Family bonding for the Addams is usually amongst these three: dissection, hunting, or testing torture devices in the manor's basement. That said, the ticking birdhouse clock is doing wonders for Wednesday's intensely awful mood.
Surrounded by four corners of Dr. Kinbott's office is akin to being put in a psychiatric detention facility, except less fun and increasingly excruciating.
Sitting in the middle of the group is Wednesday, flanked by her parents— Gomez to the right and to her left, Morticia. Pugsley quietly sat on the ground beside her father, seemingly captivated by the potpourri.
Dr. Kinbott sat in front of the group, her expectant eyes surveying them quietly. Like a master of ceremony in this godforsaken show, she spoke. "So, who wants to start?"
Her words raised the already awkward silence exponentially. Gomez did everything he could not to lock eyes with her, while the mother and daughter simply stared in silence.
Dr. Kinbott, seeing no progress, decided to initiate the first conversation. "Maybe we can discuss what it's like having Wednesday away from home?" Awkwardness turned to uncertainty, the quiet atmosphere turned tense. Gomez opened his mouth, only to close it immediately.
Contrary to Dr. Kinbott's expectations of the couple answering, Pugsley spoke first. "I mean, for me…it's been hard not having Wednesday around." His voice contained hints of sadness and longing, mixed with hesitation at the vulnerable words he was saying, "I never thought I'd miss being waterboarded so much."
The touching words turned bizarre, and Dr. Kinbott was forced to press her lips and move on. Outcast families, you see, are bizarre in general. "Morticia, Gomez. How have you been coping?"
Morticia sighed. "It's been torture for us too." Gomez nodded at her words, "Fortunately, my brother Fester's rack fits two people."
He smacked his lips as Morticia extended her hand to him. "Nothing like a good stretch to bring out the best in each other." Gomez took her slender fingers. "Querida mia….", he whispered as he passionately kissed her hand.
Wednesday watched in disgust as a normal girl would look upon a decaying corpse. "Enough!" She snapped.
The time had come, Wednesday thought. With the conviction of a veteran detective, she stood up, revealing a file she'd kept hidden inside the pocket of her coat. "I think it's high time my parents faced the music."
Wednesday positioned herself in front of the two, towering over their seated figure to assert her authority. "It seems they've been lying to me. Keeping secrets. Murderous secrets that need to be addressed."
She snatched a photo from the file—the picture of a young boy with long hair, someone familiar to Gomez and Morticia. "Who was Garret Gates, and why are you accused of murdering him?"
Morticia's eyes widened, her noble facade slipping in Wednesday's eyes. "Those charges were dropped. Your father is an innocent man."
Wednesday kept her calm. "The local sheriff doesn't seem too convinced. He'd tell you if he could."
Morticia stood up, followed by Gomez, their faces painted in a scandalous tone. "Wednesday, stop." She pleaded, "This is neither the time nor the place."
"Actually!" Dr. Kinbott interjected, "This is exactly the place. These sessions are—"
Morticia snapped her eyes at the doctor, a lioness provoked. "Doctor. This does not concern you," Dr. Kinbott quietly returned to her seat, dejected. She turned back to Wednesday, "And I refuse to debate a decades-old witch-hunt with you right now."
Gomez and Dr. Kinbott tried to offer aid, but were ultimately shut down by Morticia's haunting voice.
"Fine, have it your way, mother." Wednesday said, "If you refuse to tell me the truth, then I just have to excavate it myself."
—-
Familial secrets, may they be old grudges or sins, often only circulate amongst those blood-members of the family. Truthfully, Wednesday does not know why she's angry, why a "decades-old witch-hunt" bothers her so much. A murder, much more. The prospect of having a murderer as a father would excite any other child, why not her?
She is cruel and harsh, with a heart as kind as that of a vicious beast's. But, she'd never willingly hurt her family, much less her loving father. Wednesday does not know why she acted like an inquisitor, a heartless judge who already sentenced her father guilty for a crime she, herself, is not so sure he truly did.
Finding the truth is a tedious process of trial and error. Finding evidence after evidence until it proves itself insurmountable to any defense. If in the process, however, she's already picked a side, then how else could she perform her duties true and just?
Wednesday pinched the bridge of her nose, the smell of the quad offering a silent comfort towards the conflict she's feeling inside her cold heart.
Since coming to this town, she's made misjudgments after misjudgments. She sentenced an innocent man guilty, and sentenced a guilty man to be innocent. From the moment she's stepped foot here, she feels as though the spirit of a zealot pilgrim has invaded the very core of her soul.
