Chapter Text
“I’ve never experienced problems writing before.”
“As in, writer’s block?”
Writer’s block. The wretched term. Wednesday, never once in her years of writing, has come face to face with the monster that plagues many others in her passion. Her own skills were never limited in her own mind; why would they be limited on paper?
“If that’s the way you see it, then yes,” she replies curtly.
The therapist has the gall to lean back in the chair and hum, as though she needs to show Wednesday that she’s really thinking about it. She can read through the lies.
“If I can dig a little deeper here, what are you writing about?”
“You’re not aware?”
It was easy to assume the new headmaster, the one who ordered her and some of her schoolmates to attend a new therapist, had given up her information. She remembers Kimbott asking about her novel, having read bits of it that her old therapists managed to sneak from her:
"I was sent the manuscripts as part of your psych evaluation."
“I know from your files that you’re interested in writing, and potentially becoming an author,” Dr. Bowman, the therapist, explains. “Is that correct?”
Wednesday slides her eyes to the wall behind the therapist’s head.
“I never read any of your writing, if that’s what you’re implying.”
Her tone sounds sincere. Perhaps she is exactly what she says she is. Perhaps it’s raining cats and dogs outside the building as they speak.
“My goal isn’t to threaten your privacy.”
Wednesday buries a scoff in her chest, picking at the fabric of her jacket that rests near her knee. “Therapy is the thief of privacy.”
“I’m only here to talk about what you want to bring up. This process is meant to help you, Wednesday.”
She’s heard this phrase at least once in every session. She hears it from her parents and the new headmaster and her friends. If it was truly her choice, she wouldn’t be sitting in the chair, staring at the pale pink walls and bland furniture in the first place.
“It’s really meant to help you work through what happened last semester, and to-”
“I don’t need to work through anything,” she interrupts.
The therapist pauses scribbling in the notepad; it’s much smaller than Kimbott’s. Almost too small to be useful in any way. She watches the therapist flip through tens of pages during their sessions.
What a waste of resources.
“Let’s steer the conversation back to what you're writing about. Can you explain a little?”
Even if Dr. Bowman’s just probing for information, talking about her own writing is significantly more interesting than trying to drag her feelings - nonexistent ones, might she add- about last semester out.
“The sequel to my novel. My first iteration covers a lone detective solving a murder in a corrupt town. The second one is supposed to cover the confrontation and punishment of the people responsible.”
“Who is the detective?”
Wednesday stumbles a bit. “A teenager named Viper De La Muerte.”
“When did you start experiencing trouble in writing?”
“Around the time break ended.”
“And you never had issues with this before?”
“No,” she bites out.
The therapist shuts her notebook with a snap. Her face flips from plastered smiles to a straight face and Wednesday sobers at the change.
“Do you want my honest opinion?”
“I think you’ll give it to me no matter what I say.”
“You’re a very passionate and dedicated girl. It seems that you don’t have any problems expressing yourself, from what you’ve told me and from what I’ve heard from others. Your novel is an exaggerated reflection of your life; almost an autobiography, if you will. You can correct me if I’m wrong, especially since I haven’t read it-”
"It's become my own personal looking glass."
Wednesday bites her tongue. A part of her knows there’s nothing to correct.
“- but now that you’re trying to write about the events of last semester and onward, your brain is having a hard time processing. You can’t express what you refuse to comprehend, and that’s scaring you. Does that sound plausible?”
Wednesday keeps her eyes locked on the therapist, who still holds a serious face. There’s nothing friendly and cheerful about her tone, about her posture, about her eyes. It’s all focused and analytical.
She doesn’t know which she prefers.
“I think you do have things to work through, Ms. Addams.” The therapist leans back in her chair, letting a softer smile drift onto her face. “And lucky for you, this is just the place to do it.”
An alarm rings off on Dr. Bowman’s clock.
“Oh! Looks like our time for today is up. I’ll be seeing you later in the week, right?”
Wednesday doesn’t reply, doesn’t make eye contact, doesn’t give anything else. She grabs her backpack with a rough quickness, control starting to slip from her own frustration.
She doesn’t say anything more as she storms out of the room, Bowman’s voice carrying through the closing door with a, “have a good few days!”
///
The blank page glares at her. There’s not a single dot of black ink on the page, though the keys are lined.
It’s a taunt, she thinks. So much potential, yet nothing is forming.
She has stood up and sat down for the last half hour, pacing around the room between staring sessions. She finds every break she takes makes it worse. Her thought process becomes more jumbled, more fragmented.
What am I even trying to write here?
The plot is simple; it’s a direct continuation from her first novel, one she’s come to love dearly. Viper solves the murder mystery right at the end, finally deducing who the killer was all along between betrayals and trivial trials.
She should continue with the setup she left for herself: Viper goes to confront the killer and winds up learning of another person behind the scenes. She faces them both down, managing to deal damage and avoid damage herself-
Her stomach burns. It’s a small hotness, a small pulsing, but it’s enough to make her hands twitch from where they sit just barely in the air above the keys.
