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When Wednesday closed her eyes, she saw a headstone with a name that didn’t belong.
No matter how skilled the artisan’s hand was who made it, that name did not belong etched into a headstone. Not soon, and not ever, not while she was breathing to bear witness to its cruel wiles.
Enid Sinclair, it would read every night. Beloved daughter and sister, it would read, as though those words encompassed all she was and all she ever would be. Enid was greater than permanence chipped on a stone tarnished by lichen. She was more profound than prologues preached at a sermon.
Her existence was the golden thread woven into an endless tapestry of black; its placement was unintentional, but the seamstress found her tapestry was all the better for it.
“Forever is composed of now,” Emily Dickinson had written. Wednesday had traced her fingers over the words in her book many a time, her silhouette teeming with only the fireplace light at her back. Eventually, the pages had yellowed, and the ink had faded from her touch. It was then that she surmised Miss Dickinson was correct: those pages and ink were worn now, and because of that, they would stay that way forevermore.
Staring at a headstone warped with the fragility of a dream, Wednesday found those words to be true again. Enid could die now, even in a reality bolstered by the weight of what Wednesday knew, and that ghost would stay on her hands forever.
✦
one
There was a casket behind Wednesday.
Weighted with the lynching truth of what she held dear, it stood at her back, a stoic presence drawing her from her languid stupor.
Moments before, she had stared at the ceiling, cocooned in the tarp of her blankets as she lay on her bed. Her fingers had twitched from their place crossed atop her chest; as they did so, she was reminded how reminiscent of a corpse that position was.
Wednesday had never found distaste in it. She embraced the throes of what death offered, including a position manicured for the walls of a coffin. With that in mind, she had adjusted her sleeping stance from the mere age of seven. Wednesday conformed to no will but her own, and she had found it practical to train herself to its scriptures. She had thought it curious, truly, how finite life’s little pleasures were, and how quickly they could be stripped from the mortal body.
Addamses were no strangers to death. From the moment she gained consciousness, Wednesday had learned to embrace its clutches. It wasn’t as though she prayed for death’s sedating pull, no—she simply found it fascinating. What determined it was one’s time to die?
Some thought death was defined from the moment one was born. To Wednesday, that was thoughtless. Any factor could partake in one’s demise; it needn’t be penned in fate first. But that didn’t mean it never was.
She forced herself not to steal a glance at the casket behind her. If she met her eyes within its polished wooden surface, she knew they would reflect all that she tried to douse. Worse yet, Wednesday wasn’t sure she wanted to see if it was open behind her.
What determined that it was Enid’s time to die?
Wednesday stared at the amassed crowd gathered in pews. Their faces were blurred, tinged by unreliability, and she didn’t know why she was standing up. She swallowed the constricting essence curling within her throat, dragging her attention over their figures, daring to hope, daring to imagine that she would see Enid’s face within them, because that meant this wasn’t her funeral.
She didn’t. Hope was futile, and she never relied on it.
Wednesday’s fingers brushed atop something smooth. It twitched in her fingers, rearing with the likeness of a restrained steed spooked by its mind’s trickery. She realized that she was cradling something within her grasp.
Clenching her jaw, Wednesday glanced down, eyeing the creased paper held between her fingers. The words atop the page were blurred, swimming through a lake of verities whose titles were unnamed, and Wednesday was drowning in them.
When she began to speak, she realized exactly what this was: a eulogy. She couldn’t hear the words coming from her mouth, and didn’t know what she was saying, but she was certain of that. She ignored the subtle tremor that wracked her hands as she held the scripted paper. It was easy to do that. Wednesday hardly looked at it. She didn’t need a paper to commemorate Enid. She didn’t need a script to portray who Enid was to her.
Her panegyric continued, and she could not move. She found the sensation akin to sleep paralysis, or perhaps even possession, though she had never experienced the latter. Her mouth was moving, her hands were grasping, but she was not in control. Wednesday despised not being in control, but to not have autonomy entirely? Did the words she speak bleed even an ounce of truth? Did they hold even the faintest candlelight to the ancient wall of inscriptions that was Enid Sinclair’s impact?
Wednesday rethought her earlier verdict. She needed to see. She needed to move.
She blinked. The world twisted beneath her. Instead of standing in front of the casket, she was standing before it. The paper was forgotten, replaced by air that felt a bit too cold as Wednesday stared at the casket hovering above the hole in the ground. A centerpiece rested atop it, bold and brilliant in its colors. Pale, soft pinks and vivid bright pinks, dainty yellows, purples and blues—it was undeniably Enid.
Wednesday shouldn’t have been surprised. In some ways, she wasn’t. From the first moment that headstone had come into view, from the first time she had been plunged into a vision so traitorous she couldn’t speak it aloud, Wednesday knew the inevitable could never truly be pushed away. It could be avoided, but it could not be stopped. She had known it before, but she was reminded of it every night since her vision. Enid Sinclair’s headstone, carved with wolf sentinels and a full moon, was inevitable.
Maybe that’s why she felt like she couldn’t breathe as she stared at the photo of Enid on a table beneath the tent.
. . .
Wednesday awoke as she always did: quietly, her exterior unaffected by the qualms of the night. Subtle light infiltrated the dorm through the windows, washing it beneath a grandeur contrasting only slightly with the darkness mulling about it. Wednesday stared at the ceiling. She stared and felt how her chest rose and fell beneath her folded hands.
It was just past dawn, like it always was. That hadn’t changed, either. Wednesday sat up just as the clock on her desk hit 5:30 A.M. The motion made her bed covers pool at her waist, as though they were protecting her vital organs from an invisible adversary. She peeled them away from her, refusing their shield, and slid out of bed.
As soon as her feet hit the floor, she slid her gaze across the room. Covers nestled atop her glowing from her night light, Enid was dozing, little more than a lump surrounded by pillows and stuffed animals. She was facing toward the room, toward Wednesday, her face the epitome of peace as her hair fanned against the pillow like a messy curtain.
Alive, something mused on the outskirts of her conscience. She wrenched it away from the reins of her mind’s coach and absently took a few steps toward Enid’s bed. Upon realizing where her feet were carrying her, she halted, toeing the line drawn by the two halves of their window. So much for autonomy, Wednesday thought wryly. Her actions were at the behest of her dreams, it seemed.
Bathed in the soft blue brought forth by dawn, Wednesday stood still, staring across a space that was no more than fifteen feet but felt like a chasm hollowed by knowledge. Truthfully, her hesitation was pathetic, and that claim was discomforting. There was no reason for her to consider crossing to Enid’s side, to gingerly approach her bed. There was no reason for her to entertain the idea at all.
Enid was fine.
That guile vision spoke otherwise.
Wednesday cast it into the recesses of her being, where it could fester and infect without disturbing her rationale. Turning sharply, she made her way to her desk, disturbing the blanket of morning silence by pulling her chair out. The legs scraped against the floor, muffled, but present nonetheless.
She shot a brief glance over her shoulder to ensure Enid hadn’t awoken. She always did that, even though Enid never did stir. It had become a habit to look over her shoulder when she pulled her chair out, awaiting the inevitable slide against the wood, and make sure Enid stayed asleep. It was a thoughtless sentiment, but she never stopped. She was at full means to retrain that instinct, but she didn’t.
