Wenclair One-Shots

Coffee Stained Smile (Part 2/2)

Thursday, October 12th.

Like all great artists, Wednesday wanted to die young. Her favourite poets all did, after all. Edgar Allen Poe was 40, Emily Dickinson 55, Sylvia Path 30, Percy Blysshe Shelley at just 29– and so on and so forth.

Many died quite interesting deaths, too. Percy drowned in a storm, Heart Crane jumped from a ship, Path's head went in an oven with the gas on and hopes off.

Living long would be terribly exhausting- and the very idea of getting weary-boned and grey deeply troubled her. Her therapist sometimes suggested Thanatophobia, or a death anxiety, (sometimes a touch of suicidal ideation) but quickly realized she was just twisty and dark.

A sun lamp didn't help, nor did fresh air or a painfully unnecessary break from caffeine. And love— oh, how that was something inexplicably hard to describe, yet just as awful sounding.

But...

perhaps Enid Sinclair coming into her coffee shop every few days was worth living for. She found herself arriving early to shifts, smiling more, hugging her family... she didn't try and set Xavier on fire, which was a large improvement in itself.

Although, her first reaction to seeing Enid after their first encounter had been anything but... perfect.

And for all her love of the macabre- she despised needles.

-

October 5th, 1:02pm

Let the record show that Wednesday Friday Addams was not nervous. No. She merely skipped breakfast and lunch and then had to wait in a stupid line for an hour and a half in the suffocating body heat whilst flocks of students she barely cared to know blew mango flavoured vape in her direction. So yeah, she was feeling queasy. But not nervous, and not because in a mere moment she was about to have a 6 inch needle plunged into her bicep.

Sure— Wednesday was usually noted as fearless, and had a particular fondness for weaponry and sports that involve blades. But something about several inches of metal being inserted into her body was—
Well, there's no valid reason for her to be afraid of a routine vaccination. It just sounded debilitatingly bad.

She licked her lips out of habit as the person in front went on their merry way to their own stabbing station, and suddenly she was right at the front of it. Behold; the interior of the Nevermore Academy Gymnasium- abiding completely against the health and safety rules and regulations by having 300 plus people crammed into a close proximity with DNA-covered needles just laying around haphazardly. Or, yeah, in bright yellow disposal bins, but whats the difference? It was still gross, and so incredibly stuffy.

She hated people as a rule. They were vapid, insipid things she prefers to avoid. She tolerated the customers that came into the coffee shop, more or less, and... enjoyed, for a lack of a better word, her own friends.

To like someone— wholely and genuinely was something else altogether.

The room was bathed in halogen overhead lights that made her have to squint to make out the number marker '7' being lazily waved in her face by the middle aged man with a lazy eye, motioning her with a heavy sigh toward the direction of her own station.

A wooden desk and blue class room seat the makeshift doctors office for the week of flu shots.

Once the irritating glare of light (and her second period chemistry teacher) was behind her, she was met with an overly enthusiastic hand waving at her. A girl probably no younger than her stood at her tallest (a solid 5'6) in a blue crew neck she was somehow wearing despite the lovely indoor LACK of air conditioning and heavy breathing of certain individuals that fogged up the space.