The fight with her mother, no matter how much she denies it, offered a certain clarity to her past decisions. Ironically, here she sits in the very café she's met the muse of her many wrong choices—the center of her murder board, Tyler Galpin.
He's not here anymore, of course. Hiding like the coward he is. Regret began forming in her guts, and Wednesday took a sip of the bitter coffee to wash it away. It lingered, but did not stay.
Wednesday drank the coffee to its last sip, leaving an empty mug sitting quietly on the table. She stared at it for a while, before commanding herself that there's work to do. With renewed strength, she stood up, but not before a familiar—albeit because he's most probably the only one there—hand hopped on the stall's table.
Wednesday frowned, surprised by his presence. "Thing." She called. The hand responded in his own unique gestures, prompting her to sit down once more.
"What are you—" Realization dawned on her. She tasked him to watch the Sheriff, if he's here then— Thing performed his gestures which translate to: He's woken up.
Wednesday nodded gravely before sighing. "He'd have to wait, I have another case at hand. The car's outside, go first. I need to breathe."
With that, she left. The entrance bells ringing above her as the door opened and closed. Wednesday surveyed the town-folk of Jericho, and the vintage buildings they're so proud of, built on the corpses of her fellow Outcasts.
She began walking, this time, towards the one thing built on their money instead. The former appearance of Joseph Crackstone's statue was an eyesore, now, with her renditions, or Thing's, it looked better.
A melted abomination of jagged bronze and wax. The smell of gas still permeates near the fountain, the notes of the piece she played still echo in her mind. Wednesday appreciated her work, but what truly caught her eye, in a somewhat lucky coincidence, is the figure of her mother entering the graveyard.
Wednesday narrowed her eyes in confusion, but the one thing that will never betray her are the senses she was born with. She followed Morticia's figure, stopping before the iron gate of the graveyard.
Her mother stopped before a tombstone, a rose in hand. Wednesday lingered, watching her mother stood with the grace of a black swan. Morticia's pale fingers rid the rose of its petals, throwing the stem at the tombstone and the petals behind her.
Curiosity had a way of pulling Wednesday forward even when she tried to resist. She pushed open the gate, walking carefully into the graveyard. The souls of the buried pilgrim seem to scream, resisting her very presence in their domain. She does not relent, the dead has no power over the living.
When Wednesday finally approached, she read the name etched into the stone: Garret Gates, 1972-1990. The very same name of the man her father murdered.
—-
"Mmm. I am famished."
The smell of sweet pancake syrup, of fresh steak and lobster stew. The smell of dishes assaulted Wednesday's olfactory senses. Nevermore has a way of making snobby, rich Outcasts from feeling welcomed.
Well, that is to be expected. A boarding school from the Northeastern corner of America poses a high price. As many would say, "a leg and an arm."
5-star dishes lines up from a long buffet table. Each section catered to handle any and all kind of palate, no matter how bizarre. The school has outdone itself, Wednesday thought, or has it always been like this?
Delicious as the food may be, her appetite has long left her. "You're not hungry, darling?" Morticia asked, filling her plate with her husband by her side.
"My appetite eludes me, mother." Wednesday replied, "The same way the truth eludes you."
Morticia let out an exasperated sigh. "What must I do for you to give up in this…" she paused, her nose scrunching in disgust, "project, that you have."
"The truth." Wednesday said cooly. Morticia stared at her head-strong daughter, perhaps, too strong. "You've seen the truth, Wednesday. Your father did not murder anyone."
"A mere file does not tell the whole story, mother." Wednesday narrowed her eyes, "The world would've been more bearable if it did." Her gaze turned to her father, his face lacking the usual bravado he carries himself with. His eyes, so open like a book, brews in conflict.
Her mother, so prideful and noble, looks at her with pain. "My raven," she said, words leaving with emotions, "why must you hurt us this way?"
Wednesday pressed her lips, the words ringing like a broken melody in her ears. Her mother's eyes held no deception, no tinge of lie, only pain and hurt, perhaps from her or a past long forgotten. She knows her well, she knows how her mother lies, how she covers up.
Guilt formed in her chest, but Wednesday did not entertain it, does not entertain such things. She turned, leaving them watching her fleeing figure.
Wednesday sat down at their table, her brother Pugsley already gulping down his meal. She watched him with disdain, but did not speak her mind as she usually did. With one last look, she turned her attention to her surroundings.
