Parents— flesh and blood whom a child inherits both their physical characteristics and social mannerisms. The first ones we try to mimic, therefore, often times growing up to be a reflection of one, or both. The very model in which we mould ourselves to be alike.
This, relative to the fact that it is often guaranteed, found itself many idioms by those who play with words. A chip of the old block, they say. Like mother, like daughter. The most famous of them all— the apple does not fall far from the tree.
People find ways to describe concepts, ideas in simpler terms. Complex machinations turn to idioms, a lengthy process shortened to fit a layman's explanation. It's sad, truly, that the feeble mind finds ways to make itself even dimmer.
Although similarity is not guaranteed, it is often not so far-fetched to the point resemblance is inexplicable. There is still that slim distance, Wednesday said to herself. The paleness of her skin like her mother's, her sword talent from her father— that morbid curiosity from both. It is evident if one looks clearly, not so much if they are blind.
Children, you see, could never escape the blood that runs through their veins, no matter how fast or far they run. That is the sin they will carry for all eternity, lest they get reborn as an insect. An error, however, is not impossible to occur in the process of reproduction.
Wednesday thought in her mind that, perhaps, there was a cliff beside the tree she fell on, for how else could she explain the atrocities happening before her as something she's alike to?
The Addams, the couple, specifically, possess a unique trait that their only daughter truly hated, and is consequently unbefitting of their high status— the penchant for public display of affection, or affection in general.
Wednesday watched with her drink to her lips as her mother and father devoured one another. Pugsley sat beside her, quiet and awkward, watching the same scene. She could feel eyes boring through their table, familiar and judging. It did not bother her usually, not even when it was of hate; somehow, it irritated her core this time.
The couple stopped with a flinch, perhaps from the loud, almost slamming thud of which her mug landed on the picnic table. Anger seeped ever so slowly from the coffee, its bitterness multiplying on her tongue.
Gomez, her father, coughed nervously. "My apologies, my little storm cloud. You know how we are."
"I do." Wednesday replied, flat and cold. The short response left no room for a reply; Gomez relented as he looked at his wife for help.
"Wednesday, take it easy on your poor father." Said Morticia, her voice a quiet whisper, elegant and sophisticated, so unlike her indecent act mere seconds ago. "Anyways, would you like to tell us what you meant earlier? You haven't been replying to my messages; could you indulge your mother just this once?"
"You've abandoned me here, left a spy to watch my every move— what reply would you like me to give?" Her words were sharp, a rapier stabbing through Morticia's heart.
The question was as expected from a parent to child. The curious desire to know what your offspring is up to. From care or love. Wednesday had no room for both, but maybe, just maybe, she might entertain the two enough for them to stop embarrassing her.
She hummed, and Morticia took that as a yes despite her piercing words. Delighted, she leaned close to the table, strangely in still, perfect posture. Wednesday grimaced at this, already reconsidering. Nonetheless, she spoke.
"There's been a series of murders happening in this town," a great catch, a perfect opening for morbid enthusiasts like them. "Hikers, homeless people, and locals, mauled savagely. They say it was a bear. I didn't know at first, that is, until it decided to kill my attempted killer."
"Ahh, youth!" Gomez exclaimed, the premise of his daughter having an attempt at her life not denting the exciting mystery of murders.
A smirk threatened to curve on Wednesday's face. "Lo and behold, it wasn't a bear.""
"Then what?" Morticia asked curiously. Wednesday paused for a moment, looking into her mother's dark eyes. She considered telling, only for a few moments before trashing the idea down the pit of darkness in her mind.
"A monster," Wednesday replied enigmatically, earning a raised eyebrow from her mother. "As you know, I am not one to pry away from serial killers and murders, much less a rabid wild bear. You may deduce what happened after."
The story, or report, was short. Something Morticia had expected from her daughter, a woman of a few words, which often or not, is an insult. Still, she wanted to know more, to gain some clarity into the estranged individual her Wednesday had become.
"What kind?" Pugsley asked beside Wednesday. She turned to look at her pathetic brother, those unmistakable eyes reflected her father's, doe and drooping.
"A wild one." She replied enigmatically once more. Wednesday's answer floated in the air like a mist, half-revealed and elusive. Pugsley blinked, his mouth parting in a small 'o' before returning to his seat of awkward silence.