She sat down in her chair, feeling the bottoms of her silk pajama pants brush against her heels as her toes touched the floor. Wednesday did this often, settling at her desk before most of the school awoke to indulge in literary escapades, whatever form they might come in.
Today’s choice was Frankenstein. Just like her Emily Dickinson poem collection, the words on the pages of Shelley’s prized work were worn and faded from touch. Wednesday could quote nearly every paragraph now, but she never tempered the admiration for their dark tales.
Drawing the book closer to her from its place atop her desk, Wednesday tried not to focus on the fascinating intricacies of death. Admittedly, and she entertained this only when she lifted her eyes to her window and observed the lightening sky, holding the worn spine of her book, she didn’t find them very fascinating right now.
✦
two
Where some shied away from the horrors of night terrors, Wednesday sought them out. To be at the baleful hand of her mind’s darkest creations was riveting. No matter the form they took, she had always enjoyed her nightmares. Mostly, at least. Though they primarily consisted of gruesome preludes only a warped individual could concoct, the rare image of her family’s blood was something that left her staring at the wall, cloaked by darkness in her bed, for longer than she should have.
Regardless, nightmares had always been enticing to Wednesday. She didn’t fear them. She wasn’t a foreigner to their murmurs. It took a great deal of strength for them to affect her, so why was it that she had been feeling her chest tighten at their notions?
“Goodnight, Wednesday,” Enid had said that night. Wednesday had turned to face her after fixing the collar of her pajama top, eyeing her as she rocked back onto her heels. Seconds later, she took long, playful strides to the center of their dorm, a smile on her pretty face.
“Sweet nightmares,” Enid added, wrinkling her nose teasingly as Wednesday walked toward her, “or whatever it is you have when you’re sleeping.”
Wednesday stopped in front of her, leveling her with a stare. The muted radiance of Enid’s lanterns highlighted the outline of her silhouette, dusting her eyes with motes of starlight. The moon and all that was hallowed bowed to her. She was beautiful. The admission, though it surfaced at least once a day, still made Wednesday want to bury herself alive.
“So, do you actually mean nightmares when you say that?” Enid tipped her chin down, curiosity igniting like a flare in her blue eyes. “Or are they really just your version of dreams?”
“Both,” Wednesday replied. If only Enid knew.
Enid hummed and raised her chin again, regarding Wednesday with something she couldn’t name. Beneath the tender ardor of night, the dorm was blanketed by quiet, and Wednesday felt strangely exposed. She had felt exposed a lot more with Enid lately, and she wasn’t sure what to do with it other than step away.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t bring herself to. Not right now, when Enid shuffled closer, clasping her hands behind her back like she was trying to stop herself from reaching out. Wednesday admired her restraint. She didn’t admire how, maybe, just maybe, she did want Enid to reach out. To do what, she wasn’t sure. Grab her hands, hold her shoulders, perhaps wrap a teasing arm around her waist and drag her around the room to some insipid song, laughing all the while.
To hear Enid giggle, unaware of a demise etched into a headstone, might be worth it. It was nonsensical, and she abhorred that she desired it. She pushed the possibilities away as quickly as they had come.
“Okay, then,” Enid said, lowering her shoulders. Her smile faded into something softer, something to be shared only between them. Wednesday’s heart faltered; the weight of it squeezed the base of her throat. “Goodnight. Sweet nightmares.”
“Goodnight.” Wednesday took a step backward to carve space between them. That space was far too cold, but it was necessary. Before she could do something foolish, she returned to her bed.
It was only after she was beneath her covers, and Enid hers, that she whispered, “Sweet dreams.”
Wednesday wasn’t sure if Enid had heard her or not. Something within her hoped she hadn’t. Something else, writhing and seething, hoped she had.
When Wednesday fell asleep, she was in a grove made of sunlight and midsummer breezes. The swaying grasses surrounding her pitched beneath its candor. They brushed her legs, carried by the same winds that slid between the thick copse of trees and cast asunder dandelion clouds. In the distance, a branch shifted, and something fell to the forest floor with a hollow thump—a walnut, perhaps.
She lifted her eyes to the wall of woodland. Within its depths, shadows from thick boughs swallowed all but mere pinpricks of sunlight. In the grove she sat in, the sun’s rays were concentrated, bathing all in its path within a soft golden hue. Flecks of dust caught their touch, glinting beneath it, before fading out of focus, seeking respite from a world too large for themselves. Above Wednesday, the draping branch of a willow tree dappled her grassy haven with a myriad of shadows.
She tilted her head down to study her hands in her lap, running her thumb along the thick stem of the pink camellia she cradled within them. She thumbed one of its smooth, silky leaves in her grasp, deciding not to look up again.
There was a headstone in front of Wednesday.
There was always one somewhere, haunting her thoughts and lingering just where she couldn’t reach and dispose of it. She didn’t need to look up to know what it said. Enid Sinclair, it would read, guarded by two wolves who failed to protect their namesake.
Sunlit orbs danced in the edge of her vision, sashaying against the canvas of grass, and Wednesday turned the camellia over in her hand. She inspected its petals, its stem, finding not a single mistake on its body. Avoiding looking directly in front of her, she turned her head over her shoulder. Behind her, the wall of thick trees continued, their branches low and laden with draping moss, their trunks ringed by overgrown foliage. There was no foreseeable end to it, and the trees faded into misted green as they grew distant.
Despite its brightness, the grove was rather calming. She surmised it had something to do with the girl buried within it.
Exhaling a breath she hadn’t meant to shake, Wednesday turned her head back over her shoulder to face the headstone. The breeze carded through her braids, casting wisps of hair astray and into her face.
The soft, long grass beneath her was thick and seasoned. Wildflowers sprouted around her—daisies, namely. Alabaster and golden, they tossed in the lazed gusts. The ground had been undisturbed for a while. Enid had been dead for a while.
Lichen and moss had crept over the headstone, shrouding the words Wednesday knew lay upon it: Beloved daughter and sister. Only Enid’s name stared back at her, and she found it all the better for it. No short ode could describe Enid. She was thousands of things, and they would never fit on this headstone.
Swallowing the unbidden knot roiling in her throat, Wednesday placed the camellia in front of it. Birdsong filtered through the trees, echoing, and she pulled her knees to her chest to rest her chin atop them. This was her dream, and hers only. She could allow this momentary weakness.
Time lulled on, and Wednesday didn’t know how long she stayed there, but the sky never darkened.
. . .
The milky moonlight spilling through the windows was pale when Wednesday awoke. Tinged with the vestiges of night, its touch cast the dorm in a veil of ivory. Sometime during the bounds of sleep, she had turned onto her side, and her cheek was pressed against her pillow. It was so jarring that, for a moment, she was unable to do anything but stare at the round window sprawling color across the floor.
Strands of hair stuck against her cheek, mussed and wild from her position as she sat up. Absently smoothing them, her attention instinctively fell to Enid’s bed.
The bed was empty.