In one side, she spotted her roommate, Enid, dining with her huge family. She could hear their utensils colliding with their plates here, common werewolf behavior, she noted. The girl did well to stand-out amongst her relatives, a pastel paint in a pure orange piece.
By the side of the cooked dish are some fresh meat. As rare as it is, some werewolf and vampire preferred their food bloody and uncooked. A delicacy only some enjoy. Wednesday remembered the time she tried one, noting why physiology matters in the grand scheme of palates.
Near the entrance, Wednesday narrowed her eyes at a scene. Adam stood with Professor Thornhill, having a light chat with one another. The professor is smiling, looking at the boy with a certain fixation and curiosity. She smiled wider than usual, more… manic.
Something bugged Wednesday's mind, a buzz rings, and rings, and— a plate gently landed in front of her. She looked up, there, her mother smiling at her. "Just in case you go hungry."
Wednesday stared at her plate, then to her mother again. "I said I have no appetite." Morticia shook her head as she took her seat. "And I said, "just in case." Besides, you are a growing woman, you need all the nutrition you can get."
"So I could grow to be like you?" Wednesday replied scornfully. Morticia looked at her daughter, her eyes tracing the curves of her beautiful face. "So you could be better."
She hummed and Wednesday gave it a second thought, eyes landing in the carefully picked dish. She had half the mind to throw it in the trash, or leave it be to be wasted. The other half, however, won. She picked up her utensils, gracefully prying upon the delicacy her mother had given.
It tasted good, Wednesday noted, it had to, her tuition fee doesn't just go to Jericho's pockets. Soon enough, her father sat down, with two plates and twice the amount of food it could hold. The Addams ate in silence, that, for them, is conversation in itself.
Peace, however, often lasts long. One day you could be eating peacefully with your father, and another you'd be watching them get taken away in handcuffs by a man with a large bandage on his head. The irony of her imagination, for all of it is about to happen.
The entrance door to the quad burst opened. A group of law enforcement entered, led by a man struggling to even walk.
"Sheriff!" Principal Weems called, "I didn't know you were awake. May I ask what this is about?"
Sheriff Galpin paid her no mind. His steps were strained, but his eyes are filled with conviction that made the struggle numb. One look is all it took before his eyes locked on the Addams' table.
Onlookers began whispering with one another, some standing up to get a clearer view. Morticia watched as the same man who put her husband in cuffs decades ago approached their table slowly. "Gomez Addams!" He shouted with authority.
Gomez stood up, turning around to face the sheriff flanked by two men by his side. "How can I help you, sheriff?" He asked, his tone confused.
Sheriff Galpin took one look at him before signaling his men. "You're under arrest for the murder of Garret Gates." At the mention of his crime, the rest of the Addams stood up, Morticia wide-eyed with confusion. The two began dragging the padre de familia in cuffs while the sheriff read his Miranda rights.
The rest of them did not know what to make of this. Morticia kept silent, watching them as they dragged her husband to be convicted. Her silence seems to make the ringing in Wednesday's head louder, and the whispers of the onlookers intensified with vigor.
"Dad?!" Pugsley called out. Gomez turned to his family one last time. There was no fear in his eyes, no anxiety— only a look of apology to his two children and wife.
Wednesday turned to her mother, but it's as if the sun itself shunned shining a light on her pale skin. Morticia closed her eyes and a single streak of tear fell on her porcelain cheeks.
—-
As soon as the law enforcement left with Gomez Addams, efficient damage control was needed to contain the gawking onlookers. Larissa immediately began, her voice reverberating in the four corners of the quad.
"Everyone!" She shouted, catching the attention of the groups, "Please settle down! Because of this unfortunate event, we would have to cut this meal short. The professors will escort you to your designated dorms and as for the students, all of you are advised to stay in your halls for the meantime."
As soon as Larissa's voice finished bouncing between the four walls— students hushed in clusters while parents bid their quick goodbyes. The quad emptied out faster than she anticipated and that gave her some relief.
The Addams, however, stayed seated in their table, an island of their own. Larissa approached them with measured steps. "Morticia," she called, "Are you alright?" Her tone was a mix of concern and fragility.
The quad felt strangely hollow, the absence of chatter and clinking utensils replaced only by the faint echo of footsteps in distant corridors.
Morticia looked up, tears already dried. "I'm fine, Larissa." She replied, she stood with grace, but her knuckles were even paler gripping the handkerchief in her hands. With a sigh, she spoke once more. "I need to call our lawyers first."
