Chapter 3: The Face of Innocence
Fog, thick and as grey as the ashes in the trays down in the basement. The old ones that Gomez and his dear brother used to- what did it matter? Those ashes were collecting dust, and the trays along with them. Dust, layers upon layers -twenty-three years-, of dust; impenetrable dust, covered over those tens, possibly a hundred ash trays in which cigars and cigarettes had been callously thrown in the innocent days of their youth. But now that dust covered those days… the dust on the trays, in the mind and in the heart. Thick, impenetrable, layers of dust.
Much like the fog that fell over the Addams cemetery, and lied there, languorously, having no plans on leaving. Why would it? Unlike the dust (Or, similar to it, now…?) it, was welcome.
Skies, a single shade of grey, stretched as far as the town of Briarwood could see. However, the glorious thunder clouds -albethey having started out in the inner city- began to make their way home; looming over the Addams graveyard. The clouds, too, soon to express their mourning through a flood of tears. Though, they did not do so just yet. Everything grieves differently, and their black-clad brethren in grievance were not set to arrive until 6:0o pm.
The funeral for Cousin Cordelia was to be held at the Addams mansion (It was an honour, to have one's funeral held at the house of the heart of the family… usually.).
Three days had passed, since Regina and her daughter, Scarlett had arrived, half-dead at the doorstep. And Mrs. Blood had Mr. Addams at her beck and call (or had tried to do such a thing) from the moment he had so hesitantly agreed to allow her to stay in his and his querida's home.
At every opportunity the woman got, she asked him for something. Whether it was as simple as making her a hot cup of tea to showing her where the second-floor living room was, it was constant. When it seemed there was no end to her demands, there was… until they started up again.
And if only Gomez could explain to his darling one, his corazón, his amore, the one woman he cared about more than anything in this world and beyond, that he did not want to leave her to run rampant for Regina. He hated every moment of it. But he made a promise. He made a deal, long ago. And now… he had to follow through.
All he could do was try his best to make it up to his Tish after a day of seeing her so little. He promised her he would always look her in the eyes when he spoke to her. And he did, when he could. But now, there were rare occasions when he couldn't. He despised himself for it. But his Morticia didn't, never could. Not even if she knew, twenty-two years ago…
Preparations for Cousin Cordelia's funeral were to take the entire day, and indeed they did. Entirely black, everything (other than a few, small details, of course). Even her coffin (three million dollars of shining death-casing), was black.
Despite the fact that virtually the entire funeral was one colour, there was still much work to be done. That was an undeniable truth.
Wednesday was clothed in her favourite formal dress. It was, of course, black and somewhat formfitting. It had long sleeves that were longer at the wrists, swirling so it was not quite so dramatic. It was cut in a V-neck, and had gothic designs covering it.
It was Wednesday's job to see to the guest list and make sure that most of the Addams clan was still in attendance. She was to add two names to the list: Regina Scarlett Blood. She would do it; although she was unsure if she wanted to.
As of now, she stood in her bedroom mirror. Like her brother's, it was cracked in three places (Thing had done it as a present for each of their third birthdays). As she studied her reflection, she concentrated not, on her long braids. When she stopped focusing on them, she began to wonder if the reflection was truly her own. She was so much like... Pugsley had been right. She was turning into her mother. Or, was she already?
She couldn't look at herself anymore, it worried her too much. She loved her mother and would love to be like her but at the same time that was too much, too fast, and as she ran down the stairs, trying so hard to trip in her heels, she stopped to catch her breath. And paused. Was she already?
Pugsley buttoned up his coat. How could the rest of his family bare it? It was a bit chilly, due to the weather, and the mourning clouds rolling in. However, it was hot to him. The gene pool must have completely overflowed and not been bothered to be refilled between the two-year time interval between his sister's and his birth, as immunity to heat skipped him entirely.
The only one who showed any sign of struggle in the heat besides him was his mother. Not due to her elaborate, gothic dresses. It was due to her rare form of photosensitivity and that… Vitamin D deficiency, whatever that meant (he knew it had something to do with the sun, and why she had to be careful in it). And he did feel bad for her, his father always worried about her getting overheated… internally. He wasn't quite sure how that worked.