The picnic table was once again filled with the sounds of the wind hissing through the cold halls, and the faint, almost imagined whispers of those staring from afar. Much better than the constant sound of smooch and saliva.
Morticia, ever perceptive, studied her daughter's impassive face, her porcelain skin catching the muted sunlight. She saw in it a reflection of herself—detached, yet calculating. There was not an ounce of her husband in Wednesday's person, pride and sadness intertwined inside her at this observation.
Gomez, on the other hand, leaned forward with renewed energy, his moustache twitching with excitement.
"My viper, I want to know more! What happened after? Did you chase this… 'monster'?" he asked, his voice low but alight with anticipation.
Wednesday's eyes flickered towards him briefly, her expression unreadable. "Hunted it. Although it did escape due to uncounted… factors." The last sentence left strenuously.
Gomez's lips curved into the faintest of smiles. "So it is still out there, this creature of yours?"
"Perhaps," Wednesday said, tilting her head as if reliving the night she shot Tyler. "Perhaps it waits for me, too."
Pugsley gulped, something that escaped his sister. He wondered what kind of beast it could be? Gomez leaned back, clapping his hands together. "You make me proud, mi amor. I thought you well!"
Wednesday let the corners of her mouth twitch—just enough to betray a sliver of satisfaction—before lowering her gaze back to her drink. The mug's surface rippled faintly in the breeze, like a secret being whispered only to her.
Morticia noticed it, that brief crack in her daughter's iron mask. It was only her husband, she thought, that could create a reaction from her usually impassive daughter. His ability to connect is truly extraordinary, perhaps the trade-off for being stripped of his Outcast abilities.
But, despite their innate desire to pursue the unknown and the terrible, concern still forms in their similarly cold, black hearts. "Say, my dear. Were you alone in this endeavor of yours?" Which practically translates to: Do you have any friends?
That question gapped an interval in their conversation. Wednesday paused, and so did Gomez. Morticia eyed her daughter, who seemed to be… thinking. Her observation, however exaggeratedly maternal, quickly formed a conclusion before Wednesday could answer— she was not.
"I am a lone wolf. I hunt my prey alone." Wednesday replied shortly after. Her words left too fast, too defensive. Morticia and Gomez nodded, a sly smile gracing the former's equally porcelain face.
Wednesday frowned at this, for she knew that her mother knew. The shadow of her control loomed over her slowly. Then, an out-of-place bright light interrupted their "family time".
"My, my!" A voice exclaimed. Wednesday did not need to see to know who it was, her scowl deepening. She swore, in her mind, that her eyebrows dropped to a frown 6 feet under. "Morticia. Gomez. How great it is to see you two!"
With grace, Morticia stood up, that sly smile turning genuine. "Larissa!" She called, stepping out of the bench to hug the shining tall woman. Gomez followed behind her, equally excited.
If her mother is the moon, pale and white, existing only in the darkness of the night—this woman is her stark opposite. Gold and lavish with the smile of a gilded venomous snake pretending to be the sun.
"You are as radiant as I last saw you," Weems said to Morticia before briefly turning to her side, "And Gomez, as wild as ever."
"Of course, a stallion through and through!" Gomez replied, happily holding his stomach.
Larissa turned to Pugsley, lips curved to a welcoming smile as she acknowledged him. "A handsome young man." She said as she patted his head.
Finally, she turned to the last person on the table. Wednesday followed her with her eyes, a dangerous glint shining like a needle in those abyss. "Touch my head and watch your hand fly."
Despite the threatening words, or promise, Weems kept her smile. "I dare not," she said with a chuckle. Wednesday stared at her for a moment, an imaginary tug-of-war playing in the air.
That, however, ended soon enough when she noticed who Weems came with. Cold water washed over her head as her mother noticed too.
"And who is this?" Morticia asked curiously, her gaze on whom someone Wednesday dared not mention in her short report.
"Oh," Larissa uttered, eyes going back-and-forth between the three. A moment of realization dawn on her, and Wednesday is sure, God, she's sure she saw a hint of mockery in those bright blue eyes, "Sorry, I was so sure Ms. Wednesday already told you about him."
