Bal•ter
(v.) to dance artlessly, without particular grace or skill but usually with enjoyment.
In which Y/n Addams is adopted into a family of pure outcast, being an outcast herself.
What will she do when she ends up going to a school that her ado...
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Fear White
Your legs carried you towards the school. Your lungs burning for air. Adrenaline rushing through your white blood. Your mind racing with thoughts. Save your sister. Kill Lauren! Save the school. Avenge us! Stop Laurel.! Your father's voice mixed with your own internal monologue were mixing together, clashing like two enemies wanting the same goal. Enemies that forced their single ally to fulfill this want of theirs.
Getting to the school, you continued running. Your mind obediently follows whatever was possessing you. Heading towards the Nightshade library, dodging everyone and everything that stood in your way. You managed to slip by, snapping twice impatiently. The Poe statue started to move and yet you moved faster than it, slipping through its small crack as it was becoming bigger, you tumbled down the stairs.
Your head is filled with zero thoughts. With only one want. A want to end Laurel once and for all. To have her dead. To kill her how she killed your parents. With an executioner ax. This something in you made you go up to a large painting. A painting that had your parents' face on it. Right besides your adoptive ones.
Your s/t (skin tone) hand moved all on its own. Your body becoming mindless and obeys deaf words. Words that went through one ear and were flossed right out the other. Grabbing the edge of the painting you pulled it back revealing the ax. One similar to the memories you've had come to see. Actually... this was the exact one. Though it was sharpened and cleaned just to be used on you.
Leaning into the painting you grabbed the ax. Now it was in your hold. Now you would use it just like how Laurel used it on your parents. It was ironic really. Everything about this. The ax hidden behind your parents painting—one you try not acknowledging for some time. It looked ready to be used.
Twirling it in your hands. It felt light. It felt right to be in your hands. The sharpened blade ready to be slashed across a victim's chest. Before cutting off their limbs. All of their limbs to be exact. Then just as they bleed. Just as they beg for mercy to be spared. To live. The ax would make contact with their neck. Cutting it in half. Executing them.
The pain and anger coursed through your body making you shake vigorously. Memories of the Hyde attacking you. Of Laurel attacking you. Inflicting you, littering your skin with many scars. Three slashes across your arm, one making a 'y' shape. One on your hand, both sides. The bottom of your lip left with a small scab. Bruises dancing across your body are still healing.
The feeling in your stomach returned. One that felt exactly like the day you put piranhas in the school's swimming pool. But you—like Wednesday—you reeled at the pain. Found enjoyment in it. This was vengeance. Revenge for your parents. Revenge for the pain she had come to cause you. One might be questioning if you were fighting for glory or for gore. Questioning if you were becoming the hero or the villain.