As he put on his black, lace-up boots, he had to do a doubletake. He could have sworn he forgot to put his socks on this morning! His pants were black, and his dress shirt was black. He even had a bow tie of the same colour. He did not know how he was going to manage to keep his suitcoat on but, he would try.
Pugsley was to make sure the décor was arranged in order looked presentable. He wished he had been in charge of food- but there was no food; he had to keep reminding himself. This was not a birthday party. This was a funeral.
Esmeralda dressed in her finest black skirts and heeled black boots. Her blue eyes stood out like icicles in a black sandstorm. Although it was summer, her wide shirt sleeves were elbow-length, and black, fingerless (apart from two holes for thumbs) fishnet gloves accompanied them. Her head (thick mess of hair, light brown and greying, curled somewhat for the party) was christened with a black hat, gothic adornments and a few feathers giving it a gloomy touch.
She spent the first three hours of her day on music with Lurch. Where would the orchestra be played? What would be played? What dance would ensue? Normally, this was Morticia's job but she was… goddamit, where was she? Lurch was going to have to wait a minute; or several.
….
Gomez -the only thing keeping him going being his corazón- drowsily opened his eyes. Adoringly, he looked down at the sleeping gothic temptress in his arms. All night, he had held her.
Now, her head rested comfortably against his bare chest, and her long leg was draped, languidly over him. Her arms held onto him, as if in sleep, someone might try to steal one of them away from the other.
There was not a chance of that.
Seeing her so content, happy (or unhappy, as he and his wife liked to call it) and brought to such a state of pleasure, even in sleep, was his nirvana.
Not wishing to disturb her, but unable to resist her; he moved a bit of stray hair out of her enchanting face, and let his fingers go through her hair, rubbing her head and hoping she could feel it in her sleep. Kissing her forehead, he continued.
She smiled. "Gomez…"
Still sleeping, but knowing she had felt it, Gomez caught her smile and began to stroke her cheek, gently caressing. Incapable of keeping his lips or hands off of her, he kissed her neck.
She stirred a bit, but did not awaken. "Mon cher…"
He continued, adoring her and knowing if she did wake up right now, it was going to be whilst he was showing her unending amounts of affection (as though it were not customary with the amorous pair).
As he did, Morticia's eyes fluttered open.
"Ah… good morning, mon amour." She let out a paradisal sigh. "How long have you been… doing this?"
"Since I awakened, three minutes ago." Gomez explained and moved a hand up, groping her breast.
Morticia's eyes widened and she let out a moan. "Mmm… keep doing it."
"What made you think I would stop?" Gomez asked as his hands and lips continued to explore her.
"Gomez…" Morticia sighed as he turned her over and sat up a bit, so she was in his lap but could still look at him sideways. She took a look at the clock on the wall, leaning into him. "I think we're behind on time."
It was noon.
Gomez shook his head, a charming smirk on his face. "Time?" He questioned and sat her up a bit, massaging her shoulders. "What is time? I've never believed such a word."
Her attempt at trying to concentrate was slowly fading from her mind. His hands on her like this could make her kill a man. "Gomez…"
"Time, mi encantadora, is nonexistent. It is but a figment of our imaginations. We have created it in order to function properly as a society. Fortunately for us, we never did fit in with society." Gomez said and his hands traveled to her neck. "It was once said, If we pay no attention to time, time does not exist." He explained. "All that exists," he told her, "is this, and us, mi hermosa diosa. Nothing else."
Morticia was won over, completely. All thoughts of time, truly abandoned.
Time itself, for now, truly abandoned.
"I'm alright with that." She breathed out.
"Is it because I'm doing this?" Gomez asked, laughing.
Morticia nodded. "Yes."
"I will take it." Gomez kissed her cheek. "I'll take it, I'll take everything." He sounded like a puppy, reveling in attention from its master but he didn't care. He worshipped her completely. "God, I adore you…" He wrapped his arms around her waist then and kissed her lips, full of intense passion. "I will never stop telling you that. Ever."
