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Pugsley didn’t notice when it started. You never really do, when the rot begins from the inside. Like a disease.
There wasn’t some big declaration. No big explosion. No feeling of self-hatred that struck him out of nowhere. It was just..—slow. Gentle but in the worst way. Like an infection in the cells, spreading where no one could see it. You only ever notice it when it starts to hurt.
Pugsley had learned early on that he was never going to be the Addams people talked about.
He was the other one.
Wednesday’s brother.
The less dramatic Addams. The one who smiled too easily, who didn’t carry the family’s darkness quite right. The different one from the others.
Every time someone met him for the first time, it was always the same words.
“Oh, you’re Wednesday’s brother!”
Not “You’re Pugsley.”
Not “You’re you.”
He tried to laugh it off. Said it didn’t bother him. That it was nothing. That he didn't care about it.
Because it wasn’t supposed to. He was an Addams. He was supposed to be above that kind of thing—insecurity, comparison, longing.
Want.
Addams' didn’t care about being seen. They cared about being strange. About standing out. About owning their strangeness. Caring about not caring.
But the cruel part was that Pugsley never really stood out.
Not even among the strange.
He was weird, yes—but not weird enough.
Soft where his sister was sharp. Warm where she was cold. Curious in a way that wasn’t frightening, just human.
And in a family that celebrated the strange, “human” felt like a curse.
He remembered once, years ago—Wednesday had caught him trying to make a device that created tiny sparks of electricity from static.
“Why?” she’d asked flatly.
“Because it looks pretty.” he’d said.
She’d blinked, unimpressed. “You could’ve used it to shock someone. But I suppose that wouldn’t have crossed your mind.”
It hadn’t. And that was the problem.
He wanted to be like her—he really did. The elegant way she talked, the intellect, the way she never flinched.
But when he tried, it felt like wearing someone else’s skin.
He’d stare at himself in the mirror after those moments, tilt his head, and whisper—
"What’s wrong with me?"
"Nothing." he’d tell himself—but that was just the mirror replying what he wished it would say back. Nothing was wrong. He just wasn’t right. At least, he thinks so.
He used to think maybe he was built wrong for this family.
That something went off course when they made him.
He didn’t like dissecting things just to see what broke. He liked fixing things until they worked again. He didn’t like silence. He liked the loudness of conversation, the spark of laughter. He liked making people comfortable—which, in the Addams house, was practically something that forced him to stand out. He stood out. But not in the way he wanted to.
He wasn’t haunted, or scary, or someone like Wednesday or his family.
He was just Pugsley.
And no one ever really knew what that meant.
Sometimes—he thought maybe even he didn’t.
At school, it wasn’t any better either.
He wasn’t the type of strange that fit for the outcasts of Nevermore. And he wasn’t normal enough for the normies outside of school.
He lived somewhere in between—a space too narrow for belonging, too wide for comfort.
He’d walk the halls and see how easily people chose sides. How clear their worlds seemed. Meanwhile, he kept tripping between his two halves, unable to choose which side of himself to hate more.
He wondered what it must be like—to fit somewhere. Anywhere. To not always feel like a anomaly in your own story.
He didn’t know when the mirror thing started. Maybe it was always there—this pull to look, to check, to calculate between what he was and what he was supposed to be.
He’d stare at his reflection for minutes that turned to hours, studying the faint resemblance to his family and wishing it was stronger.
He’d trace the outline of his face and think, 'wrong.' Too soft. Too alive. Too normal. Human.
He’d practice scowling like Wednesday did—that perfect blend of disdain and power.
But on him, it just looked like it was his first time showing something that wasn't a smile.
Sometimes, he’d laugh at how pathetic it was—him, talking to his reflection like it could teach him how to be someone better.
Other times, he didn’t laugh at all.
He thought about the things Wednesday had done—the chaos she caused, the brilliance behind every move she made.
He thought about how people looked at her—like she was inevitable.
And then he thought about how they looked at him—like he was background noise. Backing vocals behind someone who knew what they were singing.
His parents said they loved him. And they did. But love, it wasn’t the same as being understood. It didn’t stop the ache of feeling like a joke no one laughed at anymore.
He’d try to be different—darker, louder, more dangerous—but it always came out wrong. He was clumsy, too kind, too quick to apologize when someone got hurt. Even if it wasn't his fault.
Even his failures weren’t interesting enough.
Tonight, the mirror waited for him again.
He stood in front of it, eyes tracing his reflection—that too-normal boy trapped inside the Addams name.
He looked tired. Not just physically, but in the way you get tired of pretending.
He touched the glass, fingers cold against colder.
“You’re not good enough,” he whispered, voice almost steady. As if he accepted the fact already. “Not scary. Not like her.”
The words tasted old. Rehearsed.
He laughed, a soft, broken sound. “You’re just the spare Addams.”
He wished the mirror would argue.
He wished it would lie.
He wished it would comfort.
But it didn’t.
It just looked back—unblinking, understanding.
He thought of all the times he’d been compared to Wednesday. How people expected her cunning, her wit, her darkness in the new Addams that would come—and got him instead.
How every time he spoke, someone said—“You sound like your sister.” even when he didn’t.
He didn’t hate her. He loved her. But loving her didn’t make being in her shadow hurt less.
He pressed his forehead against the mirror, whispering so low even the house couldn’t hear:
“I wish I knew how to be someone else.”
A pause. A breath.
“I wish I knew how to like this version me.”
The glass fogged under his breath. His reflection blurred. Like him.
And he wondered, quietly—if anyone would ever notice how much he was breaking behind the jokes and smiles.
The door creaked.
He froze—straightened—wiped the expression from his face as if guilt itself had caught him.
“Pugsley?”
He turned. Eugene stood in the doorway, somewhat hidden by the dim light. His hair was messy, his expression soft with concern.
“Hey,” Pugsley said too quickly, too bright. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Eugene’s eyes flicked to the mirror, then back to him. “You’ve been standing there for a while.”
“Yeah. Just thinking.”
A beat.
Then, quieter—gentler than Pugsley expected—Eugene asked,
“You okay?”
The words hung there. Small. Bare. Sincere.
Not a demand. Not pity. Just care.
Pugsley blinked. His throat ached in a way that didn’t feel bad—just full.
He nodded, even though the truth was heavier.
Eugene didn’t press. He didn’t ask for explanations.
He just stayed there—a warm, steady shape in the doorway—until Pugsley’s reflection looked a little less like a stranger.
The mirror had never asked.
But Eugene did.
And those were the only words Pugsley ever needed to hear to know someone saw.
That they didn't need to look at the reflection of Pugsley that he tried to paint.
He saw the shaky lines, the wrong colors, the wrong him.
And he still looked at him like he was a painting in a museum.