The train of thought she had vanishes before she can get her limbs under control.
She begins again: Viper goes to confront the two killers, her enemies for the past few months. She’s fighting side by side with an unexpected ally, one she has begrudgingly come to respect-
“Wednesday?”
Gone again is her outline. She has to suppress a growl at the small voice, until she realizes the person is right at her side. Her chair spins around.
“You good?”
“Good afternoon, Enid,” she greets, trying to cover up her frustration over writing. Enid must see right through her crafted stoic face, because-
“Writing still giving you trouble?”
She sighs, letting herself relax back as Enid walks to her own side of the shared dorm. “Unfortunately.”
Enid has already seen her fight to come up with something to write. They’ve been back at Nevermore for two weeks now. Crackstone’s rampage was barely over a month ago now.
“Did you have therapy today? I remember you saying you were going to ‘consult some people for advice,’” Enid asks, air quoting as she lowers her voice to mock Wednesday’s words earlier that week.
“I did. It was a waste of my time and my breath,” she says. “I’ll have to look elsewhere.”
Enid doesn’t reply, only hums. She moves to the wardrobe and Wednesday spins back to face her desk as the girl changes out of her school uniform.
There’s a certain air of comfort between the two now. Long gone is the delicate air of angst they held the previous semester. Wednesday doesn’t recall a specific moment it changed, only that it really became noticeable after-
“You want to be alone, Wednesday? Be alone.”
Something changed. She remembers telling the blonde that she evolved.
(Did she really? When she’s sitting here, unable to write; devolving would be a better term.)
“Well,” Enid says, walking towards the door. Wednesday’s attention is pulled in her direction. “I was going to get a hot coffee from the Weathervane. Wanna join?”
She doesn’t even enjoy coffee that much. She should keep sitting at this desk until at least a sentence appears on the paper.
“I’ll grab a coat.”
///
“So,” Dr. Bowman begins. Wednesday has to fight to keep her eyes from rolling out of her head at the first syllable spoken. “Did you make any progress on your sequel?”
She chooses not to answer. Either way, avoiding or answering, the therapist will know she’s failed to write even a single word. At least this way, she can keep some of her dignity.
“I’ll take that as a no,” Bowman answers. “Why do you think you’re having trouble?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be sitting here, wasting my time,” she cuts. The therapist frowns.
“Did you consider what I mentioned last time? About working through the events of last semester?”
“Did you consider what I mentioned? That I have nothing to work through?”
Bowman clicks her tongue, scribbling something onto the paper. Wednesday takes the short time of silence to glance at the clock.
She still has thirty minutes left.
The therapist finishes writing, opting to stare at her instead of speaking. Wednesday rarely finds things awkward, but the tight tension in the room is nothing but uncomfortable.
And not the good kind, either.
“Let’s look at your writing struggle in a different way. Have you been exercising?”
Wednesday didn’t expect the topic to change so suddenly. She’s weary of the new tactic of dragging out information, but she has no reason to doubt it. Yet.
“Nothing less than before. I fence almost every day in the afternoon.”
“How about eating?”
“Adequate.”
“Drinking?”
“These questions seem trivial,” she huffs. The therapist ignores her.
“How about sleeping?”
“I’m…” she trails off, out of her control. Shit, she slips in her mind. Bowman raises an eyebrow. “It’s adequate.”
“Is that an honest answer?”
She hates lying almost as much as she hates telling the truth to this clown of a therapist. Her statement isn’t untrue, she knows. She has been sleeping… just, less deeply.
“It’s very common to have difficulties with sleeping after going through a traumatic event.”
Wednesday opts to stare at the wall. The clock glares at her tauntingly, making her wish time would speed up.
“Have you talked to any of your friends about this?”
“I don’t have friends,” she’s quick to retort, eyes back on target.
“Not to sound contradictory, but I highly doubt that.”
“I have none. Believe what you wish. You’re only wasting your own time.”
“Very well, but you mean to tell me there’s not a single person you care about- not a single person you’ve come to rely on after a semester at Nevermore?”
Faces flip through her head before she can shut it down: Bianca, a rival; Ajax, frustrating; Xavier, pathetic; Weems, dead; Kimbott, dead; Thornhill, dead; Tyler, a monster and a liar; Enid-
“What part of none are you not comprehending?”
The therapist tilts her head. “It’s just surprising to me. You risked your life on multiple occasions to save a school that houses not a single person you like. Why do it then?”
Why do it?
She ponders the questions with more thought. Why? Nevermore wasn’t her idea. Talking to anyone outside of the family wasn’t her idea.
“The school and the murder mystery were wrapped in years of lies. I’m nothing if not good at uncovering truths. It intrigued me.”
Dr. Bowman hums, writing something down. Her face conveys disbelief. Wednesday feels something tiny inside of herself, a small ounce of the same.
Why did she save the school?
///
“Your form is shit, Addams.”
Her fencing sword makes contact with Bianca’s.
“And yet, I’m still beating you,” she huffs, pushing her top weight into the blade and pushing the other girl back.
