Wednesday was slumped against a tree, her forehead slick with sweat. Her pale hands fumbled uselessly at her side. Enid’s eyes dropped to the movement. They grasped at a blade sticking from her abdomen.
“Wednesday,” Enid breathed her name, a prayer in an unfamiliar world. She dropped to her knees and scrambled closer to the girl, her heart in her throat.
Wednesday mouthed something. Her body jerked and a cough ripped from her. Blood dripped in a line out of the corner of her mouth. Her hands fell limp at her sides. Panic rushed through Enid.
“No, no,” she whispered pleadingly, grabbing Wednesday’s hands and pressing them back around the knife, leaving her own atop them. “You have to keep pressure on it.”
Something wetted the fabric at her knees. She looked down, her vision spinning. Blood was seeping across the ground. Enid followed it back to the wound.
Enid repeated her name desperately as the seer’s eyes fluttered shut. She lifted one of her hands and patted it against Wednesday’s face. No.
“Stay awake,” she cried. Hot tears imbued her eyes. “You have to stay awake. Wednesday, please.” She made the mistake of blinking. The tears made tracks down her face.
“Wends.” Enid shuffled closer, pressing herself against Wednesday’s side and returning her other hand to the wound. She could barely see. She tasted salt on her lips. A tear fell off of her chin. She tasted blood on her lips. “Wednesday, wake up. Please, wake up. I’ll never forgive you. You can’t do this to me.”
She was begging now. She would bargain with anyone, any force. Wednesday didn’t open her eyes again. Enid leaned against the seer and allowed her to fall against her.
A sinking feeling froze the breath in her lungs. Wednesday didn’t move.
A shadow cast the pair in darkness. A rumble resounded behind Enid. She fisted the fabric of Wednesday’s jacket in her hands and leaned into her shoulder, a sob ripping from her lips. She was dead. It was her fault. She was dead. Wednesday was dead.
Wednesday was dead.
Enid sat upright with a gasp, nearly throwing herself from the edge of her bed. Her legs thrashed atop her mattress before she stilled, coming to.
She curled her claws into her comforter, her chest heaving with the effort it took to breathe. Her shoulders shook. The fabric shredded beneath her fingers. A tingling sensation overtook her, pulling her to the ground and shoving her back into a reality not unlike the one she just escaped.
Enid’s hands flew to her hair. She clenched the roots between her claws, burying her face in her knees. She stayed in that position, her lips quivering suddenly and traitorously. Stars dazzled her vision from where she pressed her eyes into her legs. A sob escaped her throat, breaking free from the lump gathering in it. She lifted her head and made the mistake of glancing across the room to the desolate half of it.
Tears gathered in her eyes and spilled over before she had the chance to react. She clenched her hand over her mouth to muffle the sound of the cry behind it. She was a fool for allowing her eyes to shut.
She fell over in her bed, unable to fight against the exhaustion overtaking her. Her body shook with the weight of her sobs. She grabbed a pillow and pulled it toward her. She screamed into it, wet and bloodcurdling and unforgiving.
Enid pulled her knees to her chest and lay there, allowing her tears to soak into the fabric. She wanted the pillow to smother her.
It didn’t matter if she heard voices.
Wednesday was dead, and she was not coming back.