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‘Wednesday?’
Her name sounds like a punishment. There is something very painful to be calling for Wednesday in the timid, cold dawn.
The room is freezing.
Of course, no answer. Wednesday doesn’t stir. Enid has paid careful attention, listening for the slightest movement that Wednesday may still be awake. Surely, she must be. After all that has happened in the past forty-eight hours, she thought—hoped—Wednesday wouldn’t simply just go to sleep. Tomorrow, the last few students of Nevermore go home, and Wednesday and Enid are the last few yet to pack their bags.
Enid swallows. Her chest is tight, mouth dry, she nearly loathes Wednesday for ignoring her. She only wants to tell her—I can feel his jaw around my throat, his claws deep in my stomach, please won’t you hold me?
Make him—it—all go away.
Cautiously, she removes her bed sheet and when she tries to call for Wednesday again, her voice betrays her. All that comes out is a pathetic whimper, a wounded dog in need of comforting. This is torture. It would be far easier to cry, if only she had the energy.
Enid hasn’t slept since her confrontation with Tyler.
Wednesday, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to stop sleeping.
Or, at least, pretending she doesn’t exist.
Somehow asking Wednesday to wake up is far worse than Tyler drawing blood from her face. She can still feel his teeth, deep in her cheek, her head, tearing bits and pieces off of her.
And she can still taste his flesh, too.
Enid doesn’t know how she gets to Wednesday’s bed. She isn’t sure if she levitated. Gently, she presses her hand to Wednesday’s shoulder. Wednesday is motionless, a corpse, were it not for her deep frown, suggesting Wednesday is definitely not asleep, and very much wide awake.
Just as Enid is about to call her again, Wednesday speaks in a low whisper, ‘It’s late.’
‘I— I know.’
Wednesday lazily rolls her head over to look at Enid properly. Her eyes are so dark, Enid can’t be sure what she must be thinking. Frankly, she is never sure of Wednesday and her thoughts.
There’s a long silence. It’s far too quiet. Wednesday doesn’t move. Enid doesn’t either, hand still on Wednesday’s shoulder. Her hand—it’s so small and heavy. Then, Wednesday sighs, perhaps reluctant? and, to Enid’s shock (and horror), Wednesday pushes herself further along the bed, giving Enid room to lie beside her.
‘Fine. Come.’
Enid would be a fool to think twice. She slips in beside Wednesday and—
Wednesday is so warm.
The bed is warm. Welcoming. Wednesday is warm, soft, inviting, and very much real and human and kind. Enid inhales sharply, daring herself to shimmy that much closer to Wednesday until their noses are practically touching. And she is surrounded by Wednesday’s scent, of ink and dirt and strawberry. A beautiful scent which Enid can so easily recognise and track.
A scent she loves.
She is surrounded by Wednesday and Enid could cry with relief.
‘Does it hurt?’ Wednesday whispers, although her tone is flat, monotone, disinterested.
She is referring to Enid’s wounds.
‘No… well, I— yeah, a little.’
Wednesday thinks for a moment.
‘Oh,’ she says. It’s so subtle, a small wobble in her voice.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Okay is an objective state of mind. It implies anything in this life could be adequate or acceptable. Everything is entirely inconsequential if it is okay. You don’t mean to ask me that.’
Enid exhales, already exhausted.
‘Okay.’
Wednesday looks at her. ‘Ask me what you want to ask.’
That is a very loaded question which Enid doubts Wednesday appreciates. She doesn’t know where to begin. What words to find. Her mind has gone blank. All she wants, really, is to lie beside Wednesday and forget it all. She wants Wednesday to hold her, really squeeze the life out of her, and keep her that way until the sun sets again.
Enid has nothing to lose when she tucks her head beneath Wednesday’s chin, and presses her lips to her neck. A sweet gift, one which is consuming enough for Wednesday to stop breathing.
‘Why won’t you hold me?’
It’s a good enough question. Wednesday doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t move.
Enid can feel Wednesday’s heart, mad with panic and power.
So Enid kisses her again, reaching up so her lips find Wednesday’s cheek. She trails light, gentle kisses across Wednesday’s warm face—which is wet, for some reason. Enid opens her eyes, and realises she has been crying.
Wednesday is frowning at her again, perhaps disturbed or concerned. Enid can’t be sure of which. Maybe both.
Enid drags her hands down her cheeks in an attempt to wipe away her tears. It doesn’t seem to work, because the tears don’t stop.
‘Sorry, I—‘ Enid sniffs, ‘I have a twig or a rock in my eyes.’
Wednesday grabs her. It’s so possessive, so wanting and fierce and home, how she holds Enid so close to her body. Both arms wrap around Enid, and she presses her face to hers; her knuckles have gone white from holding Enid so tight.
It’s almost impossible for Enid to breathe, but she doesn’t care. She scrunches her eyes shut, and lets Wednesday hold her. Finally, hold her. They stay like this for hours, it seems, in fact Enid isn’t sure if she’s falling into a dream.
Until she feels Wednesday’s fingers ever so delicately dance across her wounded face, broken nose, torn lip.
‘I’m sorry.’
Enid presses her forehead to Wednesday’s, the most relaxed she has felt in her life.
‘I know you are,’ she whispers, her voice so soft Wednesday needs to take a breath.
Enid wants Wednesday closer. All of her, closer. She wants her mouth, her body, all of her, but it’s all still so raw. The battle throbs in her mind, and Enid thinks this—Wednesday and her embrace—is just all she can handle right now.
They lie together, tangled, Wednesday’s nose buried in her hair, and Enid’s head pressed to Wednesday’s chest. Eyes shut, bodies alive, and the night is theirs alone to heal.