"And you didn't bother telling me?!"
Adam sat on a chair, eyes to his right, watching as the fire in Medusa's mouth burned bright. The crackle of said fire echoed in the room, the sound bouncing from the four corners of Larissa's office. Pop, pop, pop. Like the sound of dried leaves crushing, or the sound of that beast's teeth when his fist collided with it.
"Adam, would you care to listen?!"
His eyes refocused once more, turning to the furious figure in front of him. Larissa, her eyes burning with the same ferocity as the fire, tinged with emotions — anger, concern. She sighed, massaging her forehead in stress.
He had just told her what happened the night of the Rave'N, how he was attacked, how he died. Adam postponed telling her not because he forgot, but also to give himself time to reflect.
"I am listening," he replied in a calm tone, "I… wanted time for myself first, to think."
Silence permeated the room, and it seemed to amplify the sound of the hearth even more. It felt therapeutic, hypnotizing even. To just watch the wood burn, and to feel the warmth it gave in its sacrifice.
Larissa lifted her head up, her eyes meeting Adam's. From her view, she could see so much more of him. The way his eyes looked like the sun when light hits it, burning fireballs surrounded by milky white space.
"I understand that, but the sheer gravity of the situation, Adam…." The anger in her faded like a matchstick out of space to burn, "you were attacked by a monster. You died, and then… you're here."
Larissa's eyes shifted, noticing the twitch in Adam's finger the moment she mentioned the second part of her statement. Was it the monster? Was it because he died? Was it because he resurrected? What constituted that reaction from him?
"I am. I learned something new, did I not?" He paused, his eyes turning to his hands, "That I cannot die." His tone was weary, almost melancholic — almost empty.
Silence reigned once more. The knowledge was heavy; to theorize it was different because despite the indications, reality hadn't declared it true. But assuming it didn't make it any easier to digest, it made it even harder to. A bone clogged in your throat, a splinter in your skin that just can't be removed.
The silence was broken by Larissa, her fingers tapping the table. "Why were you in the woods in the first place?" She asked, changing the topic on purpose to make him comfortable.
"Truthfully, I don't know either. I went there before, during the morning. I thought I could find clues, perhaps a hint of my maker… I did not," Adam chuckled, "but I dare say I found something better."
He stood up slowly, his movement measured and careful. "A fawn." Adam stretched his hand, sizing something in the air, "It was… this big, a child, innocent." Larissa watched Adam in silence, listening to his story, his every word. A mother watching her child.
"It was alone, hungry, so I fed it." He paused, reminiscing about the moment, perhaps living it in his head again. His tone was nostalgic, child-like. "I plucked berries from a bush; it was sweet and fresh. I handed it one, and it came to me. We ate, and for a moment… I felt like I truly belonged."
He turned to the fireplace, basking in the warmth it radiated. "I went there again the night of the Rave'N, hoping to find that fawn," Adam turned his head to Larissa, "I did, or it found me, at least. Perhaps, it was looking for me, too. All I found was that boy, Eugene."
"Mr. Ottinger." Larissa repeated, unsurprised. This, Ms. Thornhill had informed her of.
Adam nodded. "Yes, we fed the fawn together… until that beast attacked us. It lunged, and I felt its malice. It was wrathful. In retaliation, I punched it."
He lifted his hand, the one he used, clenching it tightly. "I felt its teeth shattered, its flesh squashed. It was… sickening," he said in a disgusted tone, "I froze; that's when it got me. Here." Adam pointed to the side of his neck, his jugular.
He let out a weary sigh before sitting down. "I died a short while after. Then I woke up, and Wednesday was there."
'Wednesday.' Larissa thought to herself. The girl was always at the center of things. Even now, as Adam was attacked, she was at the scene. She attracted danger like a hyper-charged magnet. Or was it the opposite? That danger attracted her? Nonetheless, it didn't look good for her record.
