I want this to be a chapter story, I really do, and if it is it will be ever so slightly AU and probably OOC. Do you want to read more? This is not a ploy for reviews, rather a genuine question. None of the characters belong to me and they belong to Paramount pictures.

'When good Americans die, they go to Paris.'

- Oscar Wilde

She folded one dress over the other, neatly, methodically. Her hands were trembling lightly and she was not use to such a lack of control. Forcing bile down from her throat she groped for the bed post and took a moment to steady herself. The room was quiet, the storm had subsided, and the only noise was her hard breathing. She sat down on the edge of the bed and dipping her head, closed her eyes to regain some strength. Then she leaned over and from the side table, took the piece of privately headed stationary, and placed it neatly on his pillow.

In one undeniably humiliating moment everything she had been so sure of had been shattered. And now she felt lost. For the first time, ever in her life, she felt as if she was not any longer sure of her next move.

And Morticia always knew her next move.

She stood up again and making her way towards her dressing room, rifled through the drawers of her dresser. She plunged her hand in and withdrew the cheque book of the joint account that they shared, which was nestled between old lipsticks and cosmetic bottles. Then she opened her jewellery box and took her ruby and diamond necklace from within.

And then she committed the cardinal sin; she slipped her wedding, eternity and engagement ring from her finger. She was fond of metaphor and imagery and now the metaphor of these expensive pieces seemed broken to her. She placed them beside one and other in the lid compartment and closed it over. She breathed in quickly, her breath and body constricted, rushing forth from her in an uncontrolled manner. Her eyes blurred and her mouth curled against her teeth. She could not possibly be with him at this moment. The betrayal, however small it may seem to any outside observer, was cruelly agonising.

She would leave instructions with Lurch to have things shipped to her and with that final decision, she felt calm overcome her. Her hands ceased shaking as they gripped the cheque book, her finger felt less barren, her heart felt temporarily less broken. At least it was not emotion that was dictating her actions, instead it was the icy practicality that she considered to be her finest quality. If she let emotion rule her right now, she would be unrelentingly weak.

That was the problem, the rub, in her generally clear mind; she was too emotional about all of this...about him.

At the thought of him her stomach tightened unpleasantly. She pushed the though from her mind as she stalled at the door.

It occurred to her as she grasped the door handle that if she left those rings there, there was no going back. He would find them and read the subtext and then what? She has been so securely swaddled in this bubble for years, happiness and comfort and love are all she has known forever. With him.

And her children, her babies, that she has spent all of this time dedicating herself to. She would write, or phone more conventionally, when she reached wherever she planned to go.

Her blood pulsed through her body and she felt the sudden urge to vomit. She returned quickly to the jewellery box and pressed them back down on to her narrow finger. She wouldn't punish him like that. I can't do it, she thought ruefully. A full disclosure that made her feel weak with the submission. She couldn't do it, no matter how much she truly wanted to.

She closed her bedroom door behind her. The hall was deathly silent, where half an hour before all pandemonium had broken loose. She wanted to hate the Beinekes, she really did, but she could not hate them any more than she could hate her husband right now. And she could not be angry at Wednesday though nor could she fathom why her daughter had tried so vainly to keep the truth from her. She felt ashamed that her daughter, usually so open and transparent, had felt it necessary to keep something so vital from her. It made her feel cruelly cheated and yet made her wonder if she possessed some maternal deficit that made Wednesday feel she could not be truthful with her. She would have cautioned against it, yes, but regardless of her own feelings she would have given her blessing for her daughter to be wed. She believed fully, wholly, entirely in marriage.

Right now though, she did not believe in her own marriage. And lack of belief always posed a fundamental problem in any marriage. Lack of belief meant lack of pliable foundations if you wanted to look at it that way. And today, that was the only way she could look at it.

Lies had feasted, ravenously, at her table tonight and she had let them without foresight. That was where her most vehement anger lay. She had been so blissfully ignorant, so sure of the loyalty of him who she held most dear, that she had failed to see the deception. She was infuriated with herself. She stilled her body, prepared it for her descent, gripping the beautiful crocodile skin suitcase with determination that was manufactured from fear of the unknown. A long time ago, she had liked the unknown. She had known Paris a long time ago. She sighed lightly, perhaps she should reacquaint herself.