UNDEAD BECOMES HER, wednesday addams

xvi. slipping into eternal rest

In an effort to be romantic, Ollie didn't text Wednesday at all. Instead, she painstakingly hand wrote several letters, having to restart several times to sound more professional. Eventually she gave up when she realized she was sixteen years old with a silly crush writing snail mail and that Wednesday could suck it if she wanted to be professional.

She didn't say anything about potentially changing schools, since she hadn't gotten much information about it from either parent. She picked a fight with her mother as soon as she got home, resulting in her immediate grounding and being sent to her room. 

Dear Wednesday, she wrote, I've arrived home and already am wishing to return to Nevermore. Being hunted by an outcast-hating monster is better than this. Francis misses you.

Francis, having no brain of his own, could have theoretically missed the Addams girl, or it could've been projecting on Ollie's part. Knowing the bird, it was probably the latter.

I've become so bored in the ten seconds I've been here that I've started playing Castlevania again. I completely forgot that you can have both 'magic missile' and 'parfait' in your inventory.

She left out the part where she grew tired of the game and shoved her computer back under her bed, where it would die a quiet, painless death until she resurrected it again in five-to-seven business months.

I know video game talk is lost on you, so I'll switch to a subject we both have our own mutual interest in: death. Specifically, mine.

It was always easier to breach the subject when she didn't have to look anybody in the eyes as she did it.

We all have our weak spots, though you are quite adept at finding yours and filling them in. Your weak spots are in your physicality (an unfortunate genetic twist) and in your personality (an acquired taste, undoubtedly.) Mine are in my whole body.

Her hands began to cramp, and she set down her pen. She would resume the letter at a later time, when it was no longer painful to write. 

Ollie went downstairs and discovered she was completely alone in the house. Her parents frequently left her alone, starting when she was very young, and it gave her an eternal sense of isolation. If her own parents didn't want to be around her, how could anybody else?

There was food in the fridge, nothing she could eat. Her taste buds had simply died overnight, and there was something growing thickly in her esophagus, preventing her from swallowing most solid foods. She could take in air without any trouble and still talk, but the fact remained that soon enough that would go away, too, and she'd be rendered voiceless.

How fitting, for someone who had dreamed of being a musician ever since she was a little girl.

The skin of her arms had almost completely sloughed off, and she was at least grateful it hadn't happened before the Rave'N. Her muscular structure was deteriorating, and no amount of natural sunlight would help.

A sticky note on the counter told her that her parents had gone out to see a movie. Good for them.

Francis was still in his box. She hadn't bothered to take him out and bring him to life again. There was no point. She resumed writing, even though her hand still hurt.

I'm losing my fine motor control in my left hand, she wrote, her handwriting slow and shaky. I can't really close my fingers to make a fist anymore. The nerve endings got eaten by the fungus, I guess, since I can't really feel it, either. I've considered taking the arm off altogether and taking the bones out to splice back to my shoulder. Thoughts?

She couldn't print the simple words. I think I'm dying. Maybe she wasn't. Maybe she was going through some kind of metamorphosis, or perhaps even xenogenesis. Not death. Anything but that. 

You couldn't ever have an intelligent conversation about death. Everyone was too young, too old, too busy, not ready. That wasn't fair to someone who was dying and just wanted to talk about it. 

When she really thought about it, Ollie realized that Wednesday was the only person she could really talk to about this sort of thing. Sure, the girl had a morbid fascination with death, but she also seemed to genuinely understand it. At least, Ollie hoped she did.

We all die, something you and I know very well. I suspect my death will come sooner rather than later because of my deterioration rate. If you want to think positively about it, then it's because of my evolution. There is no evolution in this. There is only the slow erasure of who I am now into something that will be new and wholly itself. 

Will I still be conscious? Will my brain fall apart, finally replaced by fungus in its entirety with no need for a human mind anymore? In death, give life, my grandmother used to say. Let your body feed the earth, provide new growth for the plants. Be useful even as you rot. There's a lot to unpack there, but I'm fixating on the life part for now.

I want to ask a favor of you, Wednesday, one I'm sure you won't mind agreeing to. When I die, likely in the next decade, I'd like you to dissect me. Go through each piece of me, each organ, each bone, and see how I changed. Document what happened to me so that there's something for the next soul who ends up like me. 

Then bury me, all my parts, in different locations. I'd like one to be buried at Nevermore, for haunting purposes, but the others can go wherever. Your favorite places, some park in New Jersey, the bottom of a lake for all I care. Just be gentle with me. 

If Francis doesn't die, you can have him. Feed him whatever. It's not like he can be killed twice. At least not if he isn't tethered to me. 

Love-

What should she put in? Ollie? That was the name she used at Nevermore, because her full name was irritating and complicated. Wednesday knew her as Ollie, so that should be what was used. And to add her surname, or go without? She could just put it on the envelope.

Love, Ollie

Her hand cramped up and she dropped the pen inadvertently, sighing with relief when it hit the desk and not the letter. She would mail it later, she decided, after dinner. For now, she needed to go outside and let the earth slowly reclaim her.

A.N.

I reached my goal of one (1) comment and will now be doing post-canon chapters. I'm not sure if I could do a Wednesday POV justice, so for now I'll stick with Ollie's. I think this physically-painful letter-writing will be good for Ollie's character development, so I might continue to do that. Throw in a phone call, even. From a landline, of course.

I've recently (over the weekend) developed an interest in cosmic horror and likely will be implementing themes here. There is true horror to be found in the change of self, especially when it is caused by a force beyond your control. To become something you don't recognize, but is still in some part you, would be terrifying. 

Unrelated, but I'm watching the Alien Quadrilogy right now, and I am here to validate you: liking older women is completely normal. It is okay to want Sigourney Weaver to burn you alive with a flamethrower. I would also risk my life to go back for my cat. You know the character is developing when there is a dramatic change in haircut.

This author's note is going to be longer than the actual chapter if I don't shut up now. See you in the near future.