Adam, done recounting his story, sat in silence again. The room's quiet was broken only by the low crackle of the fire, now softer, as if even the flames were leaning in to listen. Adam's gaze lingered on the hearth, unblinking, as though the memory of the fawn still danced in the embers.
Larissa exhaled slowly, her tone gentler than before. "How did it feel, Adam? To…"
"To die?" He finished, making Larissa flinch. Adam's eyes, empty, wandered — to his hands, to the walls, to the hearth, and finally, to Larissa. "Peaceful. So much so that life feels like torment."
"Enough of me," Adam hummed, "I came here not just to inform you, but to ask as well."
Adam's words hung in the air, lingering for a moment before dropping like an executioner's blade. "Rowan Laslow —what… happened to him?"
His words were sharp, and it was Larissa's head in the lunette. "Ah…" she whispered, her tone grave and tired, "Rowan…"
Larissa paused, unsure of what to say. She leaned back on her chair, her face seemingly aging in seconds. "He is… or was, a student here at Nevermore."
"I'm asking about his death." Adam intervened. Larissa's mouth opened, but the words stalled in her throat. Adam's gaze was unwavering, a silent demand for truth.
"He was… found in the woods during the Harvest Festival," Larissa began, her tone somber, deliberate. "His body bore marks I could not fully explain—claw marks, deep and violent. It was… unlike anything the school has faced in decades."
"Why did you hide it?" He asked despite already knowing why. He understood the moment he learned. But to hear it from her mouth, the very words themselves — perhaps it would cleanse something he refuses to acknowledge.
"My position demands me to," her voice was tense, heavy with responsibility. She stood up, walking before the window, "look around us, Adam. We're surrounded by bigots, pilgrim wanna-be. Covering Rowan's death is distasteful, but it's the burden I have to carry to keep Nevermore alive."
"His father agreed to keep it a secret, he said Rowan was… unstable." The tone of her voice got graver with every word. "The sheriff… he suspects whoever that 'monster' is, that it's a Nevermore student. Preposterous, they don't even have any evidence."
"Then it's just unfounded accusation." Adam replied.
Larissa chuckled, but her eyes contrasted her actions — grim, heavy. She turned to him. "It doesn't matter, Adam. Men choose what they want to believe."
How dreadful is a world that weighs the truth.
—-
Two days had passed already from the start of their investigation, Adam's case, to find his maker. Two days of nothing but reading occult books, half of which were filled with nonsense and jumbled sentences with no meaning. Witches and mad men wrote in their words, God knows what happens when people write in their 'words.'
His situation is a first for Wednesday. She's got nothing to start with except for him. Even then, he's got nothing as well. No memory, no hint. The only lead Wednesday has on his maker was her vision.
'A male, aged 20-30, muttering madly to himself inside a dark tower.' How many male aged 20-30 are there in the world? Billions. How many towers? Millions.
'Color me surprise. This may take years.' She thought. This type of cases isn't even her forte. Murder, loose serial killers — those are where her interest lies. Not looking for a missing person that may just be in another continent or country. Then again, with how he was built, it could be a serial killer.
But an object, or a man, must always start from a beginning. A point in history to where it all begun. For inventions, it's from ideas, dreams, aspirations. For creatures, alive — a child, it starts with conceiving. What if you're both — an invention and alive.
'Someone out there is crazy enough to create a conscious hand, a whole human isn't that surprising.'
The mystery of Adam's origin is something that boggles Wednesday. She heard it, the way the maker spoke in desperation in her vision. He's tried it before and it did not work, there was an attempt before Adam, a failed one. What made him run when he succeeded?
Wednesday, out of nowhere, chuckled. Is this really a poor re-enactment of Mary Shelly's work? A real-life interpretation of a classical fictional book? Of Victor Frankenstein running the moment he realized what he created? It's… ridiculous — and possible.
Possible. Despite the sheer absurdity of the idea, it's definitely possible. A fanboy gone rogue, an admirer turned mad. This case is shrouded in a different darkness from what she's used to. Treading this path will take long, with no lantern or torch, finding the answer would exhaust anyone.
