Chapter Text
Wednesday’s trip into Jericho had been… rousing. At last, she had been separated from that thorn in her side named Enid Sinclair. Unfortunately, she had failed to escape the clutches of Nevermore. Her chances had looked promising, easily sneaking out of the therapist’s office and making a clean getaway to the cafe across the town square. Unfortunately, even the mop-top barista serving time behind the espresso machine had refused to help her, citing his own criminal past and “not wanting to get in trouble again.” His adherence to the law was spineless and naive.
Now, Weems walked her to her door in Ophelia Hall. The principal inhaled the stale air of the hallway. “It’s always nice visiting this dorm. It reminds me of when I shared a room with your mother,” she commented idly.
“Don’t try to bond with me. It is unbecoming at best, and at worst it is pathetic,” Wednesday sniped. If she was to be separated from her family, the least these miscreants could do was let her stay separated instead of reminding her of her legacy status in every waking moment. Weems’ smile faded at the edges like a photograph left out in direct sunlight.
“Miss Addams, Nevermore is to be like a second home to its students, and that includes you.” She held out one hand, palm up, to guide Wednesday up the stairs. The psychic smacked her hand away and was greeted with a sensation that had eluded her since her time at Nancy Reagan High.
Her head whipped back and eyes opened wide, unseeing. A sequence of flashes overtook her vision: herself looking into a mirror and closely examining her face, which was soon eclipsed by an achingly familiar hand skittering across recognizable wooden floorboards, followed by none other than Enid, sailing over a balcony and into the open air, her blue eyes shocked and wide.
Wednesday blinked from where she had fallen. The concerned face of her principal hovered above her and she glared up at it. The older woman knelt at her side, supporting her neck as the vision passed. The psychic quickly sat up and brushed her hand aside. The gesture of being held was far too familiar, far too motherly to be tolerated for a second longer.
Wednesday blinked back the sensation of overwhelming fear. She had felt her skin ripple off of her bones. It didn’t hurt, but the grotesque unfamiliarity of being in a body that didn’t fit her made an emotion rise up at the back of her throat. She choked it down with an angry shudder. Discomfort could be tolerated and even enjoyed, but the fear must be dismissed.
Weems tilted her head to the side, silently watching the young girl come back to herself. “You had a vision,” she stated. Wednesday glared at her through her bangs. “Your mother would sit dazed for hours, entirely in a world of her own. Are you all right?”
Her reply was a gruff, “I’m going to my room.” Wednesday was going to be free from her bodyguard, and in a spectacular fashion, too. She nearly grinned at the good news she had just received. She skulked up the narrow staircase and opened the door to her room.
She froze in the doorway.
The first thing she saw was that there were papers everywhere . She took inventory: Her blankets tossed aside all across the floor. Her gramophone’s horn removed and the crank ripped off. Her clothes that she had painstakingly sorted – off-black to true black – lay in a crumpled pile at her closet door. Her cello sulked in the corner, its bow’s strings snapped. Her typewriter .
Standing over her desk was that girl that Wednesday had assumed would be an annoyance, at most. Enid held the typewriter at head-height and shook it, peering into the space where keys met paper. She shook it, hard , grunting in frustration.
Her typewriter .
“Enid,” Wednesday spat.
Enid whipped around, and Wednesday could finally see the frenzied look in her eyes. Her blue eyes were bloodshot and furious . “You.” She slammed the typewriter down on the desk and it took everything to repress her gasp into a flinch.
Her typewriter .
Enid stalked forward, one halting step after another, to the psychic standing stock-still in the doorway. Wednesday couldn’t breathe , she couldn’t move, she couldn’t think. Enid’s claws flexed out a little bit further with each ragged breath. “I am away from you for no more than one hour, and not only do you make an escape attempt, but you beat up three people in the attempt.” Her words came out in stuttering huffs. Her teeth, though blunt, were bared in a grimace.
“What did you do to my room?” is all Wednesday could think to ask. At least, in a voice that wasn’t an unintelligible howl.
“It’s our room,” Enid scowled. “Entirely under my purview to confiscate weapons. If you’re beating up normies when you’re unarmed, I’m making sure there’s no chance in hell you’ve anything worse than your own two fists.”
Enid jerked a thumb over her shoulder. Wednesday’s eyes landed on an unceremonious pile by the window. Eight of Wednesday’s knives, her second favorite crossbow, a collection of noxious vials – a gift from Grandmama – and her umbrella sans scabbard sat in a haphazard heap.
Wednesday didn’t need those. She had three weapons strapped to her person at all times, and she was an excellent combatant with improvised weapons. Her eyes drifted to what did matter. Her typewriter sat, sad and akimbo, one corner hanging off of her desk. Wednesday’s eyes flicked to Enid’s face, and she schooled her features into a stony glare. Threats were best delivered with a cool head.
She did not try to hide the venom in her voice. “Listen to me, right now. If you know what’s good for you, you will never touch my typewriter again.”
“No, you listen to me,” Enid growled. She grabbed the lapels of Wednesday’s uniform and hoisted her off her feet. The toes of her boots barely scraped the floor. “You are not ruining this for me, pipsqueak. You are not going to have a single moment away from me. You won’t be able to breathe funny without my finding out about it.” The werewolf’s blue eyes burned achingly hot against Wednesday’s skin. This girl loathed her. Wednesday would give her something worth loathing.
Wednesday spit in Enid’s face.
Enid flinched back, shaking Wednesday with the motion. She blinked the spit out of her eyes. She snarled, “You aren’t leaving my sight.” And she tossed Wednesday into the room like she weighed absolutely nothing.
Wednesday didn’t bother shielding her fall. She slumped on the floor. What was she supposed to do? Her family was far, far away, her privacy had been completely desecrated on every spiritual, emotional, and physical level, and the girl glued to her side despised her. This wolf would do anything to make sure Wednesday submitted; that much had been made crystal clear.
In an act of tactical retreat, Wednesday stood, brushed the wrinkles out of her skirt, and picked up her quilt. Enid watched from where she had thrown Wednesday. Her claws flexed in and out. Her breathing had slowed but still came in stuttering heaves. Even with the sun shining, Wednesday ambled to her bed and crawled in. Her shoes were still on.
A cloud of down feathers poof ed up around her as she dropped her head to the pillow. Enid must have found her shiv in the lining. Wednesday closed her eyes and, for once in her life, wished that this nightmare would end.