They parry back and forth, moving down the mat in a unified motion. Her arms burn with each motion. They’d been going for almost an hour now, though she would never be the one to be tired first.
“Think again,” Bianca says, and Wednesday immediately realizes what the girl is planning. It’s too late; her front foot goes to overcompensate the force she’s pushing up with, and it slips.
She’s on her back before she can blink. The impact makes her stomach and shoulder pulse, only for a moment, but it’s enough to make her heart race. Her muscles relax on the ground.
She feels pathetic. She feels weak.
“You okay?” Bianca asks, dropping her fencing helmet as she walks closer. Wednesday assumes she looks just as bad as she feels, laying flat on the floor for a minute or so, because Bianca’s looking over her like she’s a-
“You look like a corpse.”
“I try.”
Bianca huffs, holding a hand out. “Of course.”
Wednesday, still feeling the phantom of a pain across her body, takes the hand offered. She’s pulled up faster than her feet can be placed beneath her, leaving her stumbling awkwardly.
Everything feels out of control. God, if she lost her sanity years ago then what is she losing now?
Her saber is laying on the ground only a few feet away, shining into her eyes from the sunlight glinting in the window. She walks over to grab it, Bianca waiting on the other side of the mat.
Her breath comes out fast, reeling from the workout. The air starts to escape her:
The metal sword sits broken in her hands. The fire behind casts a warm glow onto the stubbed blade, casting a speck of light onto her face.
Crackstone takes her moment of- as much as she hates to admit it- surprise to cast his staff forward, similar to how he did upon resurrection.
Her breath is stolen. The air pulses around her, suffocating, and she’s thrown to the floor. A phantom of a pain shoots across her body, first to her stomach and then to the arrow-
“Earth to Wednesday,” Bianca yells, snapping her fingers in the air. Wednesday snaps her eyes from the blade, staring into the siren’s light blue eyes with a vengeance. “What are you doing?”
“I’m planning how to beat you in the next match,” she explains when Bianca looks between her and the floor. By Bianca’s tone, she was looking at the fencing sword for a bit.
“There’s not going to be another match. We’re done.”
“Scared to lose?” she taunts.
“Ha,” Bianca lets out a short, one breath laugh. “Nice deflecting.”
Wednesday picks up the sword and follows Bianca to a bench nearby, where water bottles await them.
“Excuse me?”
Bianca sighs, taking a sip of water. “Your stubborn ass never knows when to stop. You look exhausted.”
“Hardly. We’ve practiced for longer before.”
“Yeah,” Bianca emphasizes, “when you don’t look like the walking dead.”
The siren’s eyes scan over Wednesday’s form. She’s never been self-conscious, but the pale blue eyes seem to look deeper through her than just her physical appearance.
“You would rather make up excuses than admit you were too scared to lose,” Wednesday tries. Bianca just barks out a concerned laugh.
“Whatever makes you sleep at night- which is what you need to do. Go to bed.”
Bianca is walking out the door before she can rebuttal anything more.
Her therapist’s words sink into her head, the ones about her sleeping struggle. First her noticing, and now Bianca. It’s pathetic.
She leaves the room, dragging her gear over her back, with heavy eyes and a frustration in her body.
///
Despite her sour mood from her fencing session being cut off, she attempts to write- to squeeze any ideas that may have arisen during the day.
By the time Enid returns from a night out with Ajax, over an hour after Wednesday sat down at her desk, no progress is made. There are whispers coming from outside the door; Enid is trying to talk quietly but failing, giggling under her breath as Ajax shushes her.
Annoyance floods her veins at the ridiculousness of it all: the blank paper mocking her from the desk and the incessant romantic chatter from the hallway.
At least Enid has the courtesy to keep it out of their room.
There have been many times where Wednesday has entered the room and become caught up in some emotional talk, disgusting displays of affection, or other- none of which have been pleasant.
Wednesday doesn’t even attempt to write on those days.
The door slams as the blonde walks in, tucking a jacket onto their shared coat rack near the entrance of the room. Wednesday’s attention pulls back to the typewriter, avidly trying to look like she wasn't just eavesdropping.
“I thought you’d be asleep by now,” Enid states quietly, approaching her side of the room. Footsteps creak under the old wood. “How was fencing?”
“It was cut short,” she replies, turning away from the page. Enid stands there, face a little red from what Wednesday hates to assume is excitement or nervousness from her now-gone boyfriend. “Where were you?”
“Ajax took me to this nice Italian restaurant in Jericho. It was super busy and apparently only takes reservations, which made it even nicer.” Enid’s face brightens as she speaks. “There were super cute lights hung on the inside and the food was so good- I probably ate way too much but the full moon is in a few days and I was starving . We have to go back sometime!”
And go to a place he took you to? No thanks.
“Sounds amazing,” she says, maybe a little drier than she meant. Enid doesn’t seem to notice, opting to lean over her shoulder.
“No luck still?”
“Not yet.”
Enid’s hand rests on her shoulder, a gentle yet firm pressure. The same one that just wrapped around Ajax’s moments prior. Wednesday feels her heart slip for just a second; Bianca was right about her being tired.