Still tapering off the unease of her dream, Wednesday shot to her feet. The force of the action sent a dull pound against the wood and shook the candle on her desk. Blaming her hastiness on the emptiness left lingering within her, no matter how much she wished it didn’t affect her, Wednesday crossed the room. The moonlight cut lines across her clothes as she paced, its tendrils no longer forgiving, no longer a reprieve. Smothered by the blanket of night and freshly awoken from slumber, Wednesday found that she was far more prone to disregarding logic than she was when she had all her wits about her.
It was only after she searched every shadowed cranny of the room, as well as the balcony, that a dread she seldom felt sank its poison into her blood. Enid was not in their dorm. Wednesday imagined inscriptions on a headstone, permanent. Where was she? Was she walking into a trap that would lead to that stone in the ground?
Wednesday supposed it was the reality of losing Enid in her nightmare and waking up to discover her absent that made her spin around and head for the door. Her hands were certain as they reached for the chilled handle, grasping the deadbolt and working the lock with increasing impatience.
Wednesday flung the door open with abandon, revealing Enid standing just on the other side, her keys pointed forward in her outstretched hand. In the dim light, her eyes widened.
Wednesday continued to hold the edge of her door, quelling the quick rise and fall of her chest under the weight of Enid’s surprised scrutiny. Her shoulders lowered in some despicable sense of relief.
“Wednesday—?” Enid blinked, stepping into the room, allowing the pearlescence to coat her face. “What are you doing?”
“Night stroll,” Wednesday dismissed, fleeting. She took a step backward to accommodate Enid, clenching her hand around the door. If she were more sensible right now, she would have conjured a better lie. She wasn’t sure if Enid believed her, but something had her doubting the idea. Schooling her face into something far more indifferent, she shut the door, following it back to the doorway to lock it again.
“What were you doing?” she countered when she turned around, not accusatory, but not entirely devoid of edge. Enid seemed to notice, because she furrowed her brows, as though taken aback.
“I was thirsty.” She lifted her other hand, cradling a water bottle Wednesday hadn’t noticed. “I grabbed a drink from the vending machine.”
Wednesday nodded stiffly, clasping her hands behind her back. She felt nonsensical. Where had that been a mere ten seconds ago? Exhaling frustratedly, she dropped her hands, intending to speak, to bid Enid a continued restful sleep, but nothing left her mouth. What eldritch demon had denied her sharp tongue?
Enid stepped closer, and Wednesday had the persevering urge to step backward, but she didn’t. Her mind was being pulled at the seams by warring intentions; really, she didn’t want to move back. She didn’t want to retreat. Wednesday Addams did not retreat, but unease flared in her chest regardless.
In the aftermath of her vision, she had spent countless hours perusing both the school and Nightshade library for any sliver of information on the complete validity of raven visions. Thus far, most aspects of her visions had been correct. It was a realization that had her closing the book she had been reading to distantly stare at the crackling fireplace across from her. She had even gone as far as to consult her mother, which was something she couldn’t have imagined doing a year prior.
Her findings had been fruitless at best. The books had told her nothing. Her mother had provided some insight from her experiences—which was, and she begrudgingly admitted this, appreciated—but she was not a raven. Wednesday doubted she saw the headstone and casket of her best friend.
Faced with that reality again, now at the will of Enid’s eyes in the darkness, Wednesday felt like she was drowning. She was drowning in the most frigid, eerily calm seas, and there was nothing she could do but be dragged down by the weight of what she knew. She often favored knowledge. In this instance, she didn’t. In this instance, she would have rather been blindsided by Enid’s demise.
“Are you okay?” Enid asked softly, a frown tugging at her lips. Wednesday wanted to scoff in the wake of it; it was ironic that Enid was asking her that. But Enid, ever so intuitive and caring, had no idea of the cruel plans the world had.
“Are you?” she asked instead. Her feet took her a breadth closer to Enid. She scorned them.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Enid smiled lopsidedly. Wednesday felt sick.
You’re going to die, she thought. You’re going to die, and there’s nothing I can do.
The silence lapsed between them, extending just as the wind that brushed their windows, howling and twisting with poems it could never quite escape. Enid lowered her hands. Her smile faded, and her face twisted into something a bit more contemplative, a bit more soft. She, too, took another step closer, bridging the gap between them until there was a mere foot keeping them apart. Wednesday stole a glance at her pink slippers.
She pulled her eyes back to Enid’s face, where the dusky shadows painted bruises.
“You should go back to bed,” Wednesday said, her words just slightly whispered.
“Only if you do, too.” Enid shifted on her feet, watching her. Wednesday offered her a nod to appease her. If she didn’t agree, she knew Enid would insist on staying awake with her, despite having a test in the morning. Wednesday was not going to cause another of Enid’s downfalls.
“Goodnight,” Wednesday said, ignoring the urge to eradicate the distance between them and grab Enid’s hands, if only to feel the heartbeat pulsing on her wrists.
“Goodnight,” Enid whispered, and then she did something entirely unexpected. Tilting onto her toes, she leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Wednesday’s forehead. The sensation of Enid’s warm lips brushing her skin enticed Wednesday to shut her eyes, just briefly. One day, those lips would be cold, lifeless.
Enid lingered longer than necessary for a forehead kiss, but Wednesday elected not to point it out. Opening her eyes, she watched as Enid drew back, biting her bottom lip. With another wayward glance, Enid retreated to her bed. The sound of the water bottle cap twisting open followed Wednesday as she returned to her own.
She settled into bed and stared at the ceiling rafters, ignoring the ghost of Enid’s lips and the ghost of her headstone. As expected, she didn’t sleep again.
✦
three
The night was tinged with the solemn hoots of an owl. Perched somewhere in the distant trees, its cries carried on the gentle breeze, lapping at the candles in front of Wednesday and sending them astray. Knees curled to the side, she sat atop a blanket, casting a glance to her side.
Enid was propped on her elbows next to her, sock-clad feet stretched in front of her and knocking together as she watched the sky. The most luminescent smile had settled on her face. It was something worth treasuring, worth keeping. She turned to look up at Wednesday, propping her chin on her shoulder in a manner that could only be defined as teasing.
“Thanks for doing this,” she said. Wednesday blinked, taking a good look at her surroundings. She pulled her gaze back to Enid, expression bereft of her inner confusion.
“Like, I had a bad day and you said we could have dinner on the balcony. And you ordered takeout. Well, I did, and you paid for it.” Enid’s face was cast in the haze of the candlelight as she turned onto her side, propping her chin on one hand and letting the other rest on the blanket. “It’s like a picnic. You didn’t have to do that for me.”
It was quiet for a few moments. In the wordless depths, the distant chirping of crickets reached a gentle crescendo.
“It’s sweet, though,” Enid added after a moment, glancing down. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Wednesday found herself saying. She watched Enid for a couple of seconds more, adding: “You deserve it.”
Had Wednesday been foolish, she would have said there was the lightest dusting of color atop Enid’s face. She wasn’t foolish, though, and decided it was simply a trick of the low light.
“So, what’s your favorite constellation?” Enid angled her chin upward, pointing it at the sky. Devoid of clouds, a myriad of stars shone bright atop it, continuing their slow journey below the horizon. Some twinkled, disturbed by the Earth’s atmosphere, and others shone orange. Wednesday spotted Mars among them. “Mine is probably Ursa Major. But I always just called it the Big Dipper when I was little, because that’s the part I knew. It was the easiest constellation for me to see. I thought it was cool that she’s a bear.”
