Chapter Text
Wednesday talks of murder far too much for someone who cannot handle the heavy weight of death on her heart.
The murder in question wasn’t even her doing, and yet she carries the guilt of it like an anchor, pressing her down and colouring her world grey.
It’s one thing to be an edgy teenager who enjoys the macabre, and another story entirely to feel the absence of a person that once used to be very much real, warm and tangible flesh and blood.
Larissa Weems’s death haunts her. She wakes up in cold sweat more often than not, gasping into the darkness, memories of the light disappearing from the Principal’s eyes jolting her awake. A needle, a deadly nightshade, a fading heartbeat, panic, urgency, denial. A powerful presence gone. Wednesday feels the absence like a hole in her chest. She expects her to appear from behind a wall, listens for the familiar clacking of heels, sometimes imagines a glimpses of platinum hair in her peripheral vision.
She almost isn’t surprised when she discovers Weems is her new spirit guide. She’s been feeling her presence, lingering, dwelling, unhappy, clawing for a chance to touch the world of the living.
“Hello, Wednesday,” Weems speaks from the darkness of Wednesday’s dorm room.
Wednesday feels guilt climbing like rising water in her throat, threatening to choke her, but she swallows it. She doesn’t want Weems to know.
“I suppose you’ve come to torture me from the dead,” Wednesday spits, fighting the urge to turn around and take a look at her.
“That’s only one perk of the job. Mostly, I’m here to make sure you don’t make even more of a mess out of your life.”
She pauses.
“And of those around you.”
The jab is pointed. Wednesday says nothing, and doesn’t turn.
Larissa Weems is, unsurprisingly, very hard to tune out. Even when she’s silent, Wednesday knows she’s there, on the other side of the thin veil separating the living from the dead. She feels her linger on the very edge of it, bitter and sad.
Wednesday sits alone in the library in the dead of the night, trying to do her homework. Might as well, for she knows sleep won’t come.
“Would it be too much to ask of you to mope less? Your presence is very distracting,” Wednesday asks to the silent room.
“Perhaps it’s your focus that is lacking.”
“Your aura is like a bitter grapefruit,” Wednesday bites.
Larissa slides into the chair next to her and crosses her legs. “Can you blame me?” she asks. “It wasn’t my time yet.”
“One could argue that it was, since you are, in fact, dead.”
“There were still things I wanted to do,” Larissa sighs, tapping perfectly manicured nails on the table. “This school is headed for disaster without my leadership. And so are you, despite my best efforts. You need to talk to your mother, Wednesday.”
“No,” Wednesday says flatly. “Can you let me do my homework now?”
Larissa sighs. “See, even when you try to do the right thing, it’s poorly timed. If you just listened to me for once—”
“I prefer to make my own mistakes,” Wednesday cuts her off.
Silence. Red nails have stopped tapping on the table.
“As you wish,” Larissa says coldly and disappears.
Wednesday can’t sense her again that night, and despite her best efforts to convince herself otherwise, the lack of the unnerving presents makes her feel lonelier than ever.
Wednesday has a rough term. She gets buried alive, almost dies, and nearly loses a family member and her best friend. As if that isn’t enough, after the entire ordeal Larissa decides to take a sabbatical. Wednesday feels more fragile than ever, and Larissa’s absence puts her even more on edge.
She wonders if Larissa will ever return. She still senses her presence somewhere, but it’s distant and dreamlike, a fading taste on her lips that she can almost remember.
It’s months before the darkness answers back again. It’s summer break, long past midnight, and Wednesday is writing in her room, murmuring dialogue into her chin, trying to decide whether it sounds natural or not.
“I see your sleeping habits haven’t improved.”
Wednesday’s heart skips a beat as she hears the familiar voice again, but she tries not to show it.
“Took you long enough,” she retorts back flatly. “How was your vacation?”
“Why, Wednesday, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve missed me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
There is silence for a moment, and then a clacking of heels on the floor. Then, there’s a smell of familiar, floral perfume, distinct and strong, if a bit old-fashioned. Wednesday thinks it suits her very well.
Larissa leans over her shoulder.
“The dialogue isn’t very convincing,” she comments.
“No one asked you. I’m working on it,” Wednesday grabs her typewriter, snatching it into her lap.
Larissa chuckles. Wednesday realises that’s the first time she ever heard Principal Weems make that sound while she was alive, and tries not to think about the fact that she will never make it again in the world of the living.
“Why did you come back?” she finally asks, after a long silence.
“I was bored,” Larissa responds. “Death doesn’t suit me. Not a lot to do.”
“So you came to haunt me. How flattering.”
“It is my job.”
“I thought you helped me already.”
Larissa scoffs. “Somehow I managed, despite your best efforts to make it as difficult for me as possible — but at the rate you’re going, I’ll be here for several decades. My work is far from done.”
Wednesday, while glad Larissa is back again, doesn’t know how she feels about her staying for several decades, so she says nothing. Her powers still aren't fully back, but she doesn't want to think about that right now. She continues to write and murmur under her breath.