"Are you now?" Morticia replied before Wednesday could. Weems nodded lightly. "From what I know, they are close friends. Isn't that right, Adam?"
—-
The Addams family presented themselves quite differently from the norms that Adam is used to. He has not lived long, you see, but he has lived enough to know what normal is to not.
He's seen other families in Jericho, Normies. He saw their reservation, their connection to one another no matter how subtle. In his eyes, they play a certain trope for their role. The father is often the provider, the mother plays the guiding light, and the children plays the curious fawns.
It was constant, the usual path a family follows. He sees it outside as well from his classmates' families, they act similarly but with the difference of Outcast culture mixed in them.
It is fascinating to see how each archetypes act out in different scenarios. In vampire family, in sirens, gorgons, werewolves. They all bear some semblance with one another regardless of being ultimately different from each other.
The Addams, perhaps, wraps on a whole different mould from the others. Macabre and dark. He's expected it already, simply from interacting with the eldest daughter. Different as she is, she is as peculiar as the rest of her family.
Pugsley Addams presents himself an exact opposite of his sister. Timid, quiet, and anxious— only the second one applies to the eldest, even that is questionable.
Morticia Addams, their mother, moved with the grace of a noble lady. The air wraps around the loose-ends of her pitch-black dress, dancing as the wind carries her like a queen. She spoke in a misty, almost airy tone— her words leaving a trail of mystery as each letter leaves her mouth.
Gomez Addams, on the other hand, is thunderous and loud. He laughs with his whole stomach, carrying himself with absolute confidence, similar to Wednesday herself.
The two combined made a strange pair. Odd, yes, but strangely fitting with each other. Adam questioned how the couple found each other in the first place, but was immediately left speechless as he watched them… 'rodeo' for the first time.
Time and place, it seems, did not matter for the two. He looked at Wednesday for answers, but found the girl ignoring his gaze outright. She's embarrassed, he thought, she had the right to be. Larissa just seemed tired, as if she's used to the scene by now.
Whatever that was, he's long desired to delete it in his memories. Questions followed shortly after that interlude. About his existence, his identity and his name.
Adam is glad Larissa was with him, Morticia acted like a veteran interrogator, or a torturer looking for an answer— mostly about her daughter. That said, she did not get any, Wednesday herself made sure of it.
A bullet for a bullet followed the mother and daughter. Adam made sure not to be hit by any, he along with Gomez.
Looking at it now, Larissa's office seems impossibly small for this unique group of people. It looks as if space bends itself to accommodate their strange aura. A family portrait etched in darkness, macabre in all sense and word.
Morticia stood in the middle of the office, a look of nostalgia adorning her pale face. She looked haunting, the so-called lady in white, but black in clothing and perhaps twice more beautiful. On her hands is a book, their old yearbook. Gomez watched his wife with endearment, his look a look of worship and altruistic sacrifice.
"Our old yearbook." Morticia finally muttered, the feelings in the memories oozing from her tone. The crackle of the pyre seems to regress her to the days of her youth, "I haven't laid eyes on this in over 20 years. Such good times we had, didn't we, Larissa?"
The inaudible crack that occurred on her smile went unnoticed to others— not Adam, never. Larissa strained a complicated smile, "Some of us better than others."
"Oh, don't be so modest!" Morticia replied scandalously, "You always filled a room with your presence. Like a stately sequoia tree."
They're bantering, Adam thought, like children once again. Larissa chuckled. "And I guess that would make you the lumberjack."
With a laugh, Morticia turned to Larissa. "There's that biting sense of humor that I always adored." Then, her eyes widened, a memory flashing in her mind, "Do you remember when we did that duet for the Solstice Talent Show? Your Judy Garland impression was a dead ringer."
"Sounds positively suicidal." Wednesday whispered beside Adam. He turned slightly, meeting her dead-eyes watching her mother. There's hints of confusion, curiosity, and disgust.
"Oh," Morticia whispered in disappointment, "My picture's gone…" Larissa frowned and tilted her head, "Really? Well, that is odd."
Morticia closed the book quietly, "May I borrow this book for the weekend? That way Gomez and I can take a little walk down memory lane."
