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Six months later.
Wednesday is an unceremonious husk.
[Enid Sinclair is on another side of the world, feeling discontent deep enough to make her see the world through melancholy. She holds with herself the knowing that it will never go away. She’s not in love, no, not with Bruno. She’s not quite still in love with Wednesday and not quite out of it. Everything in her life is grey, and she wonders if this is the sort of happiness most people come to. Not the true kind, just the kind that keeps you alive.]
If fate were watching, it would cackle at the ironic tragedy.
Wednesday Addams is weak. Her bones buckle, her frame shivers and shakes like this plane is no longer meant to sustain her.
[Enid Sinclair is not hers. It would be blasphemous to assume she could breathe in such a world. No, not for a second.]
“Ask me to wait for you.”
This ache never gets lighter. Never fades to the background of her mind. Not once. Not like Enid.
[It’s rare to find her with her eyes completely dry. But Enid is alive. She would pay this price a thousand times over if it meant Enid lives.
But she can’t. Wednesday can’t live. Not in this misery that eats at her until just the bones remain, until the moment those are gone too.]
She hasn’t eaten in days.
The only thing that helps is the dreams. The dreams she pitifully clings to, glimpses of lives where they’re happy. Alive.
But such a fuel is unpredictable and rips her heart some more in exchange for brief bliss.
[She thinks she’s starting to lose sight of what’s real. Wednesday Addams does not care. The raven’s curse of madness no longer bothers her.
Because she’s won and Enid stopped fighting for her years ago, and Enid’s body is healthy and strong and the seer could at least keep her safe.]
She wonders if Pugsley will manage to track her down to this apartment, too.
She hopes he doesn’t. That what she’ll be left with is a heart that stops beating and blood that runs dry, and not a moment more of thought. That nothing stops this demise of hers, nothing at all.
Enid Sinclair is in Vermont and Wednesday Addams is in Berlin.
Her refrigerator is empty, has been for weeks. Four weeks since she moved in. Two since she stopped eating entirely, and three since it’s been empty. She’s never been much to hold an appetite anyway. She forces down the hurtling river of memories where Enid reminds her to, just as she reminded Wednesday to sleep.
She should sleep. Her eyes are heavy and tired and it takes her a second to recall she’s still standing up, and another to lower herself to the cold marble floor of her apartment.
And in a moment of bliss, she could even imagine that the news of her death never even reaches Enid Sinclair.
She hopes it doesn’t, desperately hopes she won’t be found at all.
[Enid Sinclair never receives a phone call, in the end.]
Burn me a page into that book of yours—you know the one. The one full of longing and misery, and echoes of laughter that all but fail to spark delight into an empty husk of a mind. Drown me in memories that are not real, not here. Let it be known that I was yours like a curse pressed to a temple’s doorsteps, yours like the moon is the sun’s, yours like the heartache so deeply carved into every inch of me that I can no longer stay awake.