Young and in Love - Wenclair

Exquisite Pain

I was given a prompt. no beta we die like Wednesday for half a second.

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Wednesday has a very vast vocabulary.
There are words inside her very marrow. She's confident enough in her vocabulary to say that there are an above-average amount of them, though she can't always remember which one is the right one to use during sensitive moments. They're all there though, she has access to them.

Today, there are two.

Exquisite pain.

Exquisite pain. When the school is overflowing with the very enraged bees that escaped their hive, pricking and buzzing all over skin and beneath clothing— the symphony of screams from apiphobics near deafening.

Exquisite pain, is what that group she has slowly grown to be apart of feels when they are being chased by a murderer on a non school-sanctioned camping trip.

Exquisite pain, when a beast with Tyler's face but body something biblical escapes its confines and comes back to finish off his mission. The romantic homicide of long, gangly claws peeling the flesh of her chest apart like petals of a blushing flower, cold fingers like the kiss of death wrapping around her heart and tugging until it punctures.

She lays there— bleeding out, slowly. She can feel her pained gasps wet against her cracked lips, laying in her own puddle of gore. There's no fear of God, or wondering if the afterlife. No regrets, or hopes tarnished.

She does however, think of Pugsley. Growing up alone— colours dulling from grief. Pubert, slowly forgetting his big sister as he emerges into childhood. Gomez, weeping into the balled up fabric of her baby blanket inconsolable. Morticia— oh, she would hurt beautifully. Would adorn her finest, and lay herself to a slow death that no one can stop. Lurch who no longer drives because there is no family to care for- and Uncle Fester who cannot even summon a spark. Thing would be left to her dear uncle, but he would be as just any other disembodied limb. Lifeless, useless.

Like her corpse, that will rot in these woods filled with husks from leaves, slowly until weeds sprout through her wilted flesh. Wednesday watched as the life drained, quite literally, from the future version of herself lying on the ground at her bare feet; the blood running in rivers between the cobbles from the wound in her gaping chest.

She can make out the ghost of a genuine smile on the lips of a skin she's not wearing. This is pure bliss. She has achieved it all— darkness, chaos and despair wrapped up in this school her parents had promised would enrich her.

But Wednesday— prone on her bed can feel the cold shackle of realization grappling her neck like a witch's bridle. The name is on her lips but forced down in her vision by the piece of metal in her mouth that is her heavy tongue.

Wednesday should like it. Should enjoy dying alone, suffering, and leaving pain in her wake. She should enjoy witnessing the downfall of those she loathed in life and cherish their finite existence in her eternal glory as Satan's second hand.

... but Enid isn't there. As though she never existed. As though she wouldn't be around as the seasons turn.

There's no colour in this world. Only exquisite pain. She'd never fully understood the meaning of those words. Pain by definition was negative. Exquiste was lovely and tender and excellent. How could someone hold both of those at once? What arms are large enough? Enid was exquisite pain. Enid was biting into the lemon and drinking the juice for that flash of sweet before the burn. Leaving Wednesday all rind and seeds. This feeling pricking her finger tips was both heaven and hell. Exquisite, perfect pain.

How could you experience exquisite pain without the subject of such a bewitching horror?

She doesn't even allow the idea of letting the comfort of chaos unfold. She will not lose Enid— even if that's far more terrifying than any gruesome premonition.