“I’m sure you’ll get your spark again soon, and you’ll be back to writing your sequel in no time!”
Her inability to write has been making her desperate the past few weeks, pathetically desperate, and she shoves away any desire she might’ve had to continue this conversation.
“It’s time to go to sleep,” she grits out quickly, breaking the delicate and- for lack of a better word- icky air that surrounded the two. Her shoulder feels hot, almost just like the way it felt when the arrow-
“Oh, okay.” Enid pulls her hand away quickly.
They get ready for bed. Wednesday pretends to fall asleep, and stays silent until Enid’s breath evens out.
She doesn’t truly sleep at all.
///
“What do you remember feeling that night?”
God, not again.
“Same old questions, I know,” the therapist continues. Wednesday has a suspicion, only for a moment, that she’s a mind reader. “But the only way to begin to work through these things is to talk about them.”
“I felt satisfaction,” she answers. Dr. Bowman raises her eyebrows. “I solved the mystery that every person attempted to stop me from solving. I then stopped an undead pilgrim from destroying the school.”
Ironic.
“I see. That does sound rewarding.”
Wednesday stumbles. Agreement?
“Let’s get more specific, though. Walk me through what happened after you had your final vision.”
“I planned an intervention to capture the Hyde.” Tyler. They kissed. The bloody vision of Kimbott, Tyler there, feasting with-
“Alone?”
Her eyes slide downward, just a bit. “No.”
“What did you feel at that moment? When you discovered it was him?”
“I-”
Tyler. The monster. He hurt Eugene. He wrapped his greedy tendrils in her mind- the dance, the coffee, the movie-
“I did not feel. Not anything more than satisfaction at figuring out the truth,” she states, as honestly as she could muster. The therapist squints her eyes.
“It didn’t make you feel anything? Even though he was your friend before?”
He helped her. He engaged with her. He made her feel-
“Nothing.”
Bowman scribbles more on the page, flipping it twice to fill front and back. Such a waste.
“Okay, thank you for telling me that,” she says, voice inflated with pitious smiles. “Now, what happened next?”
“We…”
Tyler. She talked to Weems. Enid was gone. Enid was back. Crying. The station. Close. The blood. The moon, Thornhill, Enid, Thing bleeding, swords and arrows, angry, red, fighting, pain-
“Wednesday?”
She snaps her head forward. Her neck felt stuck, dancing the line of vision and reality. She hasn’t felt this way in a while. She hasn’t had a vision in a while.
“It seemed like you zoned out for a second. Are you alright?”
“I’m horrid.” The therapist frowns. “I still have ten minutes left in this room.”
That, at least, seemed to get Dr. Bowman to back off. She stumbles to answer the question given before. Bowman must have the patience of a fly or she hates silences, because then she’s talking before Wednesday can formulate a response.
“Have you tried journaling before?”
The lack of response is an answer in itself.
“Journaling can be super insightful when trying to process events like these…”
Like these. Like a delectable mystery, a twisting night, a bloody-
“Especially if you have a hard time remembering everything.”
She can remember it all. Every detail, fixed. It was a busy night, is all, she reasons, with everything coming to a head.
If a few details slip here or there, no one can blame her.
“Here.” The therapist shuffles something off of her side table and holds it out.
A black notebook. Nothing on the front or back, clean white sheets filling the inside. Against her own will, her hands reach for it.
“This journal is completely empty and completely private. No one will read it- not even me.”
“What exactly am I supposed to do with this? I already have a typewriter.”
“It’s not for writing your novel. I want you to spend time the next few weeks writing down everything you can remember about that night: how you felt, people around you, anything sensory you remember. Or, even things that happen in your daily life. Journaling is proven to be effective in reconciling with things that….”
Her brain zones out again, the therapist's voice sounding eerily similar to white noise. Stupid- the whole thing seems utterly stupid and a waste of time, but-
“You could ask in therapy. Don’t you have it tomorrow?”
“I’ve already been twice. Her advice is useless.”
Enid sighs, sitting on the bed. She takes a sip from her coffee cup, drinking the last few drops.“It’s been helping me. Maybe you just need to be more open to it.”
Wednesday scoffs, turning the light off.
“If you are, maybe it’ll help to write again,” Enid finishes before turning to face the opposing wall and drifting off to sleep.
It winds up in her backpack, and she leaves with it. She’s desperate to continue her novel.
///
The journal sits untouched on her desk for three days after the session. She honestly almost forgets about it until Enid asks:
“What’s that notebook? I’ve never seen you use it before.”
“Hm?” She hums from her bed, engrossed in a new book her mother mailed to her: a limited point-of-view murder mystery novel. Reading it is an attempt at getting re-inspired to break this writer’s block that is overstaying its welcome.
It’s late in the night, closer to midnight. Usually both girls would find sleep much earlier, but Wednesday went exploring with Thing and Enid stayed out late with Ajax. It is a weekend, though, so sleep could be found at other times.