“You mean to tell me it’s not Lupus?” A small smile quirked the edge of Wednesday’s mouth as she looked down at Enid. She was supposed to be looking at the sky, and she was. She saw it reflected within Enid’s eyes.
“Is that the wolf one?” Enid asked. At Wednesday’s nod, she lowered her head to level her with a stare. “Ha-ha. You’re hilarious.”
She pulled herself upright and turned her body so that she could face Wednesday. Crossing her legs, she leaned back on her outstretched palms. “Okay, spill. What’s yours?” After a second, she gasped. “Is it Lupus?”
Before Wednesday could deny it, Enid dissolved into a storm of dramatized coos and chirps.
“Aww, just for little old me?” She pushed off her hands and forward, her hair catching the glow of the candles. “I mean, you really could have just told me.” Wednesday narrowed her eyes at the display of lighthearted taunts.
“I might have told you what it really is,” she said, forcing an overplayed animosity into her words, “but I suppose you’ll never know now.” Wednesday angled herself the slightest bit in Enid’s direction, roving her attention over her face.
“What?” Enid whined. “Wait, no—” Wednesday turned her face away, forcing down the traitorous twitch of her mouth. “Wednesday! No, wait. Actually tell me. I’m sorry!” Clearly, she wasn’t very sorry, because she resorted to incredulous giggles seconds after she apologized. After realizing Wednesday was serious, she gasped and grabbed her bicep, tugging lightly, evidently trying to get Wednesday to look at her and acquiesce. Her efforts were to no avail. “Wednesday! Please tell me. I told you mine!”
In truth, Wednesday wasn’t disgruntled at all, but the glee coursing from Enid was enough to keep up the act. She wanted to see Enid laugh, just this once, before it was too late.
Something settled within her bones, ominous and teetering on the brink of realization.
Wednesday turned her head back around to look at Enid, tightening her jaw.
Why would it be too late?
Enid’s face fell after a few seconds of silence. “Wednesday?”
Wednesday shook her head and drew back a margin. “Enid, you need to—”
She paused, trying to propose why Enid needed to get somewhere safe when she didn’t know why, either. The breeze brushed her bangs aside, pushing wisps into her face and obstructing her vision momentarily.
“What? What are you—?” Enid began, looking at something behind Wednesday. Her eyes widened. With a movement so quick it was blurred, she lunged forward and shoved Wednesday to the ground.
Wednesday grunted as her back hit the stone; its force was amplified by Enid’s weight following her down. Though the air was warm, the balcony’s surface was twined with a gilded, unrivaled chill, one that permeated her skin and left her cold. Light dazzled her vision, blinding, before fading into something shadowed, and then nothing at all. She felt something whiz above her, disturbing the air with a cutting edge.
Silence preluded the vicinity before Enid’s weight relented, leaving Wednesday to sit straight up. The force of her ascent had her nearly toppling over, but it brought her face-to-face with Enid, who offered no motive behind her actions.
Enid said nothing else because she couldn’t.
Enid said nothing else because there was an arrow in her neck.
A strangled gasp tore from her lips, sending her careening backwards, her hair falling around her face as she fumbled her free hand at the shaft of the arrow. A horrid choking sound sputtered from her lips.
“Enid,” Wednesday said, closing the short distance between them on her hands and knees. She stopped at her side, her hands hovering uselessly, her heart clawing at the alcoves of her ribs, a wild beast provoked by this reality. “Don’t remove it.”
This wasn’t real. Wednesday knew this wasn’t real.
But Enid was staring up at her, blood trailing treasonous rivulets from the flesh wound in the center of her throat, and something within her shattered like the last remnants of a fated artifact.
There was nothing Wednesday could do to mend a wound like this. By the time she got help, Enid would be dead. But it wouldn’t finish Enid off quickly enough for her to avoid the sensation of having her throat split open.
As Enid choked again, Wednesday wished it would have killed her instantly. Hot tears imbued her eyes, so rare that, in any other situation, she might have been taken aback. Enid reached listlessly for her, eyes wide and wild with raw panic. She gasped again, then coughed, and blood bubbled on her lips. Wednesday grabbed Enid’s trembling hand, gripping it tightly when Enid was unable to respond.
Enid couldn’t breathe; she continued spasming lungfuls of air, but none of them reached where they needed to go. She was suffering a fortune she didn’t deserve, and at Wednesday’s expense, no less. Wednesday wanted to scream. She wanted to seek out the unknown perpetrator and issue them a fate worse than eterneties of hell, but she didn’t. She couldn’t, not when Enid was dying before her.
Enid was close to toppling over; her free arm trembled, and her body slumped. Abruptly, Wednesday slipped her arms behind Enid’s back, easing her onto her lap. Enid’s head lolled to the side. The arrow followed, brushing against Wednesday’s abdomen as Enid stared up at her.
“I’m sorry,” Wednesday uttered quietly, her wavering voice full of conviction that would never make a difference, that would never change the inevitable. She swept Enid’s hair out of her eyes when she wheezed again and wiped away the crimson that trailed a line down her chin.
Enid grabbed at her forearm weakly, blinking slowly, her chest gurgling with every shallow rise and fall.
You’re going to die. You’re going to die. You’re going to die.
Enid didn’t deserve this. Not Enid, who shuffled closer when she thought Wednesday wouldn’t notice, whose touch was too gentle, whose heart was too good for a world so fascinatingly twisted. Not Enid, with her thousands of aspirations and hobbies, with her smile of fond teasing Wednesday rarely saw directed at anyone but her. Not Enid, who had unwittingly chiseled her way into Wednesday’s heart, who would stay there forevermore. Not Enid, whose laugh crossed Wednesday’s mind when she listened to lectures. Not Enid, who crossed her mind every waking moment. Not Enid, whose mark was indelible.
Wednesday swallowed and brushed another strand away from her eyes. They were unseeing. Enid’s face was slack.
Feeling ill, she cast a glance at the wound in which the arrow protruded. It no longer bled.
Enid was dead.
Enid was dead, like she had been so many times before.
Wednesday silently wrapped her other arm around Enid, holding her just a breadth closer. With her free hand, she shut Enid’s eyes and ran a thumb down her cheek, ignoring how a wave of numb grief tarnished her actions.
On their balcony, with the stars as her witness, Wednesday waited for Enid’s eyes to open again. They never did, and Wednesday knew they wouldn’t.
. . .
When Wednesday awoke, she shot upright, the ghost of blood lingering on her hands. She was no longer lying collected in her bed; instead, she had twisted and turned during her restless slumber, leaving her covers strewn around her legs. It was seldom she ever did that. With a heart rate far too rapid to brush aside as coincidental, she tensed her shoulders and fisted the top of her sheets until her knuckles were white and her nails dug into her palms, leaving crescent indentations of her failure.
Breathing heavily, she looked across the room, seeking Enid’s bed instinctively. Enid’s face was visible against her pillow, doused with the shaded fervor of moonlight. The lump in her throat abated, but only slightly.
Wednesday was very aware when she slid off her bed and walked across the room, closing the distance between the two with unconscious alarm. The floorboards didn’t creak, but she passed beneath the colors scattered across them from their window, and she felt exposed all the same.