After a while, Larissa leaves, and Wednesday is left alone in the dark. Just before dawn breaks, she puts her typewriter away and goes to bed.
It’s graduation day. Wednesday doesn’t know exactly what she intends to do with her life. Her powers have never returned in their full glory. Desperate to get away from home and from Jericho, she decides to go to college to pursue a degree in journalism and give herself three more years to figure things out.
Larissa sits in an empty chair next to Morticia at Wednesday’s graduation. Wednesday wonders if her mother has left the chair empty on purpose precisely for that reason. After they call Wednesday's name, Larissa claps and winks at her, then disappears in a cloud of silver smoke.
It isn’t until Wednesday is well into her final year of college that Larissa appears again. She’s brushing her teeth in the messy dorm bathroom when she hears that deep, lilting voice once again.
“Hello, Wednesday.”
Wednesday jolts and looks up to see Larissa in the mirror above the sink. She turns around to face her in all her poised glory, looking even larger and more regal than Wednesday remembers — perhaps because the bathroom is tiny, or perhaps because Wednesday has forgotten how absurdly tall Larissa is. She is wearing pearls only slightly whiter than the pale skin around her neck, and a sage green dress, cinched with a belt that is held together by two pale gold hands clasping each other. Her nails and lips are bloody red, and so are her pointy heels. Wednesday can’t help but think that death somehow suits her. She looks more rested than she ever did while she was alive.
Wednesday has never forgotten about Larissa, but she had almost dismissed of her as a figment of her own imagination. It's hard to remember her high school years. Her life was so chaotic at the time, and huge chunks of her memory are blurry and disjointed.
It’s only now that she feels the familiar presence again that she realises how deep the absence of it has been.
“Wh—” she tries speaking with the toothbrush in her mouth, then turns around to spit in the sink, splattering the faucet and the soap dispenser. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “I thought you were gone,” she says accusatorially, turning back to Larissa.
“I was, for a while. I thought I might as well let you try and figure things out yourself,” Larissa responds nonchalantly, crossing her arms. “I see it hasn't been going very well.”
Suddenly very angry, Wednesday takes a step towards Larissa. She hates her, hates her perfectly coiffed hair, and her silly over-the-top outfits, and her nails, and her stupid body-part jewellery.
“Who do you think you are, barging into my life uninvited? Where were you the past three years? Taking another sabbatical? Getting a manicure?”
Larissa ignores her jabs. “I’m here to do my job. You've had plenty of time to figure it out on your own. You’re twenty-one, and your powers still aren’t under control. What exactly are you planning to do about that? About your life?”
“You sound just like my mother."
"Maybe your mother is right."
"For your information, I intend to find a job.”
Larissa laughs. “And survive in this economy? Oh darling, you’re lucky you’re a trust fund baby.”
“Unlike some, I’m alive, so I’m free to do as I please. You don’t even exist unless I talk to you.”
She regrets the words as soon as she speaks them.
“I see that you are still self-centred enough not to care about how you affect others. I’ll try again in a couple of years when you've hopefully grown up a little.”
Wednesday blinks, and suddenly Larissa is no longer there. Left alone in the little bathroom, toothpaste smeared over her hand, she feels like a fool.
She decides to go out that night, despite having previously planned to go to bed. She cannot bear to be alone with her thoughts. She gets drunk and sleeps with a stranger, some guy she doesn’t really like, but decides has adequate enough hygiene to do the job.
That night marks a start to a string of bad decisions, from getting drunk more frequently, promiscuous escapades, ghosting Enid, to almost failing her course entirely and barely graduating. Secretly, she hopes the chaos will prompt Larissa to come back. However, it does nothing but further confirm the lingering thought that’s been following her for almost a decade now: she fucks up everything she touches.
Wednesday is a child full of woe, after all. It's only natural she causes death, destruction, and misery everywhere she goes. Her mother had predicted it for her and named her accordingly.
But Wednesday isn't one to surrender to self-pity that easily, even if highly dysfunctional. Through sheer force of will she manages to land an internship, and a job as a journalist for a fashion magazine soon after it, the term journalist being used quite loosely. She absolutely hates it. She doesn't care about the mundane drivel she is forced to write about in the slightest, but it pays the bills, and, stung by Larissa’s very true comment about being a trust fund baby, she refuses to accept any money from her family ever again.
She spends the next couple of years in a numb sort of haze. She lives with roommates in a dirty apartment on the outskirts of the city. Her commute is long and exhausting and she hates sharing her space, but this dump is the only thing she can afford. Her powers are weaker than ever, and she barely even senses any sort of presence anymore. The veil, which used to feel so thin, is now like an iron wall, revealing nothing on the other side. She hasn’t had a vision since high school. When she tries to search for Larissa beyond the veil, she feels nothing but her own misery, constant and dull.
She decides to give herself a deadline. If nothing happens until her 28th birthday, she will forget she ever had any powers to begin with, or that she ever knew Larisa Weems, and will continue to live her life as a normie nobody, without a purpose, without a plan.
It is on her birthday that Larissa shows up again.