The blood-red wine swirled slowly in the glass. A mini torpedo of thoughts, of the grief and anxiety dwelling inside her blackened heart.
Morticia took a light sip, the sweetness of the alcohol spreading to her throat like a panacea to a dying man. The nectar, however, languidly turned bitter— bitter by the situation, bitter by her husband's absence.
Tears long dry refused to well up in her eyes once more, her will, strong as steel and sharp as a saber, fought back. An inner war within herself lacked the conclusion she desired. For all of it to be a bad, bad dream.
Her eyes, black as obsidian, landed upon the back of a figure standing in front of a fancy Medusa-like hearth. Larissa seemed to sense her gaze, turning to her with a concerned look.
"What did your lawyers say, Morticia?" Larissa asked, moving towards the chair adjacent to hers.
"He confessed, they said." Morticia replied, her voice strained and hesitant. "The only thing they can do is lessen his sentence. But I fear a life in prison is what he will get."
As she finished speaking, a heavy silence swallowed the room. A foreboding sign of fate's cruel destination. A tribute to the precipice Morticia stood before.
Larissa pressed her palms tightly together while Morticia watched. Watching the way she bit her cheek, watching the way her blue eyes landed in between her and the blank space that enveloped them both. She watched, until a surge of raw anger and frustration climbed up her throat.
"Does it feel good?" Morticia muttered indignantly, the only words that could describe the turmoil in her heart. Larissa's eyes snapped back to her in disbelief of what she uttered. "What?"
Morticia raised her chin, piercing eyes like drawn swords. "Don't fool me, Larissa. I'm sure you heard what I said."
The ruthlessness of her tone made the worms in Larissa's stomach squirm. She tilted her head slightly, a frown adorning her usually composed face. "I don't understand what you're implying," Larissa whispered, though her voice trembled, betraying the calm she tried to uphold.
Morticia's lips curled into a bitter smile. "I've always known, you know?" Larissa's hands tightened around each other, a grip as vice as steel cables wrapped around one another. She continued, "How you look at me. How you look at whatever I do, what I achieve—my accolades, my relationships, my possessions—my life."
The fire in the hearth crackled, and for an instant, the shadows in the room seemed to grow taller, looming over them, dark and ominous. Dark clouds born from fire. The wine glass met Morticia's dark lipstick, blending with the scarlet sweetness of the wine.
Larissa kept her silence, infuriating—fueling the already raging fire inside Morticia. "I, however, chose to ignore it." She chuckled cynically, "I turned my head to the brighter light. Blinded my eyes to your… jealousy."
Her last word struck the deepest, most sensitive nerve in Larissa's heart. Her palms met the wooden surface of the table, in fury at the audacity of Morticia's accusation.
Larissa stood up indignantly, her chair flinging slightly back. "How could you accuse me of such a thing?!" She shouted in denial. Morticia's gaze never left Larissa. "How could I not?"
Feelings long forgotten and forgone released like a violent tsunami. Her friend, her roommate, her sister— Larissa who served as witness against her husband years ago. A betrayal that struck her heart.
Unfair. Why does she feel this way? Why was she saying these… cruel things to her friend? Morticia was blinded. Deafened. Numbed. Her heart took control and she cannot rein it in.
Morticia slowly stood up, the hems of her dress following her movement gracefully like a pale, grieving swan. "I've known you for so long, Larissa. I know you more than anyone. I know you more than I even know my blood-sister."
Her pale hand hovered above Larissa's crumpled face, caressing her cheek—tracing the edges of her shame. Before slowly stopping beside her eye. Morticia smiled sadly. "What your mind and heart hides, your eyes always tell. You're a shapeshifter, a powerful one. Your face, your body changes in a whim. But even that cannot change what your soul says."
Morticia's hand fell, towards Larissa's neck, to her shoulder. She looked up, the white of her eyes turning red, filling, welling with unsung tears. "All I've ever wanted was to be your friend—your… sister."
I am. Larissa defended in her mind, yet silence chained her throat. She felt a tug in her hand as it slowly became enveloped with the soft coldness of Morticia's skin. "Why must you make me feel this way?"
—-
Unsolved cases run rampant in the history of criminal activities. Murder mysteries, impossible robberies, disappearing people. Many more where the perpetrators have left no traces of their existence in the crime scene. An almost magical achievement that will spin the bright minds of detectives and investigators all over the world. If the criminal doesn't start bragging, of course.
D.B. Cooper, for example. The hijacker-slash-robber who disappeared into thin air right after jumping off a plane. Many suggest he was swept by the storm ongoing during that time and died. Some say he escaped and lived far away from the grasp of the notorious American government. More idiotic theories say he was a ghost extracting his vengeance on the poor passengers.
I like to think he was eaten by wild animals as soon as he landed.
Yes, a plausible theory considering he landed in the Pacific Northwest. A nest of wolves and bears. Better yet, he may have drowned in the Pacific Ocean. How that is a better conclusion, only Wednesday knows.
While trying to solve unsolved crimes is fascinating and a good exercise, how does one solve a 'solved' one?
Wednesday pondered on that question as she walked through Nevermore's halls. It kept her awake, you see—that, and Enid's excruciating taste for music.