It doesn’t come easy for Wednesday regardless.
“The black notebook.”
She looks up at Enid’s continuation to find the blonde pointing at the wretched notebook.
“It’s supposed to be a journal. From therapy. I don’t see how a journal could help anything, though-”
“Oh! I have a journal, too,” Enid interrupts, running from her bed to her backpack thrown against the wall. Wednesday can’t control the closing click of her jaw. “I write a lot of random things in it... mostly plans for homework and stuff.”
She opens her journal up. The colors are almost blinding; each page filled with a variety of colored text, glued-in pictures, drawings, and stickers.
“It’s…”
“Cool right!” Enid smiles from behind where she holds it out.
“Hm,” she replies back. “I haven’t used mine yet.”
“Why not?”
“I only have it because it was given to me. It’s supposed to help me write again, but…” she goes quiet. “I’m unsure of how.”
“You could just ask your therapist what she had in mind, you know. I’m sure it’ll help you write again if you use it right.”
She hums.
“You could borrow any of my supplies if you want. I have a lot.”
“I think if I did that, I would go blind.” She watches Enid put the notebook away, opening a drawer full of supplies and burns the location into her memory.
“Whatever. I’m getting up to turn my lights off,” Enid laughs, reaching for her light switch. “Do you want me to turn off your lamp?”
“Leave it on,” she responds without looking, flipping the page of her book.
“It’s almost one.” The moon is shining through the window.
“Good observation.”
“Don’t you want to go to sleep?” Enid approaches where she lays. The page flips with a sharp snapping sound.
“I’m reading.”
She has no desire to sleep. Not when her stomach feels a little sore and her typewriter collects dust.
Enid, in a move bolder than she expects from the girl, places her hands on the top of the book.
“You can read tomorrow, you know,” she says, a little stern and confused- a swarm of bravery and treading boundary lines, Wednesday can see.
She tries to pull the book away but the werewolf’s hands are holding tighter than they appear.
“I’m not tired,” Wednesday explains again, “and so I’d like to pass the time reading.”
Enid stares at her, strong and unwavering, as if she’s deciding what to say, rotating options in her mind. Wednesday can almost hear the gears turning in the girl’s head.
“Bianca told me you left fencing early the other day.”
“Not by choice,” she retorts, confused on where the conversation is going. Enid looks both nervous and concerned, and it’s agitating.
“Yeah,” Enid starts slowly, “she said you seemed really tired though. And she said it’s happened more than once since school started.”
Wednesday is silent, anger simmering beneath. Who is Bianca to share this information with her roommate who is utterly too worrisome?
“What’s your point?” Her tone is more biting than she intended, and Enid recoils her hands.
“I… I just wanted to know if you were sleeping okay.”
“It’s adequate. And even if it wasn’t, that’s none of your business.”
“Really? After everything that happened.”
Enid leans back, crossing her arms over her chest. Wednesday tries to flip the pages, ignorant to the other person in the room, but her eyes can’t focus on the words she’s reading. A huff escapes the girl, who hasn’t moved an inch since approaching the bed.
“It’s okay to not be okay,” Enid says gently and quietly, far too nice compared to the arguments just previous. “I had trouble sleeping after last semester.”
Wednesday knows. Enid would often call in the middle of the night- sometimes Wednesday would be awake to answer and other times she’d be greeted with a slew of messages in the morning- during the break between semesters.
She expects that from the werewolf, being overly emotional, and she expects that from her peers, naive to the situation. Not from herself.
Enid sits on the edge of the bed, wrinkling the sheets beneath her. Her neck tingles, just a bit, and suddenly:
Her whole body aches.
They’ve made it back to the dorm from the infirmary. Enid is sluggish in her movements, of which are mostly restricted with the gauze that wraps her back and arms.
Her stomach burns, though there’s no wound. Her shoulder can barely be felt over the soreness of everything else and the beating in her heart.
“I’m going to bed,” the werewolf slurs, before stumbling on top of her colorful bed.
Wednesday watches with half-lidded eyes, making her own way to the edge of Enid’s bed. She sits gently on the corner, sheets wrinkling beneath.
Enid’s breaths are shallow, from exhaustion or injury, she doesn’t know. The soft wheezing keeps her awake for as long as her body can hold out.
Her own bed is cold. If she could just lay down next to the girl and close her eyes, sleep would come.
Instead, her voice stays frozen and she doesn’t ask to lay down. Her feet take her away, back to the monotone coloring of her own bed, and she stays planted feet away from the girl.
Her ears train on the girl’s breathing, if only to make sure she’s not lying dead in the bed. The nurses let her leave, but when does she ever trust them? She lies awake, fighting, until her eyes slip shut, a turbulent and dreamless sleep taking her away.
“Hey.”
Wednesday blinks, trying to shake away the growing nausea. Enid’s hand is on her shoulder and she pulls back.
“You okay?”
“I…” Enid stares at her, but for once it doesn’t make her clam up. “Since being back at school, I’ve had… difficulties with sleeping compared to before.”
