Wenclair Oneshots

Numb

Wednesday feels guilty about Enids scars, she blames herself for what happened that night with Crackstone, so she cuts herself to feel something, Enid catches her doing it and helps her stop.

Wednesday has no idea why she does it. Each drag of one of her favorite switchblades against her skin fails to make her feel better. If anything, it makes her hate holding that particular blade in general.

It's a wriggling itch in her skin that begins in the pit of her intestines, slithering about. It increases once she sees Enid smiling, eyes creasing around the scars ripping up the side of her face.

From there, everything becomes more dull. Numb, even.

Wednesday may claim not to feel anything as emotions are weakness, but she's a liar. She feels so much, and recently her emotions have been shutting down and leaving her idle as a husk.

She can't do it. She can't be a husk.

She's tried biting her nails only for Thing to threaten to call her parents. The traitor. The instigating with Bianca for a punishing fight left the siren to narrow her eyes on Wednesday before scoffing and walking away. Bruises clearly aren't going to solve it.

But the blood trickling down her arm? That fucking does nothing. Nothing!

Wednesday slams her knife down on the bathroom sink and growls. She places her arm on the counter and slams her fist into the myriad of cuts littering her arm.

Why won't it fucking work? It isn't working, dammit! She's still angry and numb and nothing at the same time. She's justnothing.

Wednesday runs her hand down her face and chews uselessly at her thumb.

God. What is she going to do?

Wednesday knows she's a selfish person, but this is pushing it too far. Turning her arms into a whittling project is selfish of her because she doesn't need to do it, yet she sees no other option.

Why does she need to do it? It isn'tcoming to her head. The numbness is spreading to her brain, corrupting her thoughts and pulling them from her mind.

She can't remember what she had for lunch earlier, and she knows she had it because Enid convinced her to try it.

'Enid,' Wednesday's useless brain gasps. It's one of the only things she can ever remember since this fog clouded over her head.

Enid jumping in to save her. Enid snarling at the Hyde—at Tyler. Eniddying.

Wednesday slowly picks her knife up and twirls it in her hand. Her eyes flicker over the slick red blade.

Another one won't hurt; she's tried. Perhaps the numbness will subside and leave Wednesday able to properly feel the heartbeat in each of these lacerations.

As she's mindlessly lifting the knife, the bathroom door slams open.

Wednesday jumps and points her knife at the intruder.

Enid stands with her fist gripping the bronze doorknob, eyes wide and settled on the blood. She opens her hand from the knob.

Wednesday stares at the busted knob instead of Enid. She can't look her in the eyes, can't look at her face.

Because it's Wednesday's fault it happened.

"Wednesday" warily, Enid says. "I-I'm sorry for busting in and scaring you, but II smelled blood and" Her throat bobs. "Can you give me the knife? Please?"

Wednesday shakes her head tightly, eyes firmly fixed on the doorknob.

"It's gonna be ok, I promise. We don't have to tell anyone if you don't want to."