It was only when she was a couple of feet from Enid’s bed, her shadow falling atop the sleeping girl, that she reconsidered what she was doing. What had she planned to do, anyway? Haunted by the weight of what she’d seen, she had felt proximity was the best remedy to insanity.
She watched Enid shift; she tossed her hand into the open, letting it hang limply off the mattress, and a sleepy, wolfish sound escaped her lips. For a moment, Wednesday thought she had been caught, and then she pondered what she could be doing that evoked the potential of such guilt. She supposed the answer was obvious enough.
Wednesday needed to turn around. Clearly, Enid was fine. There was no need for her to linger, tied to sentiments and insipid concern.
Yet Enid’s hand draped over the bed, pale in the darkness, and Wednesday stepped closer. Without due consideration, she reached for her wrist and laid her thumb over Enid’s pulse point.
It took her a second to find it, but it was there. Bum. Bum. Bum. It ticked beneath her touch. Wednesday rubbed her thumb back and forth, flicking her eyes back to Enid’s face. She remained asleep, her eyelashes fluttering and her lips pursing, and she was very much alive. Alive, but for how long?
Slowly, Wednesday eased herself to the floor beside Enid, curling her legs at her side. She pressed her weight into the bed, leaning her head against it, and kept her hold on Enid’s pulse. Bum. Bum. Bum. It was there that she stayed, even as the night waned into dawn, even as her arm grew tired and tingling, holding Enid’s wrist and feeling the life tick beneath her skin.
Before Enid awoke, she was gone.
✦
four
Within the darkened hallways of the school, there was no blood on Wednesday’s hands, not this time. Something ticked lowly in the distance, its sound reminiscent of the grandfather clock in the main hall, but far louder; it reverberated against the walls and shook the floor beneath her.
“Enid,” she whispered, realizing then that she was holding Enid’s face in her hands. Slumped against the wall, Enid stared back at her, eyes glinting in the shadows. Her mouth moved, but no words came out.
Again, Wednesday thought, glancing over Enid, searching for any wounds that dared to desecrate her skin, dared to draw blood from her body and stain her clothes. Again, again, and again.
It was then that Enid coughed, tempting Wednesday to meet her eyes again. Her pupils were dilated wide, even for the darkness. Her body jerked under Wednesday’s touch, and her head slumped down in her hold. Beneath the pallor of the moonlight, her skin was tinged with the faintest hint of blue. She coughed again, her breaths clipped and ragged, and saliva coated her lips. It foamed and bubbled, no doubt choking, no doubt constricting and suffocating.
Nightshade poisoning, Wednesday realized, feeling dread usurp her typical principles.
“Wednesday—” Enid gasped, no longer wordless, her hands clutching uselessly at Wednesday’s jacket. “I can’t . . . can’t breathe.”
In the recesses of Wednesday’s being, something snapped, fragile as a dead twig. How many times would Enid die? How many times would her death be painted across a canvas, distinct yet ruefully familiar? How many possibilities led to a headstone rooted in the ground? She didn’t have time to think, not really, because Enid’s hands fell to her sides and her eyes slid shut.
“Stay awake,” Wednesday said, even though it was futile. It always was. “You need to stay awake.”
She dipped one of her hands lower, brushing against the thin line of crimson trailing down the side of Enid’s neck. Though it hailed from what appeared to be a mere pinprick, it belied the truth Wednesday had suspected. Someone must have stabbed a needle into her flesh and injected the Nightshade. The blood slipped lower, tentatively dotting the collar of Enid’s sweater, its touch resonating with irrefutable evidence.
“Enid.” Wednesday patted her face, reaching her other hand back up to frame it again. Wednesday was drowning, or perhaps suffocating, because her lungs were weighted with thousands of words, and she could utter none of them. Enid sputtered again, but she didn’t open her eyes.
Wednesday’s surroundings were distorted. They were in the school, but the hallway on either side of her distorted and shifted, bleeding at the fringes, and she didn’t know where to go. Regardless, she leaned Enid against the wall and shot to her feet. Enid needed help. She was going to die. She was going to die again.
The ornate windows, glinting crystalline, were blurred from the speed at which she passed them. Her footsteps resounded against the floor, hollow and thumping, and the walls stretched further. The hallway darkened, leaving only the fixtures and portraits on the wall glinting beneath the subdued moonlight.
Wednesday halted upon the realization the hallway was only extending. Stretching endlessly, it stared back at her, taunting her with aid that would never come. In a burst of undiluted frustration, she whipped on her heel and hastened the way she had come, her chest tightening with the strength of a viper’s coil.
She entered the gaping maw of shadows that was the long hallway, her panic mounting to munificent heights. Where had she left Enid? It was nothing but a straight hallway. She hadn’t walked this long before.
Those same windows flitted by her, catching at the edge of her vision like apparitions, but she paid them no mind. After what seemed like hours of walking, for time blurred like watercolor, she caught sight of Enid. Quickening her pace, Wednesday called her name, but received no response. Unease tore her throat to shreds. It had to have, because she felt as though she was on fire. She was on a pyre, and she could not escape. In some alternate world, that would have been enticing, curious. In this one, it wasn’t.
Wednesday whispered Enid’s name as she dropped to her side, reaching out to grab her shoulder and lightly jostle her. Enid slumped over, her weight falling into Wednesday with the weight of all things dead, and Wednesday’s heart stopped. This was familiar. It always was.
She pulled Enid closer to her side and clenched her jaw to force down the useless words that longed to escape. Enid’s chest didn’t rise and fall. Her eyes didn’t open, and her lips certainly didn’t quirk into a smile. The frothed saliva trailed down her chin, and her mouth hung open, and her hands didn’t move.
Wednesday stared into the distant shadows, clutching Enid’s body, even as the world around her faded.
. . .
Wednesday was used to the empty feeling by the time she awoke, wrapped by the tendrils of her tangled bedsheets. Silently, she sat up, peeling them away and casting an unabashed stare across the room.
Enid was there, nestled in her bed.
Wednesday wasn’t sure she could stay in her own. In fact, she wasn’t sure she could stay in their room at all. The facets of all her nightmares and visions alike swam at the forefront of her mind. Pressure formed within her throat, tightening, roiling with unbridled emotion, and she needed to leave.
When her feet hit the floor, Wednesday grabbed her black slippers from beneath her bed and put them on. She disregarded the way her hands shook as she fumbled to do so. Straightening far too quickly, she cast a wayward glance in Enid’s direction before grabbing the keys from her desk and heading toward the door. With the mist of night on her back, Wednesday grabbed the handle. Once in the hallway, she shut it behind her, allowing the array of darkness to cloak her figure.
It was only when the door was secure that she walked away, pursued by the weight of all she knew and the truths of all she had seen.
✦
five
An endless forest stretched beyond Wednesday, its thin conifers cutting lines against the canvas of night. Ominous creaks groaned in the boughs above her head, sending spindly evergreen needles showering to the ground around her. She took a step backward, weighing the dagger resting in her outstretched hand, and leveled the fogged depths with a stare.