Gomez produced a seductive roaring sound while Morticia purred. This 'little walk down memory lane' might not seem to be what he's expecting. An explicit image formed in his head, but was quickly crushed by Larissa's voice.
"All right." Larissa said as she signals for Morticia to sit. "Let's get down to the matter at hand, shall we? Hmm?"
This meeting is not simply a matter of introduction and reunion, it seems. Larissa put on her mask, that polite smile she carries in formality. "Unfortunately, Wednesday's assimilation has been rocky at best."
The girl stepped forward in resistance. "Because I refuse to embrace the culture of dishonesty and denial permeating this school. Starting with the monster that killed Rowan and attacked Adam. Although I do hear Rowan's pretty comfortable in his home."
Larissa stared at Wednesday, then to Adam briefly with eerie politeness. "We've always encouraged Wednesday to speak her mind." Gomez said, "Sometimes, her sharp tongue can cut deep."
Larissa sighed. "Apparently her therapist feels she hasn't been open to the process. Their time together has not yielded the results we'd hoped."
"I'm not a lab rat." Wednesday scorned.
Larissa did not heed to her reaction, "Dr. Kinbott and I have spoken, and we both agree it would be most beneficial for you all to attend a family session this weekend."
Without a second of hesitation, Wednesday snapped back with a cold rejection, "No."
Larissa looked down at her table, chuckling at the answer that she already expected, "I thought that might be your reaction, but your parents can see the wisdom in it."
The Addams couple looked at each other in awkward silence, seemingly conversing with just their eyes. Slowly, they turned back in quiet agreement, "Um, not to side with Wednesday," Morticia started, "but, we're only here for the weekend."
Gomez, however, seemed to have agreed on another thing all to himself, "Oh, come on," he said excitedly, "What can it hurt? To he honest, I've always been a big fan of head-shrinking." Morticia eyed him in disbelief. A miscommunication, it seems, from a couple so often in sync.
Morticia interjected immediately. "It's not that kind of head-shrinking, mon chéri."
Gomez's excited smile faded, replaced by a deep, almost comedic disappointment. Adam wanted to crack a smile, but Wednesday's deepening frown prevented any joy in a 2-meter radius from her to enter.
"Oh, that is disappointing," Gomez whispered, but a man, as he most probably believes, does not go back on his word. "But anything for our little girl."
Wednesday's mood intensified, and Adam swears the room felt exponentially heavier than a few moments ago. She eyed her father, eyes like a drawn blade ready to strike.
Larissa clasped her hands together with a smile. "It seems we're all in agreement," they are not, "I'll be informing Ms. Kinbott of this arrangement."
"I have nothing else to address," Larissa said, "Consider this short meeting adjourned. You may all go— including you, Adam."
Adam could hear the rusted wheels of a guillotine turning in Wednesday's mind, the sound of a tightening knot, or mayhap the sound of an electric chair charging— albeit he's never seen all three in action.
The mind is a powerful force of mystery,
Morticia looked to be in the same state as her eldest daughter, internally grimacing at her husband's hasty decision. Gomez simply looks excited at the prospect of experiencing this type of "head-shrinking".
A dysfunctional family, Adam noted, yet strangely in accordance with one another's unique characteristics. A gut-wrenching potion concocted by a mad witch that, contrary to its morbid appearance, works like a miracle.
That is the Addams family— the very contradiction to worldly standards.
—-
Adam was not quite sure why he was forced to witness that spectacle at Larissa's office, why he was even allowed— but there are certain questions in the world that need no answers, perhaps not even worth enough to be a question.
Perhaps Larissa wanted to set an example of how a family works, perhaps she wanted him to have a different view of the girl he's so often in trouble with. Answers, answers— no need to find them all.
Insatiable curiosity could thirst a man to death, curse him with starvation he could not be relieved of. Some things should just be, and be, they will.
The cold breeze passed through him like God's invisible hands, enveloping the 2nd floor balcony in shivering cold. He did not, however, shiver at all. It's dull, you see, the feeling of coldness from his skin. There, yet not.
The chatter of the families below could be heard all the way here. The howl of the werewolves, the laughter of the gorgons, and the whispering conversations of the vampires and sirens. The diversity of Nevermore's demographic showcases itself even more from here, in a bird-eye's view.