"I love you." Morticia kissed him again, arms around his neck. "Thank you."
"What have I done to deserve that?" Gomez inquired.
Morticia replied, "What haven't you done? You have been the best to me, for me… I know this woman is putting this house through the wringer right now but…" She looked into his eyes. "That does not change the past twenty-one years, or the fact that they have been the best years of my life."
"Oh, Tish…" Gomez smiled. "I would not trade these last twenty-one years with you for anything in the world. You are my everything, cara mia. I would be, nothing without you."
"And I without you… mon diable." Morticia leaned in, then; the kiss they shared, even more passionate than the last.
Tongues, dancing in one another's mouths; neither one of them heard the knock at the door.
Silently, the door opened.
Máma walked into the room, ready to grill her daughter. The funeral was in six hours. What could she possibly be doing? Sleeping in? On a day like this?
"Morticia, I don't know where- oh god!" Esmeralda had walked into a lighter area and saw nothing she had wanted to see. As a knee-jerk reaction, she averted her eyes.
Morticia quickly covered up her exposed upper half, still held tight in her husband's arms.
"What is it with you two?" Esmeralda asked, eyes no longer averted. "I cannot walk into a room without fear that I'll get flashbacks from that first time I walked in."
"Máma- " Morticia was cut off.
"I can still remember it. You weren't even married. Car breaks down and we thought that we could entrust you two to be alone together for the night in a hotel. I walk into the room the next morning and surprise!" She remembered. "And all you could find to wear to meet me at the door was that… short, black lingerie dress with the spikes on the breasts- "
"Alright, Máma." Morticia had heard this story from her mother's perspective on several occasions, and did not wish to hear it again. "You did just walk in to our bedroom."
"I forgot that your hormones were made to be exact copies of Thumper's." Máma grimaced.
"You seemed to have had a stressful morning." Gomez chimed in.
"And who is Thumper?" Morticia asked, not understanding her mother's rabbit reference (Despite her distaste for the movie, Esmeralda did watch it as she heard the main character's mother was brutally murdered. She was lied to. That was milder than the sauce they used on these weird things called chicken wings.).
"Thumper? Bobby the deer's stupid little friend?"
Gomez and Morticia shared a look of both confusion, and concern.
Esmeralda sighed. She had forgotten that there was no way she or Charles would have allowed Morticia to watch something so poisoning for the mind growing up.
"Never mind." She said. "You two are hosting Cousin Cordelia's funeral. It is noon. Get out of bed and get downstairs." Máma then turned to Morticia. "After you get ready, meet with Lurch in the ballroom about the music."
Gomez caressed Morticia's cheek. "Of course, that duty has been left to you my dearest." He said. "You're the only one who could do it."
"Merci, mon amour." Morticia smiled at his compliment. "You always said I had a way with music."
"You have a way with everything, cara mia." Gomez told her. "You're incredible."
"So are you." Morticia's eyes flared with suggestion. "Our tango…"
"That leg up over my shoulder…"
Morticia wrapped her arms around his neck. "That knife in your mouth…"
Gomez leaned in and kissed her passionately.
Both, seemingly, having forgotten that Esmeralda was there.
"I'm surprised you two don't have more kids." She said, reminding the pair of her presence.
"Máma." Morticia leaned into her husband, tired. "We'll be there shortly, Máma."
"You had better be." Máma threatened. "This thing starts at six. We need all hands on deck." She explained. "We haven't hosted funeral since Grandpa Terse died. And I don't…" She went a bit quiet. It did not last. "I don't want to have to explain -yet again- to an eight-year-old boy why father is handcuffed to the bed and why not to call the police!"
Gomez remembered that one, still; as did his wife. Their time was magical, their son's was… not.
However, their magical time caused them to share a passionately paradisal look with one another, locking each other in a fervent stare.
Gomez kissed her hand, and slowly began to devour her fingers.
"Of course, Máma." Morticia barely looked up at her, waiting for her husband to work his way to her inner wrist, and pull her closer, and eat her alive.
Esmeralda then shook her head, knowing if she tried to say anything more to her daughter, it would not go in one ear; let alone go out the other.