Something screeched in the distance, sending shrill echoes bouncing from the trees, upending the quiet and brushing an involuntary shiver down her spine. It was unexpected, dangerous, something incomprehensible by the mortal mind. It was thrilling.
Wednesday was supposed to be doing something. The dagger clutched in her expert grasp was evidence enough, but the energy resonating in her veins only confirmed that. She shifted her blade to her left hand and retreated, tossing her head over her shoulder to scope the terrain.
The trees continued to creak around her, spurred onward by the wind traversing the canopy of leaves and conifer needles, but not a soul stared back. The woodland was empty, its only occupants Wednesday and the thick mist that shrouded the distance in a blue haze. After a second of observation, Wednesday decided she was wrong. She was not the only soul here tonight. She couldn’t have been. What would make her hold a blade if that were true? Even if she was alone, there was a threat of something to become of the vacancy; thus, she stayed alert.
A shadow caught the edge of her vision. She whipped her head in its direction, clutching the handle of her dagger, and pinpointed its distorted figure receding in the fog. A guttural hiss shook the foliage, and with it, the wind blew downward, buffeting Wednesday’s clothes and stirring the verdure at her boots.
Footsteps resounded behind her, opposite of the shadow. Their gate was inhuman. Click-clop-click. Click-clop-click. With the thrill of the chase electrifying her, she turned to face the perpetrator, drawing her dagger just to the side. The wind blew her hair backward, tossing aside her bangs, revealing empty trees. Nothing was there. The frustration tempered her adrenaline, just slightly. Whatever or whoever the perpetrator was, they were evading her, dodging her observant stances like werewolves to wolfsbane.
Wednesday didn’t favor being hunted; she enjoyed being the hunter. Pursuing details of interest, whether they be active targets or information, was what she was best at. Her offensive mannerisms were stronger than her defensive ones because she rarely relied on the latter.
A low snap resounded to the east. It wasn’t the sound of a twig, no—it was the splintering of a thin tree trunk. The sound was followed by something thumping to the ground, making it shake beneath Wednesday and confirming her suspicions. Hardening her stature, Wednesday twisted around again, but she was a second too late; something shot across the top of her bicep, sending a white-hot, scorching pain searing through her skin and tissue. Reeling around, she caught a glimpse of the shadow disappearing into the trees again.
Without taking her eyes off of it, she reached her free hand up to feel for the wound. Warm blood had begun to soak the fabric around her forearm, leaving crimson traces on her hands as she gingerly inspected it. Beneath her fingers, she felt a clean cut sliced into her tissue, about two inches in length. The adrenaline masked the pain that would inevitably surface later; for now, annoyed at being caught off guard, she moved her dagger back to her right hand and shifted her feet.
This time, the shadow approached her from the front. She put a foot forward, her stand steady, and swiped at it with her glinting blade. At the least second, it leapt away, retreating once more. She huffed and adjusted the blade in her grasp.
Silence extended for a few seconds, broken only by the swaying of the trees.
Footsteps. This time, they were behind her, rapidly approaching. Thump-thump, thump-thump. She tightened her hold on the dagger.
As soon as Wednesday felt wind brush the back of her neck, she whirled on her feet and sunk her dagger into the creature. It drove deeper, deeper, and deeper. Raising her injured arm, she wrapped her other hand around the hilt of it, twisting and watching as rivulets of blood began streaking lines down its colorful sweater.
She froze.
Wednesday raised her eyes from the handle of the dagger to meet Enid’s own.
They stared back at her, fearful and wide-eyed.
“Wednesday?” Enid choked out, her voice laden with raw pain. Wednesday looked at the dagger driven into her heart and then back up at her.
“No.” Wednesday barely caught Enid when her legs gave out beneath her. No. No. No.
Enid’s sudden drop pulled Wednesday to the ground with her. Lying Enid on the dirt, Wednesday leaned over her, running her fingers across her bangs, combing away her hair, and then pausing them to hold her face.
“Enid—” Wednesday shifted directly to her side when she sputtered wetly. “Enid, no.” I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was you, she wanted to say. What came out was a strangled sob.
Enid was wordless as she shut her eyes, gasping and clutching weakly at Wednesday’s hands on her face.
“Say something,” Wednesday whispered, her voice clipped with desperation as blood pooled beneath Enid. “Please.”
She grabbed Enid’s hands when she couldn’t find Wednesday’s herself, gripping them until her knuckles were white. She kept one hand on Enid’s face, sweeping the tears glistening atop her skin away, swallowing the knot that burned in her throat, rearing and writhing to be set free.
Enid was going to die at Wednesday’s hands. Some portion of her wanted to scream. The other wanted to hold Enid until she, too, became nothing but pearly bones and a corpse where new grass grew. Finding the former less feasible, for she could barely open her mouth without betraying the turmoil blurring her vision, Wednesday chose to pull Enid close to her chest. She held at her, even as the flow of her blood slowed, even as she twitched and whimpered and her bloody hands almost slipped from Wednesday’s grasp.
Enid died within two minutes.
Wednesday held her in the woodland, even as her eyes grew glassy. She held her even as she reached to shut them and got blood on her face.
Wednesday forgot the words she whispered to Enid’s lifeless face, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to remember them.
. . .
When consciousness gripped Wednesday like a vice, she stared at the ceiling rafters, her hands clutching her arms, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
She thought of a headstone. She thought of pushing a dagger into Enid’s heart.
Wednesday decided to ignore the soundless tears slipping down her cheeks and wetting her hair. A few of them slipped downward and fell from her chin as she sat up, warm and relentless.
She looked across the room, just as she always did. Enid was there. How long would she stay there?
Wednesday swallowed the sob building in her throat and laid back down. She swallowed the urge to cross the room and find Enid’s wrist pulse. She swallowed the urge to pull Enid close and bury her nose in her neck, if only to find the pulse there, because even though she could have grabbed her wrist, she would rather hold her alive than dead for once.
✦
+ one
Across from Wednesday, a fireplace crackled.
Casting flickering amber against the wall, it bathed her in streaks of warmth as she rested in an armchair before it. One of the windows near her spilled afternoon light, tinged by the chill, into the library of her family’s manor.
A mug of coffee rested on the table at her side. Steam curled from it, billowing into the air and disappearing into nothing, little but fragments of something that once existed. Though there was a footstool before her, its leather worn just as the armchair, her feet were tucked at her side, hidden beneath the plaid blanket stretching over her lap.
There was a book on the table. She turned her head, observing its dark cover, before reaching one hand out to pick it up. It was conveniently devoid of a title. Its pages weren’t yellowed with age like many of her other books, though, and its spine was intact. With every intention of stopping at the front to read the title page, she carded through its pages quickly, surveying the words flicking by. Her attention snagged on a few, gone too fast to find again: Viper de la Muerte.
She paused, existing only with the crackling of the flames contained in the fireplace, before she closed the book and turned it in her hands to face the spine toward her.
At the bottom of the spine, in gold foil, read Wednesday Addams.
She was holding her novel in her hands.
Still, she saw no title. Had she ever settled on one? She had a temporary name when working on the first draft, but she’d never decided whether or not to keep it.
Wednesday flipped the book back over, tracing her fingers over the intricate gothic designs in its cover—was it a special edition?—before flipping it to the front page. It was blank. She flipped it again. That one was blank, too.