It's tiring, even for her. Does that mean she would give up? No. But Wednesday allows herself some leeway to breathe here and there from time to time.
Speaking of breathing, she might just stop doing that altogether right now. "Okay, Wednesday. That concludes our session for today."
A battle of wits, of attrition, a nightmare — therapy with this vile, overstepping fool of a doctor. While her hatred for someone doesn't take long to bud, she's hated this one the moment she laid eyes on her. 'Dr. Valerie Kinbott, oh what I would do for you to vanish.'
She stood up, making her way to the exit as fast as she could. No good-byes, just brisk walking her way out. Wednesday has made a lot of enemies in her short life, but she could safely say that therapy is the most dangerous of them all.
Perhaps that's the only regret she bears after letting those piranhas loose. Or not, the way those jocks screamed made it all worth it.
Wednesday opened the entrance door of the building, the scene of the local market of Jericho unfolding before her eyes. The September air greeted Wednesday with a sharp bite. The market square, cluttered with rustic stalls old men and women, buzzed with life despite the coming winter. Vendors called out their prices for apples, bread, and trinkets, their voices a chorus over the crunching of boots on the cobblestone.
She adjusted her black coat, blending into the shadows as her eyes scanned the crowd. A habit—no, a necessity. In a place like Jericho, getting caught alone and wearing a Nevermore uniform was bound to cause trouble.
She turned her head to the side by the curb, to Principal Weems' car. 'Empty.' She thought, not seeing the woman in the driver's seat.
Within seconds, Wednesday found herself walking to a familiar path, to Weathervane. Not even contemplating where the principal might be, Wednesday took the chance to prolong her 'stay' at Jericho. God-forbid she spend all her time in that school of mediocrity.
A week earlier, she couldn't imagine herself doing that. Fate play its games and all creature must abide. It didn't take long to find the cafe, the inside was mostly empty, people tend to order take-outs rather than stay so early in the morning.
Wednesday opened the entrance door and the bell rung above her. Some customers turned around to look, their eyes landing on the patch on her chest — Nevermore. Their uncaring gaze turned disgusted, some even laced with hate. She couldn't care less, she's Wednesday Addams.
She approached the counter, seeing it empty and unoccupied. Tyler might be at the back, she thought. Wednesday rung the service bell and not even a few seconds later, an employee exit the storage room. It is, however, not who she's looking for. A random face greeted her with a smile. "Hey, Welcome to Weathervane! What can I get you?"
"Where's Tyler?" Wednesday asked, ignoring the guy's question. The barista sighed, why is everyone asking that? "I don't know, lady. He's on leave, got an accident or something." The barista said, his welcoming smile gone.
Wednesday's eyes widened. 'An accident? When? During the Rave'N?'
"What happened?" She asked, immediately not liking the way she did, the way her tone came out — too concerned. The barista shrugged, hid face slightly irritated. "Like I said, I don't know, he's been out for 4 days. Are you going to order?"
'At the Rave'N then.' Without replying, Wednesday turned, leaving the barista to shake his head. She walked towards the door. How could she not have known? Then again, she just left him there the moment she got her vision. But he had Enid's number, he could've at least told her.
Wednesday's face grimaced, when did she care so much? She clicked her tongue, the bell chiming once more as she exited. The cobblestone path of Jericho graced her shoes again, and she began walking towards another familiar path, to someone who might know.
—-
"The hell do you want?"
The sheriff's office was only a few meters from Weathervane. Well, everything is only a few meters from Weathervane, the town of Jericho isn't in the big side of things. A few turns here and there and you'd get to exactly where you want to be.
The person whom Wednesday thinks might have a clue on what happened to Tyler is, of course, his very own father. The only problem is that this man isn't very fond of her, or any other Outcast, in fact.
Faced with his sneer and irritated gaze, one might wonder how Wednesday would react — in complete, absolute impassiveness.