The werewolf’s face frowns just a bit. She almost braces for more questions, ones about things she doesn’t even know herself, when Enid only asks one thing.
“Do you want to sleep with me tonight?”
Wednesday crinkles the page under her fingers. The girl in front of her immediately catches it, swinging her hands out defensively.
“I just- when I had a hard time I usually wanted to be with someone else. I know you’re… different than that, but I thought-”
The rambling makes her headache worse.
“Fine,” she answers in a moment of ineptitude, when other words fail.
Enid’s frown morphs into something sickeningly sweet and she looks back at the book.
“Really?”
“Take the win.”
With that, she gets up and heads to the other side of the room. God, she must really be losing it. Enid follows her, almost stepping on her heels, until they reach the bed.
“O-okay!”
The lights flick off after the werewolf runs to the switch. They get into the bed silently, the only sound in the room coming from rustling blankets and Thing walking around the room.
“Good night,” Enid says, before laying on her side.
Wednesday keeps her eyes on the ceiling, arms crossed and legs straight. The girl’s bed is degrees softer than her own stiff one, but for once, she doesn’t find herself hating it.
Minutes pass. Her eyes adjust to the lack of lights and she traces the shadows casted in the room from moonlight. She’s more relaxed than she’s felt in weeks when she starts to feel a stare.
“I can feel you looking at me,” she says dryly. The burning feeling on the side of her head doesn’t disappear.
“Yeah, I’m… I’m just making sure you fall asleep first. I don’t want you to be alone.”
Alone…
“You want to be alone, Wednesday? Be alone.”
“You can go to sleep now.” I don’t know if I will sleep.
“I meant what I said,” Enid says, firmer, and Wednesday doesn’t have the heart to argue.
The sheets ruffle and Wednesday feels the girl’s arm reach forward.
Enid’s hand is centimeters from her arm, heat spreading through the air. The feeling is almost equivalent to a magnet, poles pulling together. Wednesday’s veins feel hot and she tries to focus back on the ceiling.
“It’s your hill to die on.”
The room falls silent again, but even if there was noise, Wednesday doesn’t think she could focus on anything other than the tingling feeling in her arm and the burn on her face.
Sleep takes her, but she doesn’t remember when.
///
She wakes up feeling a little more rested than before. Enid smiles at her, already dressed and ready for the day.
At the blinding joy, she can’t make herself feel upset about it.
///
Ask about the journal.
That’s the only objective she has for this session- not to answer redundant questions or to ask for writing advice.
“You could just ask your therapist what she had in mind, you know. I’m sure it’ll help you write again if you use it right.”
Just the journal.
“So, we left off-”
“You gave me the journal last session,” Wednesday interrupts, wasting not a second.
She’s not one for patience anyways.
The therapist stumbles a bit. “Uh, yes. I did.”
“You said,” she fishes in her memory, “it’s supposed to help me write.”
“Yes,” Dr. Bowman replies. “In theory. It’s supposed to be a way for you to document feelings you had towards the events of last semester- anything you remember using your senses. Working through those things should help you start to write again.”
Great. Feelings towards last semester.
“It can also be a place for daily thoughts. It’s really geared towards whatever you want, really.”
“How is that supposed to help my writing?”
“Well, many famous artists kept journals or diaries to write about things outside of their studio that inspired them- like poems on the environment or short stories about people they met. Or just a way to externalize thoughts to get the creative process going.”
Helpful advice, she admits.
“If you’re having a hard time remembering things from the past, writing what you know can help too.”
Not as helpful.
///
“So, you need to bring it around with you and write things about… what exactly?”
“A lot of classical artists did this. I think it can be about anything.” Sights, sounds, tastes… memories.
“And doing that is supposed to help you write again?” Enid asks, leaning in closer.
Their faces are inches apart, sitting on Enid’s bed. Wednesday hates that she notices.
“Apparently,” she snarks. “Though, I don’t know how accurate that is.”
Enid jumps from the bed, almost startling her and rustling the sheets. “What are we waiting for then? Let’s go!”
“Go?” she asks with confusion leaking into her tone. Enid only looks more excited, turning to the window.
“Outside. We can walk to Jericho and explore until you can write something.”
“I thought you were visiting Ajax later,” Wednesday questions, recalling a statement from the girl only a few hours earlier, before her therapy session.
The werewolf runs to where she sits on the bed, pulling her up. She allows it while the girl bounces in place.
“I’ll call and cancel- you have to go try and write!”
And, with a quick text to Ajax, a grab of two coats and a newly made black snood, they head outside into the snow.
///
They start by walking through the school, passing dorm rooms, hallways, the Edgar Allan Poe statue, the balcony where the infamous sword rested on- she pauses for a moment when she looks at the empty holder, but moves on quickly when nothing comes to mind- and find no luck.
Enid suggests they walk to the Quad and talk to some classmates-
“They’re friends, Wednesday,” Enid corrects.
She denies, turning to go outside, towards the lake.
“I can’t wait for next year’s Poe Cup already.”
Wednesday just hums, pulling the notebook from her jacket pocket.