She flipped the page again and read the words on it. As she did so, dread began to tug her into its depths, sedating and numb.
To Enid, the golden thread in my black tapestry.
Below that, in Wednesday’s own handwriting: In one world, you would have had the chance to read this. You might not have liked it, but I know you would have, even if it were just for me.
Wednesday reached up to trace the dedication with her fingertips. She read the words a thousand times. The dull ache in her chest never did fade; it grew sharper, honed by the weight of what that paper carried.
They made Wednesday run cold, even with the fire in front of her bestowing its heat upon her. That was it. There was nothing she could do but watch the time pass by. There was nothing Wednesday could do to change the past. The world had died when Enid had, but she had continued on.
The reality of it all hit Wednesday as she held the book. She looked around the room, and, suddenly, she felt very empty. Enid wasn’t there. She wasn’t alive. Wednesday would never see her again. Enid would never smile at her again. Enid had stayed seventeen, and Wednesday hadn’t. There was nothing she could do about it.
The world still existed, but it existed without Enid Sinclair. She felt cold. She felt empty.
She read the words again, and again, and again. By the time she felt herself begin to fade, there were wrinkled droplets on the ivory page.
. . .
The silence was poisonous, infiltrating Wednesday’s lungs when she awoke. She had never viewed silence as anything like poison; whether she was blessed by it while writing, or in the proximity of a predator silencing the woods, it always offered outlets for exploration.
Something unraveled within her, slow and quick in tandem, coexisting but never quite touching. Tonight, her hands had remained crossed atop her chest, but her covers were still ruffled and disorderly. After a moment of stillness, she realized the quivering sensation shaking her stomach was the trembling of her hands.
The rafters were highlighted by an alabaster sheen as she watched them and forced her chest to evenly rise and fall. She needn’t fall prey to more traitorous bodily reactions; there were enough of those partaking already. Clenching her fists to cease their involuntary shaking, and to no avail, Wednesday pushed herself to sit upright. Posture rigid, she slid her gaze across the room for the sole purpose of finding Enid tucked in her bed. She had done it every night the past week, haunted by visions of cemeteries who stole something dear to her.
As she sought Enid’s face in the darkness, she thought of the words inscribed on a page. To Enid, they said, prevailing as the only memoriam Wednesday had to offer. She offered her life’s blood, her soul on paper, to Enid’s memory, and yet it would never be enough. It would never bring Enid back, and, though Enid was here right now, Wednesday didn’t know how long that would last.
She contemplated for a long, long moment. She was tempted to lie back down, but the empty feeling of despondency was eating away at her flesh like acid, and she found she really didn’t want to.
Swallowing the thick lump that had begun festering in her throat, Wednesday lingered in the quiet a moment more. Outside, a rain shower murmured hymns against the balcony. At the shift of the wind, it blew against their windows. Though the droplets were masked by the veil of darkness, they were present all the same, forcing Wednesday to contain her narratives and keep her wits close. A beat, and then she pushed herself off the mattress, keeping her hands tightly wound at her side, and crossed the room in a few long strides.
Her footsteps, normally calculated and as silent as a house cat’s, hit the floorboards audibly. Still, Enid didn’t stir, causing a sense of familiar unease to pervade her better judgment. Wednesday’s shadow fell atop Enid as she stopped before her, clenching and unclenching her fists.
Enid’s hands weren’t available to grasp, and her wrists were hidden, and all Wednesday could see was a knife in her chest. It was bloodied and stark with vitriol, tarnishing a heart that never deserved such treatment.
Wednesday curbed the last remnants of reasoning she had.
“Enid,” she whispered, her words unintentionally sharp in the quiet. A rumble of thunder resounded in the distance. She counted the miles until a faint flash set their room alight.
When Enid didn’t move, she repeated her name. She did her best to ignore the unease at the sight. Enid tended to be a heavy sleeper—some nights more than others—but Wednesday’s rationale was tripping to catch up with reality, and she said her name again.
Finally, after lightning washed the room in a snowy luster again, Wednesday reached out and shook Enid’s shoulder.
Enid perked up immediately, squinting beneath the hues of her night light. She remained nestled against her pillow for a second, blinking, before she propped herself up on one arm and gained her bearings.
“Wednesday?” she murmured, her words heavy with grogginess. A moment later, she grew more alert. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“No,” Wednesday said. Not yet, she could have added. She didn’t.
Her throat clicked as she struggled to express why she had awoken Enid in the middle of the night. What had been her intention, anyway? She wasn’t going to tell Enid of what she saw when she slept, nor of the vision that started it all. Wednesday had just wanted to make sure she was alive. In retrospect, it was rather foolish, but she didn’t intend to take back her actions.
“Oh.” Enid rubbed her eyes and wrinkled her nose. A yawn escaped her. “What time is it?”
“Late,” Wednesday whispered, taking a step backward and clasping her hands in front of her. Blood. It was there, all over Enid, in some alternate world. It was there in the future. Suddenly, Wednesday found it difficult to breathe.
Enid dropped her hand and furrowed her brows, as though just registering something. Wednesday felt the need to draw away, to dismiss the questions that would inevitably surface, but she was rooted to the spot.
“Something is wrong,” Enid said, ever the newfound expert at reading her.
Wednesday raised her chin, just a bit, unfolding her hands again. “Nothing is wrong, Enid.”
“Then why did you wake me up?” Enid shot back, not unkindly. Wednesday found herself deprived of her usual remarks. She should have been able to conjure one with ease, but she faltered. Why was it, truly, that she was so disoriented by these nightmares? Better yet, why didn’t she care that Enid was interrogating her?
Enid shuffled back suddenly, unwrapping herself from her mound of blankets and stuffed animals to shift back against her pillows and cross her legs in front of her. She patted the bed in front of her lightly, a small smile toying on her lips.
Wednesday imagined her dying in her arms. She imagined her lifeless eyes, so detached from their characteristic glint. She imagined her blood on her hands.
She slid onto the bed in front of Enid, no longer paying mind to her inhibitions.
“Really, though,” Enid said, her smile abating a bit as she rubbed the ear of one of her stuffed animals. “What’s wrong?”
You can’t know, Wednesday thought, watching her fingers toy with the plush fabric. I can’t do that to you.
Crossing her legs, too, Wednesday chewed on the inside of her cheek and met Enid’s eyes. Her profile was accented by golden incandescence, a product of her night light, as she tilted her head to the side. Wednesday dug her nails into her palm.
“Wednesday?” Enid whispered when she remained silent. Wednesday opened and closed her mouth.
“You—” she began, then stopped. There were far too many ways she could finish that sentence, and she didn’t desire speaking any of them into existence.
Some despicable pressure mounted behind her eyes, and she blinked to suppress it. Shuffling closer until their knees were brushing, Wednesday exhaled and reached out, pulling her eyes away from Enid’s and to the hand that caressed her stuffed animal. Far too gently, she pulled Enid’s hand away from it, cradling it in her grasp, before sliding her fingers down to her wrist.
Wednesday pressed her thumb to the artery pulsing beneath Enid’s skin, ignoring her gaze. Bum. Bum. Bum.