Why had he found himself here in the first place? Well, he had not much to do. The Addams, Wednesday specifically, left on her own the moment she passed through the office's door. Fading into the shadows of the school. Morticia and Gomez excused themselves as well, perhaps getting ready for their family therapy, or another "rodeo".
Adam shook his head to remove the image. Is this what they meant in the word "traumatize"? Soon enough, a sigh echoed in the hall— except it's not his. He turned to the sound, at another stair leading up to the hall.
The sound of footsteps going up reverberated and in his mind, he had already deduced who this person is. A heartbeat is all it took for a mass of colors and gold hair to grace this dark balcony— bright, yet not illuminating as it usually is.
Enid stepped out, her face seemingly containing all the sadness the world could coalesce. Without looking around, she propped herself against the balcony rails, back against the cold, jagged stone.
She curled herself up, hiding her head in her arms in an act of exhaustion apparent to anyone who sees it. It is rare, you see, to see this werewolf so downcast, even more so to see her alone.
Unlike him and Wednesday, Enid is often—most of the time— surrounded by a group of people. Her friends whom Adam is friends with as well, with her peers whom Adam barely knows. She laughs, and talks in chippers and laughs with the blissfulness of an innocent comet rounding the sky like an angel.
Now, however, she is a meteoroid, floating quietly in the unforgiving vast space. Encased in ice and relinquished of warmth, with not a vivid light in her. What could have caused this, Adam asked. So he watched, and realized he'd been watching like a fool.
In an act of bravery, and subtle encouragement to himself—he walked towards the girl, making sure his footsteps could be heard and his presence known. She did not look.
"Enid," he called, his voice quiet and strong. That got her attention. Slightly, Enid perched her head up, blue eyes peeking through the darkness of her shadows, it met his.
Adam had not noticed it before, maybe because he had not thought to do so, but her eyes are immensely different from others. Not dreadful like Wednesday's, no. Not even like Larissa's whose eyes you could drown in. Her eyes possess a certain characteristic so befitting of her nature.
Eyes like the summer, warm and free, Adam imagined. The kind you'd fall asleep to, wake up like a child exhausted from playing. Eyes that free you from your pressure, your responsibilities. It is so vastly different, so beautifully intricate.
"Adam?" She whispered, "What are you doing here?"
That sentence brought him back, like cold water rushing through the surface of his scalp, down to the crevices of his skin.
"I should ask you the same." He replied, "Larissa had work to do, and I had nothing. Wasting away in my room seems wrong on such a joyous day, am I right?"
Those words, however, seemed to be the wrong one to let out. Enid curled herself harder, breaking their eye contact in an act of isolation. "Joyous… right."
The gears in the boy's head turned like clockwork. It turned, and it turned, and he finally realized why this werewolf was here. Still, revealing it and asking were two different things. "What is the matter, Enid?"
Enid thought, and in a muffled voice, she answered. "I'm… a disappointment." Her voice was filled with agony, and each letter of the word strained to even formulate. "I don't want to be alone…"
For a moment, Adam saw himself in this bubbly, colorful girl. Which, in itself, was a great impossibility that's been proven by this very scene.
Like the walls of a dam breaking, Enid trembled, not from the shivering cold, but from her own oppressive emotions. Isolation, forced upon you by your circumstance, or by the world itself, remains the sole thing no creature could bear in the whole of the universe.
Enid trembled, and tears began to wet the sleeves of her uniform. Adam did not know what to do, but by the guiding grace of Larissa's words—talking helps.
He sat down beside Enid, the one person sitting before the balcony became two. "Being alone is normal, Enid," he said quietly, almost whisper-like. The girl looked at him again, her sclera now red in tears, "but that does not mean it is deserved."
Adam handed her a handkerchief, one he always carried as per Larissa's teachings. Enid wiped the tears from her face, going as far as to blow her nose. "Sorry…" she said, embarrassed.
"Keep it," Adam replied with a chuckle. Seeing as her cries had stopped, he spoke. "Would you like to talk about it or sit here in silence?"
Enid sniffled, twisting the handkerchief in her hands. For a moment, she said nothing, only letting the chatters fill the gap between them. The murmuring of the crowd below became a distant hum, a strange comfort in its own way.