Comprehending this, she hurried out the door and shut it behind her. The last thing she wished to do was stay in there and witness Thumper during mating season.
Neither one of the lovers noticed Esmeralda leave as they began to consume each other whole; Gomez, arms wrapped tightly around his querida's waist and hers, wrapped around his neck and pressed against his chest.
Rocking as they were, to the steady rhythm of their simultaneously beating hearts; neither was too quick to remove themselves from their romantic position, nor travel back to a world in which time existed.
But they were going to have to sooner or later, so Morticia stole a glance at the clock on the wall again.
12:20 pm.
"Mon cher?" Morticia's captivating eyes met his.
"What did I say in my soliloquy about time?" He questioned.
Morticia smirked. "Your charm drives a hard bargain." She replied. She then rested her head against him for a moment and he stroked her hair. "Why did Cousin Cordelia have to die this week?"
Gomez laughed.
Morticia sighed, gracefully maneuvering to sit on the edge of the bed. "I have to take a shower."
Gomez followed her to it and looked her eyes, raising his eyebrows. "As do I."
"Oh." Morticia knew exactly what he wanted, and what she needed. But playing games with him was her forte, and she quite enjoyed doing it. "Well," She seductively moved off of the bed and stood. "I should probably go first." She teased, knowing there would be no first anyone.
"Please, Tish." Gomez shook his head, perceiving what she was up to and standing as well. "We haven't done this in four days."
Morticia's eyes leveled. "Mmm. What makes you think we're doing anything?"
"This does." With his words, Gomez picked up his wife and held her over her shoulder.
"Gomez!" Morticia gasped, half-laughing. She struggled, slightly but gave up.
"I should have done this three minutes ago." Gomez grinned and squeezed her ass.
Morticia bit her lip as her husband then made his way to the bathroom. "You haven't picked me up like this in two weeks."
Gomez knew if she couldn't see him, she would toy with him using her words. It was becoming much harder to walk. "Keep it up." He said. "I'm going to end up taking you in the middle of the floor."
"Please." Morticia's voice dripped with sensuality.
Gomez groaned. "You're killing me."
Morticia grinned. "I try."
By now -and with great difficulty to keep himself intact- Gomez had reached their bedroom's private bathroom.
Black walls the colour of the night that passed to quickly, and grey and black marble sinks. It was large; the funeral for Cousin Cordelia could have taken place just in that room alone.
The shower was spacious, with glass doors and walls, and a floor that -while still black- were resistant to much of the water. They had been specially made in Paris, to be non-slippery (for what Gomez and Morticia got up to in there, they would have to be).
There was a black marble, jacuzzi tub next to the shower and a medium-sized window -covered by grey, silk, gothic curtains- behind it. Of course, at night, candles were often placed around the tub. Candles lit, not to be blown out for hours.
Gomez set her down once they entered the shower stall.
Neither needed to undress, as neither had been clothed to begin with.
"Cara mia…" Gomez pulled her close to him, taking everything that was his beautiful black angel, in.
Morticia smiled, shaking her head. "We are going to be very late for the funeral preparations."
"We were supposed to get ready at noon, correct?" Gomez asked, caressing her cheek.
"Oui." Morticia replied.
Gomez kissed her. "It's noon somewhere."
"Mon beau diable…" Morticia pushed him against the shower wall, then, her tongue meeting with his.
And as the two lovers began their romantic decent back into a world without time, Gomez used his last coherent thought to turn on the water.
….
Ever since the day had begun, all Wednesday and Pugsley had heard was the sultry yet hard voice of Ms. Blood calling out for Gomez.
Whether it be to request he help her get ready for the funeral, he show her around the house some more, or he… just talk to her, it was something.
But of course, nothing could be done about any of Regina's predicaments -however deluded and/or arbitrary they may have been- as Mr. Addams had been sleeping in, along with his wife.
Wednesday eyed her brother, curiously as he sat in the small, brown, wooden stool in the corner of her bedroom.