"I'm looking for Tyler." She replied, her tone flat. The sheriff's eyes met hers, annoyed, suspicious. "Were you his date in that stupid dance?"
The girl tilted her head. "Companion is the word I prefer." She replied, feigning a scandalous tone. The sheriff's expression turned from irritation to anger, Wednesday swears she could hear him gritting his teeth.
The sheriff slammed his fist on the table, the sound cutting through the room like a judge's verdict. "The hell were you thinking bringing him there?!" He stood up, the chair almost falling from his momentum, his face turning red from shimmering anger, "You could've gotten him killed!"
Wednesday's eyes widened, taking a step back. The sheriff's outburst was… unexpected, making her even more intrigued on what happened to the boy. "Tell me what happened." She demanded.
"Tell you?" The sheriff scoffed, his voice reverberating off the walls of the small office. "You think I owe you that after what your little death party did to my son?"
Wednesday didn't flinch. Her gaze was steady, her voice even. "We got separated after that prank your mayor's son pulled. I'm in the dark with whatever happened to him."
He stared at her, the muscle in his jaw twitching. For a moment, only the faint hum of a desk fan and the occasional squeak of boots outside filled the space. He finally exhaled sharply, leaning back into his chair with a defeated slump.
Wednesday could see some cops, some employees taking a glance through the glass wall, most likely as surprised as her from the sheriff's reaction.
"Fine," he muttered, his tone gruff but subdued. "Midnight, just as I was about to sleep, Tyler came home knocking. I opened the door and saw him covered in red paint."
The sheriff paused, nervous, running his hand to his face. "I asked him what happened and he just… fell. I thought he was drunk with whatever the hell you kids drink these days… except he didn't smell like alcohol," he paused, as if remembering a painful memory, "he smell like blood."
Wednesday's eyes narrowed. "Blood?"
He hesitated, then waved her off. "Rushed him to the hospital, doctors said he had a broken jaw. Some of his teeth's gone, he looked like he was hit by a sledgehammer."
Wednesday's mind was already spiralling through possibilities. Tyler's reputation was… questionable. A delinquent bigot turned anew. Changing, however, doesn't remove your past, your sins.
You may change your personality, or attitude or your habits — but memories stay, they don't go with what you left behind.
'I did terrible things, but I swear I'm not a terrible person.'
'Revenge? Retaliation?' Countless scenarios entered inside Wednesday's imagination. Bringing him to Nevermore, to the Rave'N, where Outcasts he picked on and most likely had a bad history with were nested — trouble was bound to find him.
"Where is he now?" she asked, her tone fl— soft. Softer than she wants to admit.
"Home, he got discharged yesterday." The sheriff glared at her, accusing. "You people bring nothing but trouble… every damn time."
His eyes turned weary, waving his finger towards Wednesday. "Stay away from my son, Addams." He said, a command… a father's plea.
Wednesday stood silent, their eyes colliding in the air, creating tension so heavy the people outside could feel it. To his words, she answered with silence, turning to leave but not before giving the sheriff one last look. A look, unnerving to most, yet hides something deeper only she could feel.
Outside the building, the crisp September wind greeted her. Cold, indifferent — like her, but not now. Feelings, emotions, such concepts are hard for her to understand and digest. Having closed off your heart and mind for such trivial things, to live in darkness for most of your life, how would you react towards a budding light? You freeze, and like a fool, you realize it's a car's headlight coming for you.
Wednesday is no damsel, not a princess. She's the witch that curses the kingdom, the beast that kills the hero. Emotions has no place in her heart, or anywhere in her body. She sees the world for the cold reality it is, for the cruelty it represents. In response, she created walls, thick, 10-inch dense solid walls.
The only people whom she let in is her family, and even then, they're layers away from her true core. Now, amidst the wind cutting through the air, in the cold that threatens to freeze her already rotting insides — she found herself caring for one more.
How utterly dreadful.
—-