LYCOS | tacet anima mea [Wenclair Omegaverse]

SCALDING | moon | ii (1) | 8.2k

[WEDNESDAY]

I asked Mother what loving Father felt like.
She said it's like a flourishing hornet's nest is stuck to her heart.

The thought repulses me.
But I think I'd like to have a someone too.
And then break them, just to see if hornet nests do, indeed, flourish.

(in ink.) 17 May 2013

— — — — —

"Apologize."

With every Addams is a chosen instrument for death — the honor therein.

Your dear father is straightforward and blunt, so he takes to rapiers. Uncle Fester is (or was) likewise, though rather than rhythm, his hand kept itself erratic.

Mother's instrument blossoms in silence. There are her words, then the poison to a drink. Her victims are few, though they are, always, a pointed remark. Grandmama, she is ... similar, though she falls back to scripture and incantation as well.

"I— I-I can't—! Oh my god, I— I can't breathe—!"

"Apologize to him."

Pugsley has trinkets. Grenades. Rifles. Mines or the occasional tank. It doesn't matter. If he can tinker with his instrument, that satisfies him plenty.

"He isn't—! F-Fuck—!" (The jock wept. Naked, and bruised, with his head boiling... He truly was a disappointment.) "H-He's not h-here—?!"

"I'll play courier. Apologize."

As for you, your family likens you to antique. Namely blades, though you've collected the most heinous array of boards and maces. Curiosity has also guided you to the complex; more than gadgetry, you are drawn to practices, and technology. Old technology. There's artistry to them. Artistry that your family appreciates, it's just that you do above them all.

Yet..., a contradiction.

"I can't— I— I can't breathe...! Pl— Ple—ase—!"

"Fine then." (You loosened your grip. He slacked for his gulp of air. Then you stamped his head into wet tile.) "Now apologize." (Blood erupted. It seeped far.) "To my brother. Apologize."

Rather than antique, and complex, you favor primitive. Your very hands are your instruments.

Just as they had been beneath a fateful moon, where the life drained from his eyes. And beneath a yellow sun as well, where the world blurred, seethed Vampyric, behind cut fringe.

And so too your last hour at Lakeview High, where the locker room's shower pranced down your back, and you were struck by the sheer ease of this vengeance. All it took for the football team to kneel was to find them unannounced, from an empty locker, after practice.

"I'm— I'M SORRY! I'LL LEAVE HIM ALONE!"

(His head cracked ceramic by the second heel.) "Again. Apologize again."

There was only a telephone cable in your hands.

They knew to be terrified. You had to give them that.

"I'M SORRY! HOLY FUCK, I— I'M SORRY!"

It's a shame that stunt had ricocheted you from the police station, to home, then right to Nevermore.