He was staring… the way he stared at Scarlett, at absolutely nothing, really. Unless he now had an infatuation with paintings of their Great Aunt Calpurnia (which would have been even more disturbing).
"Do you want to be alone with that painting?" Wednesday raised an eyebrow.
Pugsley snapped out of his vampire-obsessed, trancelike state. "What painting?" He asked.
Wednesday sighed. "The one you've been making eyes at for the past five minutes." She said. "All you've been doing is staring off in the direction of that painting and looking at it as though you want it to bear your children." She paused. "And that was our great aunt."
"Eww." Pugsley's face contorted. He then looked back up at the painting. "Sorry, Aunt Calpurnia."
"It might be incest, but she's still better for you than who you're really thinking about." Wednesday stated.
"Hey- "
"Also, your fly is down." She interrupted.
"What?" Pugsley looked down, worried. What if Scarlett sees? I mean- what if… ah! Focus, our fly is down! Is there fly on these pants? Wednesday!
"Did you check on the decorations?" Wednesday questioned.
"Yea." Pugsley replied.
"And?"
"And they're there." He said.
"That isn't what I meant." Wednesday told him. "If they aren't all black, perfect and in order then Cousin Cordelia's going to rise from the dead and kidnap you to take her place."
Pugsley looked afraid. "She is?"
"She is." Wednesday's monotone voice convinced him. "The deceased do that if angered. Because they're dead, they can get away with it." She then went on to explain, "It happened to Jeremy Rapold."
"Who's Jeremy Rapold?" Pugsley asked.
Wednesday was expressionless. "Exactly."
Pugsley's face was white. "I have to make sure these are perfect." He nodded to himself.
"I would look at the guest list, as well." Wednesday flashed a devious smiled, inwardly. "Make sure Regina and Scarlett's names are added to it."
Pugsley was going to comply with her request, later after his checking out the decorations. However, his minimal amount of logicality stopped him. "But isn't that your job?"
Wednesday crossed her arms. "What's the first rule of Deception?"
Pugsley was befuddled. "We're not playing Deception."
"Not to you." Wednesday said, quietly. "Don't ask questions." She added next, "Besides, I already did my job."
"Oh, okay." Pugsley shrugged. "The guest list is in the kitchen. Right?"
Wednesday couldn't believe how naïve her brother was. He hadn't even asked what her job was, if not that. But this was what worried her, his naïveté. He was susceptible to… what wasn't he susceptible to? She was alright with his suffering at her hands, but at someone else's… no. Absolutely not.
"Yes." Wednesday responded. She looked him up and down. "Did you pick out your outfit?"
"Uh-huh." Pugsley answered her question. "Usually father helps but last night he wasn't around and I wasn't about to walk in to something looking for him."
"Oh." Wednesday paused. "That makes sense. You don't look half-dead. Father could have helped you with that."
Pugsley seemed disheartened. "Really? Is it the bowtie? I knew I should have gone with grey!"
Wednesday was growing more concerned with each utterance from her brother. Normally, he wouldn't have cared too much about her insult. Or, he would have questioned her attitude as all-black was the way to go for an Addams funeral. But, now- he was trying to impress her.
"No, Pugsley your tie is fine." Wednesday said.
Pugsley calmed down a bit. "So, why do you think the family asked us to host Cousin Cordelia's funeral? I mean, it isn't like we knew her that well."
"It goes back to hundreds of years ago. Our house is where the family fortune is, where all of the original Addams books are. We live in the original estate, and we're descendants of the first two Addams'." Wednesday explained. "In technical terms, we're the modern heart of the family. Having it here is more of an esteem thing, I suppose." She then added, "That and we have the cemetery right in our backyard."
"Well that was…" Pugsley thought for a moment. "blunt." He decided.
"It was the truth."
Pugsley nodded. "Let's just hope this isn't a repeat of Grandpa Terse's funeral."
"It isn't the funeral's fault that your stupid eight-year-old brain decided to walk into mother and father's bedroom." Wednesday stated. "You could have easily asked Máma when the eulogy started, originally."
Pugsley couldn't even argue. He had been unwise -to say the least- in that regard. Being eight at the time truly was his only defense. "Were you there when she had to explain to me what I saw so I didn't call the cops?"