He confessed. She thought to herself. Gomez Addams confessed that he killed Garret Gates. There will be no more investigation. No more questioning his innocence. The only question is how much time he's spending in prison.
But Wednesday knows that he's lying. That, however, will not hold up in the eyes of the law. A hundred suspicions don't make a proof.
A proof, a proof… Where could she find a proof? Feigning confidence in front of Adam was a mistake. How are they going to 'talk' to Garret Gates? The manor, according to Enid, was barred and abandoned—with police surveying the area from time to time.
She's talked to her father, the main suspect. Her mother, the closest witness. Both of whom are in cahoots to keep her in the dark. Unless… Principal Weems. Wednesday thought for a moment before deciding she'd rather be burned alive.
She thought back to the Sheriff's words—how after Garret's death, his whole family died one after another. Guilt is an overstatement to the initial reaction she had shown when first hearing about it. Surprised is a better word.
For all she knows, her Grandmama could have cast a blood curse on the whole family after the incident.
Long before Wednesday could notice, her feet had brought her to the Quad. The smell of earlier's buffet found its way to her senses, her eyes surveying the fountain, the scattered tables and benches in the yard.
She gazed up, scanning the stone sentinels of Gorgons, Werewolves, and Sirens hanging on the railings of the 2nd floor. She looked at the moon, half-majestic in its half-state. What caught her eyes the most, however, was the lone raven perched silently on the roof.
It did not croak as a raven normally would nor was it a part of murder as they usually are. It sat there, looking— looking at her. Wednesday stared back instinctively. Like the raven, her gaze did not waver.
'It' looked with a certain, quiet intelligence. As if 'it' knew what it's looking at. As if 'it' knew that she had questions in her mind. 'It' looked until, like a sign of submission, or fear or boredom—'it' turned around towards the direction of the forest before flying away in the dark.
For a moment, no thoughts entered Wednesday's head. No questions badgered her intellect. Simply, a moment of man and nature understanding one another. Of man and nature's existence inter-linking in reminder. Of what, exactly? Ask God.
Wednesday, like the raven, turned around. Sleep may give me answers, she thought to herself. Just as she did, her dark eyes caught a glimpse of something. A… misalignment. Edgar Allan Poe's statue was tilting.
—-
The den of the Nightshade society was considered a safe haven by its membership. A place where they could be, socialize, and act themselves. It could also serve as a place to hide.
"What are you doing here?"
Wednesday's voice echoed in the chamber. Measuring her steps on the circling stairs. But her attention did not leave the sight of the woman in the middle—her mother.
"Wednesday…" she muttered softly. Wednesday noted that her eyes were red; and her lips were dry and flaking. She noticed the parched tone of her words. She saw the sadness of her mother.
Despite these clear signs, a smile found its way onto Morticia's lips. "You're a Nightshade?"
Wednesday raised a brow as she walked down the chamber. "I rejected them. I'm not a fan of elite social clubs for hormonal teenagers." Morticia tilted her head. "And are you sure it's not because of me?"
Silence followed as she uttered those words. Mother and daughter, eyes which resembled one another down to their darkest shade—gazed at one another. Expectant and quiet. Grief and detachment.
Wednesday's mouth opened and closed. Unable to find the right words, the 'proper' words. Before finally, "I will never be able to live up to your legacy here, mother."
"I will not put it against you that you exceeded your peers, that is your life." Wednesday followed, her tone carrying not an ounce of animosity but was heavy with something else, "But why would you send me somewhere I could only ever exist in your shadow?"
The air was snatched out of Morticia's lungs. She looked at Wednesday, her dearest daughter. Her raven-black hair, pale skin, her beautiful dark eyes. Her daughter looked so much like her yet… so infinitely different.in
"It's not a competition, Wednesday." She replied defensively. Wednesday's gaze, downcast, snapped back to Morticia. "Everything is a competition, mother. Still, as I've said before— I rejected them because they're a trivial social club."
Morticia nodded slowly before turning around. She looked at the walls, the pictures of members, journals on the shelves of the lives they once lived. She reminisced for a moment. "We used to be so much more. Our mission was to protect Outcasts from harm and bigotry. In fact, the group was founded by an ancestor of your father from Mexico. One of the early settlers in America."
"Goody," Wednesday interrupted. A momentary glint formed in Morticia's eyes, "I saw her painting at Pilgrim World."
"Oh," Morticia muttered as a sarcastic smirk formed at the edge of her lips, "How ironic, since she was the one who killed Joseph Crackstone."
The Nightshades, founded by Goody Addams, was meant to be a weapon. A society of Outcasts tasked to protect other weaker Outcast from the bloody hands of pilgrims. It was much a sword as much as it served as a shield.
After Crackstone's death at the hands of Goody Addams, the group slowly degenerated. Turning what once a society of noble values to a social group for spoiled teenagers with nothing to do.
At least they did their job first. Wednesday thought to herself.
Then, Morticia's face steeled. A resolute look adorned her once grieving expression. "Let's not beat around the bush anymore, Wednesday. I know why you're here."
Wednesday's blank expression accentuated the gravity of her thoughts. Like the pin of a grenade ready to be pulled out. A loaded gun sure to shoot.
"Father didn't kill Garret Gates, did he?"
—-
Note:
To drop, or not to drop. That is the question.