The lake is a pretty view, especially with this weather. Melted snow rests along the shore line and the water is a deep blue, reflecting the tall trees that surround the area. The dock sits barren.
The whole view is peaceful, and Wednesday feels inspired by the bleakness of it all. Describing the environment could help her create a certain air for her book.
Enid stands at her side, breathing out deeply. Her breath appears in a small, faint cloud.
“I wonder when spring’ll start to come.”
“Within the next few weeks,” Wednesday answers, and points to the little vegetation that’s starting to grow.
A bright green piece of grass- most likely a weed, actually- stands tall between the sullen browns of the dead plants around. Enid walks closer to it, pink jacket contrasting the white snow.
The itch to write grows.
Taking a deep breath, she manages to write a bit when Enid turns away, running off to the edge of the lake. She’s self aware enough to know that Enid knows she’s journaling, but is grateful that the werewolf doesn’t comment.
Her pride has already shattered one too many times today.
She writes in simple terms:
Triumph.
They won the Poe Cup together, in this lake, against Bianca- who may not be as much of a rival now. The victory is still sweet and she almost smiles as she writes.
Goody, me being the key.
She had her first strong vision here, with the cryptic warning from Goody. It would’ve been more useful if the ancestor diverged more information, but at least it gave her enough of a clue to stay at the school and dig into the mystery.
Pugsley and I sitting at the lake.
The Gates’ mystery with her parents. It aided her understanding of the mystery, and gave her more background.
A few more descriptions of the atmosphere appear on the page. She stops writing halfway down, remembering as much as she can. Nothing else really comes to mind, no feelings or ‘senses’ as the therapist described.
A splashing sound comes from the shore and she looks to see Enid digging in the soil at the bank.
“What exactly are you doing?” she asks, walking closer but leaving the notebook open in her arms.
Enid’s claws grow out as she digs deeper. “Looking for stones! Watch this.”
Her hands pull out a fairly smooth one, covered in muddy, cold dirt from where it was buried. The blonde turns at a sharp angle, twisting her wrist in something that could be called technique.
The stone skips once before sinking. So much for technique.
“Aw man!” Enid deflates, eyes looking towards the wrinkling water. “That seemed like it would be a good one.”
“Try again,” Wednesday says, approaching the girl closer.
She picks up a stone, almost just as smooth, and hands it to the girl. Enid’s hands, normally warm as she’s come to expect, are cold from the wet dirt.
The werewolf takes the stone gently, pulling her hand away slower than normal. She must be imagining things.
“Twist your wrist less,” she offers.
“Here it goes!” Enid shouts, breaking the delicate air, before tossing it at a flatter angle.
The stone, to Wednesday’s surprise, skips more than a few times before falling beneath the water.
Enid spins to her, smiles wide and her breath forms in front of her. “Did you see that! It skipped!”
Wednesday stares back, eyes softening without consent. “Yes. Well done.”
The girl squats back down, digging for more stones. Wednesday takes the moment of solitude to scribble a few more things before shutting the notebook and urging Enid to move on:
Proud. Together, the stones skip over the water.
/
They’re in the woods now, having traveled along the outskirts of the lake.
Crackstone’s crypt must be nearby- not that she’s intentionally going in that direction. She only guesses because Enid’s claws have been extended for more than a few minutes now, her easy smile something a bit tighter.
For now, she ignores it. The darkness of the trees offers the same atmosphere as the lake, and she takes a few notes. Enid walks close to her, but Wednesday can feel her looking ahead and not at what she’s writing.
Utterly too caring.
“Are you sure we can get to Jericho this way? I normally don’t come through the woods.”
“I’ve walked this way many times,” Wednesday answers. “I know where we’re going.”
“Okay… how much longer?”
She sighs. “Why are you asking?”
Enid walks faster to keep up with her. “It’s creepy out here. And I think we’re super close to-”
They stop walking.
Crackstone’s crypt is within walking distance now. Wednesday can see the stone statues just through the tree-line.
A cold feeling spreads from her feet straight to her head, making her vision dance. Her neck tingles, only a bit, and for once, she fears having a vision and leaving Enid alone.
Enid’s claws find their way around her arm, like they did at the Gates’ mansion.
Her head spins with deja vu.
She hears a whimper from behind. Her mind itches to write, write something, but her arms feel frozen.
All at once, in contrast, a hot feeling blooms from her stomach and she breathes in. Her mind snaps back into her control and she pulls Enid away.
“Let’s keep going.”
Wednesday leads them out of the woods. She can hear Enid’s deep breathing as they escape the trees and contemplates apologizing, before deciding to stay silent.
She lets Enid hold onto her until they are far away.
/
The outskirts of Jericho are there.
Wednesday can see the remains of the meeting house in the distance, far into the woods. Pilgrim World sits in front of them, desolate and silent.
It’s been abandoned since the events of last semester, and it’s deteriorated fast without anyone here.
The tense atmosphere from before seems to have dissipated as they walked side by side.
“Are you sure you want to walk around there? This is way too creepy for me.”