"Yes." Wednesday answered. "I remember her face. She looked as though she had been the one to walk in. And then, she looked at you and tried to give some kind of an explanation."
"Yea." Pugsley remembered. "What did she say, again?"
Quoting her grandmother yet straight-faced in doing so, Wednesday responded: "Well, son… your father, is… he's playing a game." In explanation, she continued. "To which you responded: With the criminals? And Máma had this half-traumatized, half-disgusted look on her face and said, sadly: With… with your mother, Pugsley."
"Oh yea, now I remember." Pugsley recalled.
"You went on to say, confused: Mother's a criminal?" Wednesday sighed. "And Máma replied: Pugsley, there are no criminals."
"Oh." Pugsley acted out his part in the memory.
"Don't call the police." Wednesday kept it up. "Your father is fine. Don't tell anyone about this, alright?"
"But I thought he was playing a game. Shouldn't I go get him and tell him- "
"No! Just go. They're going to start reading the eulogy now. I… I've got to go take care of a few things. You stay down here and listen to the eulogy."
Pugsley sighed. "Máma really seemed traumatized."
"I don't know why. Her own spells consist of freshly plucked lizards eyes and the faintly beating hearts of unborn monkeys." Yet this is traumatizing. Wednesday thought.
"I should make her a nice card for Mother's Day." Pugsley decided.
"Who?"
"Máma." Pugsley told her.
"That's fair." Wednesday concurred.
"So, back to the subject of pointing out each other's flaws." Pugsley redirected, on account of her calling out his staring at her painting. "You haven't looked in the mirror at all and we've been talking for twenty minutes."
"I don't, usually." This was not a topic Wednesday wished to discuss.
"I know but it's like you avoided yourself." Pugsley elucidated.
"I didn't avoid myself." Wednesday's verbal wall of defense was as thick as the looking glass she refused to set eyes her eyes on.
"If I looked like father, I'd be looking at myself all of the time." Pugsley tried his hand at a compliment.
Wednesday's eyes cast sideways. "Well, maybe-" She said nothing.
She loved her mother. She admitted, yes, she would kill to be like her. Her mother was intelligent, and enchanting, and had this… aura.
But right now? As in, present day? Wednesday was unsure if she was ready for that. Being her mother meant a few things she didn't want (marriage, French, long dresses, slight animation, this weird thing people call happiness).
She liked being herself, and her parents loved her just as she was. It seemed that the only one having trouble differentiating between looking like her mother with similar characteristics and being her mother, was her.
Was it age? Was this a normal occurrence? If it was normal, she would willingly gut herself with a spork.
"What?" Pugsley persisted. "You can tell me." He expressed. "Even if I wanted to blab to someone, I couldn't. I'm too afraid."
Wednesday cocked her head, but still she admitted nothing. "No. It isn't you I'm worried about." Quickly, she changed the subject. "Pugsley?"
"Yes?"
"I know you weren't imagining Aunt Calpurnia when you were staring at her." She said.
Pugsley gulped. "Oh?"
"They're called bloodsuckers for a reason, Pugsley." Wednesday figured she would try to warn him again, before she couldn't any longer. "I've seen the way you look at her. And I've also seen the way she looks at you."
Knock, knock.
"Come in." Wednesday briefly broke her speech to her brother in order to give whom she presumed was either their mother or father, permission to enter. "She may look like a black rose, but her first name is- Scarlett."
"Am I interrupting something?" Scarlett stood in the doorway, hands folded, dressed for Cousin Cordelia's funeral.
Her black, gothic dress extended down to her ankles in the back, but only to her knees in the front. It was cut in a sweetheart neckline, and its long sleeves were lace. It tied with black laces in the back. Her shoes were black, heeled boots, and her nails matched her ensemble. She wore a velvet, black choker. Her hair was curled for the occasion.
"Wow." Pugsley was stunned. He had never seen something so beautiful in all of his ten years of life.
Scarlett would have blushed, had she the internal bodily capabilities. "I guess I'm not, then." She smiled.