Finally, she spoke, her voice fragile. "Mom keeps asking why I haven't wolfed out."
Adam tilted his head, waiting.
"She keeps asking. In every conversation, she always manages to sneak it in, it's like nothing else matters for her," Enid whispered, her voice trembling with a quiet fury. "She didn't even ask how I was doing, or if I was happy. Just that. I wanted to talk to her about other things, you know. My friends, Ajax, even my grades if that'll stop her from asking."
The words hung heavy in the cold air, dripping with resentment and sorrow. Adam listened, his own hands resting on the jagged stone edge of the balcony.
"I tried so hard to be the daughter she wanted," Enid continued, her voice breaking with each word. "I went to pack retreats, lycanthrophists, I tried every stupid thing she suggested. And still…" She hugged her knees tighter. "It's like an incomplete werewolf is I am to her."
She paused, inhaling a heavy amount of air. "I get where she's coming from… I understand… really. Being alone is a death sentence for werewolves, but for once… just once… I wanted mom to ask me… about me." Enid let out a chuckle, "At this point, I don't know which I fear more— mom or being alone."
Adam's gaze drifted to the walls, where dust like stars scatters like the sky. "Both are as equally terrifying."
Enid looked at him, tear-streaked, lips curving to a light laugh. "Are you calling my mom scary?"
"I wouldn't know otherwise." He smiled beneath his mask, "I haven't met your mother. Frankly, I have not even met mine."
"Oh," Enid uttered with a meekly, "I'm sorry."
Adam hummed. "What I meant to say is, I do not share your sentiments about familial issues, nor will I pretend to understand it fully," He said with a shake of his head, then slowly, he looked at Enid, "But what I am quite familiar with is our shared fear of loneliness."
He gripped his fingers on his knees, leaning his body back to the uncomfortable carvings on the stone rail. "There is an excruciating amount of pain in the silence of one's lonesome. Even more when you know there is no one coming."
"That is why, we, ourselves try to find. We mark others as saviors, the lamp of the angler we follow to escape the darkness of the sea. But it swims, and it swims, and we do not have a lamp of our own and we are not as fast nor as used to the darkness as it."
Adam raised his index up, his gloved finger catching a trace of the sun. "We try nonetheless because we have everything to lose and everything to gain. So we follow it's light, and in doing so, we develop our fins to keep up, and our fears fade so we could swim without worry, and perhaps one day— one day, we might realize something."
Enid could feel his expression softening, his lips curving to a tender smile of freedom and serene, she hopes she could see it.
"We'll realize that our fellow angler is gone, and that we have lost track of it a long time ago. Perhaps because we blinked, perhaps because they've abandoned us. But we will come to know that in the process of following, and in escaping the fear of being alone, we've evolved to have our own lamp."
His hand that held the sun in its fingertips opened, and slowly, it landed on her batch of colorful hair.
"That we realize, for the longest time, that we have been following ourselves. That you are not alone because you have you."
Adam's hand is cold, Enid noted, despite the leather gloves hindering her from feeling the touch of his skin. She noted, too, that despite the cold, there is a lingering warmth that permeates beyond the leather glove, that perhaps Adam has truly caught the sun and bathe her head with it.
Enid's fingers tightened on the handkerchief, knuckles pale as she processed Adam's words. Her sniffles softened into quiet breaths, the kind that tremble but slowly regain rhythm.
The air carried with it the faint scent of pine and the distant sweetness of roasted chestnuts from a nearby stall, a comforting fragrance that eased the weight on her chest little by little.
Adam spoke again. "In the suffering of my isolation, I have realized something." His words hitched to her ears, "There is no greater companion than one's self, and no greater light to be guided of than one's own."
He ruffled her hair, and strangely enough, she let him. Her shoulders loosened, and her worries seem to fade and melt like snow in the coming summer. Enid felt warmer than in any home, more comfortable than any bed, and more complete than the broken werewolf her mother treated her as.
She felt herself lying in a field of flowers— bathing in the spring sun. She relished in this moment, and in his wise words. "I hope you will one day realize as I have, and in the mounting pressure of your own expectations and your mother's— that you realize being alone is normal, Enid, because no one truly is."
—-