“It’s perfect, then,” she says.
Enid makes a sound that could either be a whimper or a laugh. She can’t decide.
The werewolf stays on her heels as they walk slowly through the ghost town, leaves crunching beneath them.
Her journal is out and open and she writes:
Pilgrims.
History is one of her favorite subjects, and she elaborates, especially since it ties into Crackstone’s motive. Enid runs off, not out of her sight, but far enough for Wednesday to write more.
Ajax and Enid.
She did switch assignments, she remembers. Before writing about the next topic, she leaves room beneath. Some part of her mind wants to leave space for another time.
Eugene and I went to the meeting house- fudge.
“Enid,” she says loudly. The girl turns her head around from looking into windows.
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to the meeting house.”
Enid stumbles a little as she runs after. “Okay, don’t leave me!”
Wednesday can see that the door is cracked as they get closer. The air inside is dusty as they enter. Enid coughs.
The statue of Crackstone is in the same spot- all the artifacts are, actually. She remembers coming here with Eugene, just scratching the surface of the mystery.
Words fill the journal.
“Wednesday, I don’t like this.”
She ignores the plea, staring at the painting depicting Goody. It’s almost exactly like last time, except before, she only stared at Goody because she was unfamiliar. Now, she’s all too familiar yet still just as uninformed about her visions.
Her neck feels numb. This time, she wishes for a vision, a sign, anything to signal that she can still contact Goody.
But she remembers what the ancestor said in the Crypt- she writes it out in the journal- and knows it’s wishful thinking.
“Wednesday,” Enid says again, wrapping her hands over Wednesday's arm.
“I just… needed to see this.”
“Okay, is it helping at all?”
“I- I don’t…” Her brain feels muddled and she stutters. “I don’t know.”
She steps closer to the painting, hand reaching out.
“What’re doing?” Enid says as her hands are pulled back. Wednesday doesn’t answer. “Wednesday? Hey!”
Her fingers are inches from Goody. Maybe if she touches it, she’ll remember. Or learn anything to get her out of this rut.
She falters before they make contact. Enid is silent, but she must remember what could happen- what did happen in the Crypt on her birthday.
Heavy breaths fill the air.
Her hand drops.
Coward, her mind screams.
Coward, failed with Weems, failed with Crackstone.
Enid appears in front of her, face reflecting gentle undertones of scarring.
Failed with Enid.
“Hey.”
The werewolf’s arms are on hers.
“I’m cold,” Enid says, shaking the frown off her face. “Wanna stop for coffee before we go back?”
With her nose and hands feeling numb, the air only getting colder as the sun sets through the trees, she nods.
/
Walking into the Weathervane is a relief and a curse.
For one, the air that greets them is immediately defrosting. She can feel her toes again as they move through the line. It’s decently busy, but not loud, which she appreciates.
On the other hand-
“Enid!”
Ajax runs up to them. Both girls spin to face the voice. Wednesday watches as Enid’s face lights up.
Her own falls far past neutral.
“Ajax! Hello,” she responds, dropping her hands that were crossed over her chest. She pulls the gorgon in for a hug and- Wednesday looks at the ground- a kiss.
“Did you finish what you had to do?”
“Oh, yeah!” Enid says. “We were just walking around so that Wednesday could…”
The girl trails off as she makes eye contact. Wednesday isn’t one to beg, but she knows Enid tracks as she slides the journal into her jacket pocket without a word.
“It was for an assignment,” she finishes, sparing Wednesday the embarrassment of explaining to an air-headed gorgon that she has to be in therapy and that she can’t write anything. “We finished, though.”
Enid flashes her a wink and inconspicuous smile. She blinks back.
“I’m glad,” Ajax responds, ignoring Enid’s weird pause. “Do you want to come back to my place then? Only if you’re done?”
Wednesday stares at the two of them, standing so close that they must smell each other’s breath. A gag almost claws its way out of her throat.
Enid steps closer to her, looking sheepish, and she already knows what the girl is going to say.
“You can go,” she says, a biting tone seeping in.
“Are you sure? Do you at least want to walk back-”
“I’m perfectly capable.”
“If you’re sure…”
“Get out of here.”
Enid’s face falls a bit- she almost takes a second to regret her choice of words- before smiling again and running off.
“See you tonight, then. Get back safe.”
Wednesday doesn’t reply, turning to face the line. There’s only one person in front of her now.
“Bye, Wednesday,” Ajax says as he walks away, arm over Enid’s shoulder.
His nice tone scrapes her ears like cheese on a grater. Without a second to think, she reaches to pull out the journal and a pen, her brain listing out many words- all of which are deliciously morbid- about the gorgon and how he always manages to give her an unpleasant headache.
She normally enjoys headaches, but not these ones.
The man in front of her moves, signaling her turn to speak to the cashier.
The journal stays in her pocket and her hands scratch to write out something from this lingering bitterness- something she doesn’t really understand.
Instead, she orders a hot quad to go and walks home alone in the cold, headache lingering the whole way.
The space in her journal she left earlier stays empty.
///