Larissa nodded resolutely. "Yes, that would be the best course of action." Morticia looked at her children, Wednesday stared at her plate of food, now cold and unappealing and Pugsley eyed her expectantly, an innocent child. "What's going to happen to dad?"
Morticia reached out for the boy's plump cheeks, comforting him, or perhaps herself. "Everything is going to be okay, my darling boy. Your father has fought stronger battles and won. This is but a mere hurdle."
Like a tense spring, Wednesday stood up from her chair, wooden legs scraping the ground. "Excuse me." She said, but before she could leave, Morticia held her by them hem of her sleeve.
"Where are you going?" She asked Wednesday. The girl in question tilted her head in feign innocence. "To my dorm room." Morticia could see the lie, could practically smell it in the air.
"Do not do anything rash, or foolish, for that matter." Morticia narrowed her eyes, but her grip on her sleeves faltered as her fingertips trembled. Wednesday caught her wrist. "When have I? Besides, foolishness does not run in me."
Wednesday slipped away from the hollowed quad, her footsteps echoing against the stone floors of Nevermore. The afternoon sun has already risen, but the cold weather did not heed a trace of warmth in this stoned fortress. Her steps were silent, and she stopped, because why does it echo if it so?
She turned around, haunting eyes meeting amber-like and dark. "I've had enough of eyes following me everywhere." Her voice sounded sure.
"I wasn't following you. I was simply walking the same way." Adam replied. Wednesday hummed. "Oh?" She whispered mockingly, "Walk then."
But Adam stood still, her challenge went unanswered because she knows. Wednesday sighed. "I miss when you were stupid."
"Why, have I grown smarter?" He asked in response. Wednesday tilted her head. "Grown irritable." From the unknown, a severed hand made its way up her shoulders. A familiar scarred limb, Thing.
Adam greeted him with a wave, to which Thing responded with his own. He turned back to Wednesday, her dark eyes accentuating her fluctuating mood. "What's your plan?" He finally said.
Wednesday paused, letting the question linger in the hollow corridor. The distant hum of the school, muted by the walls, seemed to press in on her from all sides. She turned her head slightly, the faint light casting a sharp line along her pale face.
"My plan," she said, voice cold and deliberate, "is to find the truth."
Adam walked towards her. "And what is that, exactly?"
"Of my father's crime." Wednesday replied, the words dropping like stones in the still air. "Why they're so eager, so bold as to hide this matter from me. They did not lie, yet they are also not telling the truth. The both of them, mother and father, thinks of me as a child that could be satisfied by a yes or no."
"The world isn't like that, Adam, so are you and I," she said, eye's staring straight to his soul, "I do not incline myself to believe in sugarcoated words, simplified accusations of guilty or not. I want details, raw facts uttered and found."
Adam listened with calm serenity as Wednesday continued. "Garret Gates died, yes. But how is it so that my father, accused, is innocent? That's what I intend to find now."
He stared at her for a while, and with the breeze of the wind entering the halls, passing by their shoulders like some mystical approval— Adam spoke. "By going against the whole of Jericho?"
Without a sliver of hesitation, Wednesday answered. "If need be." Adam took a slow breath of resignation. Truly, there is nothing that could stop her. "Do you want help?" He asked, his voice soft.
Wednesday frowned. "I do not need—" But Adam interjected before she could finish speaking. "That was not what I said. I asked if you wanted my help."
Silence echoed between the two. There was no more chatter, no more voice speaking apart from theirs. The paintings on the walls watched, the pictures eyed, and Thing listened carefully to their conversation. His words hang in the air, and Wednesday isn't quite sure how to address it.
She thinks to herself why. She answers to herself, I do not know.
She, for the life of her, could not understand. Wednesday studied him, his eyes ever so bright looks upon her with endearment, soft and genuine— and inexplicably complex. When had she stopped studying him? When had she forgotten, that for all their time and interaction, that never once had she fully understood the anomaly that is Adam Cain.
"This is not part of our agreement." She muttered unsure, her brows creasing to form a hesitating frown. Wednesday's obsidian eyes tried to pry on the secrets those embers hold, but to no avail.
"It's not." Adam said with a nod, "But I want to help nonetheless."
Wednesday clenched her fist in uncertainty, closing and opening it, trying to find the reply she needs. But, all she could muster, despite the absolute of her intellect, was a simple— "Why?"
Adam, for a moment, looked confused as he gazed upon her. "Why? Well, you are my friend."
"Oh…"
—-