Wednesday swallowed and drew her attention back to Enid’s face. A flicker of what seemed like realization flashed over it, weaving its verses into the slope of it, and she held still as Wednesday felt her pulse.
As it ticked beneath her thumb, Wednesday flicked her eyes to and fro, attempting to deduce what it was running through Enid’s mind. Then, unleashing the last of her reservations to the approaching storm, Wednesday dropped her wrist. She hesitated only a few heartbeats before wrapping her arms around Enid’s shoulders and pulling her close.
As soon as Enid was in her arms, she dug her nails into her pajama top, holding her with the idea she would disappear beneath her. Enid was still for a moment, likely from shock, but soon her arms came to twine around Wednesday’s waist. It was an uncomfortable position, truly; she was grateful when Enid shuffled backward and unwound her legs, which allowed Wednesday to shift closer and curl her knees to her side.
“Wednesday,” Enid whispered, her hands twitching against her waist. Wednesday held her tighter, her mind infiltrated by images of her death, her blood, her headstone, and she relished in the warmth emanating from her. It was such a stark contrast to the chill she exuded, to how cold she felt after Wednesday held her for what seemed like hours in her nightmares. Enid rested her chin atop her head, and the weight was enough to tether Wednesday to this present, to this moment, no matter how fleeting it might be.
Fortunately, Enid posed no further questions; she merely rubbed her thumb against Wednesday’s waist as she held her in return. Her shoulders sank as she leaned further into her pillows, propped against the white bars of her headboard. Wednesday slid one of her hands to the small of her back, disregarding the inevitable consequences that would follow her actions. She just wanted to be close to her, just this once, and if that meant turning away from all that implored her not to do this, then so be it. Wednesday would be foolish.
Enid attempted to push her back, perhaps vying to get a look at her face, but Wednesday wrapped her arms tighter and squeezed her eyes shut, tucking her face into the crook of her neck and ignoring everything that told her to do the opposite.
“Stay this way.” Wednesday held her just a bit tighter. “I want to remember you like this.”
Enid, warm and alive, her chest rising and falling against Wednesday’s, was all she wanted to remember. Wednesday didn’t know when it would be ripped from her. She didn’t want it to be taken away.
The quiet expanded, but only for a moment. “Okay,” Enid whispered against her hair, drawing her closer. She didn’t resist it. Another time, she might have, but this wasn’t another time—this was tonight, and it was haunted by the ghosts of the future. When Wednesday tilted her head just so, she could feel the pulse thrumming in her neck.
She couldn’t determine how long they stayed like that, holding one another beneath the glow of the night light and the occasional flashes of lightning, but Wednesday eventually drew back. She didn’t draw back far, though, because her nose was a mere few inches from Enid’s, whose eyes were tinged with something unnamed when Wednesday sought them out.
Wednesday needed to get up. She needed to walk away. She didn’t.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Enid inquired, her voice less of a question and more of a breathless whisper.
“No, I don’t,” Wednesday said shortly, not above being entirely honest. Avoiding that she had confirmed something was wrong, and that an it did indeed exist, she untwined her hands from around Enid’s shoulders and reached them up to frame her face instead. This time, her hands weren’t lathered with blood. Enid’s eyes fluttered as she stared at Wednesday in the darkness.
Wednesday tipped her head down to press a kiss against her forehead, returning the gesture from the other night. Her skin was warm beneath her lips, not cold. When she drew back, Enid’s eyes were closed, and so she lingered just in front of her, brushing an awry strand of hair away.
Her heart fluttered and clenched in tandem, suffocated by the weight of knowledge, as Enid opened her eyes. For a moment, all that permeated the world they had made for themselves was the rainfall dousing the balcony with sonnets left unspoken. It tapped against their balcony, just a bit louder than before, and Enid leaned just a bit closer.
“I should tell you something,” Enid whispered lowly, like it was a secret. The way in which she continued to watch Wednesday, as though she were the most regaled painting, left a gaping hole in her chest.
“Don’t—” Wednesday felt sick. “Don’t tell me.”
Don’t tell me, she thought, even as Enid’s slow exhale fanned against her lips. If it were anything similar to what Wednesday could say to Enid right now, she knew she wouldn’t be able to bear her death that much more. If Enid said what Wednesday wanted to say, she wasn’t sure she would be able to pull herself out of the truth at all; she would spiral. She would drown. She was drowning, looking into the depths of Enid’s blue eyes, but she didn’t want to resurface. If Enid said what Wednesday thought she might say, she would be apt to join her in death. She could not allow herself to break. She wasn’t going to; she only allowed it in her nightmares, when death plagued the girl before her.
Enid grew quiet, her breaths steady, as she regarded Wednesday, who dropped her hands to her shoulders.
“Show me,” she finally murmured, feeling that knot in her throat grow tenfold. Enid’s hands trembled as they cupped her face, and they trembled as she ran her fingers over her cheeks, and they trembled as she leaned forward and closed the gap between them.
Kissing Enid was something poets of the 19th century would publish endless books over, for it was incomparable to anything this plane had to offer. Wednesday pressed into her, digging her fingers against the back of her neck, even as Enid held her gently and tilted her head just so, slotting their lips together with the ease of a summer gale. Wednesday pushed down images of headstones in groves and arrows striking necks as she felt Enid brush away wisps of hair from her face.
It was soft, slow, and entirely consuming. As Enid tugged her closer, she decided that it was a bit desperate, too. She locked away the pleas that told her they shouldn’t have done this; she would mull over them later, because Enid’s hold on her face was deplorably gentle, and her lips slid against Wednesday’s reverently, and she wanted to remember this.
Enid made a wounded sound against Wednesday’s lips as she slipped her hands up to thread them through her messy hair. It was enough to have Wednesday prolong the kiss for a few seconds more, carding her fingers through Enid’s dyed hair, before drawing back and breathing heavily. The only sound occupying the stillness was their breaths, disheveled and uneven. Wednesday pulled away a bit more, sliding her hands to hold Enid’s face again, mirroring her actions. Her ribs constricted painfully as she watched her, running her thumbs beneath her eyes, for all she saw was someone close to death. Enid opened her eyes halfway, and they were glinting with arrays of firelight as they found Wednesday’s.
Enid audibly swallowed as she glanced over Wednesday’s face. As though sensing her onslaught of reluctance, she pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and whispered, “Will you stay here tonight?”
Wednesday wasn’t sure if Enid’s words were for Wednesday or herself, but she nodded after a long moment. For this one night, she could allow Enid to hold her; for this one night, she could allow herself to hold Enid and listen to her heartbeat in her chest. For the rest of this one night, Wednesday could pretend Enid wasn’t going to die.
She kept that in mind as Enid offered a tiny smile and drew one of the blankets atop them. Just this once. Wednesday settled just to her side, one arm wrapping across her stomach, and one leg twining over Enid’s beneath the covers. Just this once. Wednesday wanted to loathe how Enid’s arms wrapped around her and pulled her close, as though she needed this touch just as much as Wednesday wished she didn’t. Just this once. Enid didn’t mention how Wednesday clung to her with all the force of a soul in mourning. For that, she was grateful.
Another flash of lightning lit their room as they settled against one another, surrounded by words left unsaid. You’re going to die.
Wednesday found Enid’s pulse on her wrist again.