She was breathtaking.
Lovely, to Pugsley.
Deadly, to his elder sister.
"Wednesday?" Scarlett turned her attention toward her.
"Yes?" Wednesday remained completely calm. She had to.
"Your grandmother, Ms. Máma?"
"I know who my grandmother is." She replied.
Scarlett looked down, somewhat embarrassed. "Right. Sorry." She apologized. "She requests your presence in the ballroom."
Wednesday raised her eyebrow.
"I'm just the messenger." Scarlett held up her hands.
Pugsley stared, transfixed.
"I wish I grew up with a ballroom in my house." Scarlett laughed.
Pugsley did as well.
Wednesday remained silent. "What does she want?"
Scarlett stopped laughing. "I'm not sure. Perhaps you should go ask her."
Wednesday looked the girl up and down. "Perhaps I should."
She walked out of her bedroom then, not breaking her intense stare at the perceived disingenuous black rose; and shut the door.
Scarlett, now alone with Pugsley, sighed. "I'm glad you like the dress."
Pugsley appeared hopeful. "Really?"
"Yes. It's new. My mother just bought it yesterday." Scarlett replied.
"Oh." Pugsley nodded. "With what money?" He then realized how that question sounded and instantly felt awful about it. "Sorry. That isn't what I- "
"No. It's okay." Scarlett shifted on her heels. "I don't know. We came here with nothing and now my mother has about three new dresses. I think…" She played with her hands. "I think someone from your family gave us money."
"Well, that's okay." Pugsley stood up. "I mean everyone goes through hard times. My family always tries to help people."
Scarlett smiled. "They're very nice. And your parents are very sweet." She added, "And your mother is taking this very well."
Pugsley concurred. "Yea. Mother's really good at… everything."
Scarlett sighed, looking into Pugsley's light brown eyes. "I wish I was good at everything."
Pugsley knew exactly what to say this time, because it was what he felt. "You are."
….
Wednesday had walked along the downward descent of the steep, endless staircases for what must have been an eternity. It felt like it, anyway. But perhaps that was her nerves (had she any points in her body that could be classified as such).
She walked through the darkened, historic hallways.
Barren, were some spots on the walls while on others, hung painted portraits of family members (most, deceased since at least 1706). The walls were old, with the wallpaper and its fading colour (albeit dark, gothic, close to brown) and their cobwebbed corners. But they told fascinating tales (perhaps one day, someone outside of the Addams clan would be brave enough to listen to them).
The floors were hard wood, and the closest colour to black that there was, of natural wood. While they didn't shine, they didn't fade to nothing under layers of dust, either. Extravagantly (as there was nothing simple about the mansion, down to the very foundation of it), they stayed as they were. No one could see themselves in them, but no one wanted to, anyway. They would have rather seen the history, the magnificently macabre past, within them.
"Máma!" Wednesday called. She had finally turned the corner and reached the ballroom; the grand double doors, shutting behind her upon entering.
The ballroom was massive. Its walls were also windows to the Addams cemetery, perfect on rainy days. Between the walls were thin, black arches, leading up to the ceiling.
The magnificent ceiling was out of a gothic painting; black designs covering its entirety, different types of its shade connected in paint or glass to create one magnificent masterpiece. But of course, it too, was seeing its elder years. And that was exactly how the Addams' liked it.
Even the floors were intricate. Their pattern was most unusual, with a mix of black and other dark or slightly faded colours, designed in diamond shapes to create a pattern across the floor (of which was perfect for dancing in its entirety; but of course, it would have to be in a ballroom).
"What?" Esmeralda barely turned around.
She was in the middle of working with Lurch and Thing, desperately trying to find a place for the open bar. She thought the entire idea of it was ridiculous but that was Cousin Cordelia: requesting an open bar at her funeral.
She moved her outstretched hand to the right. "I suppose we could have it there."
Lurch groaned.
Esmeralda shook her head. "No, we'd better not. People would be bumping into it right and…" She paused, realizing where the thing would hypothetically be placed. "Right."
Thing drooped.
"Pick yourself up." Esmeralda ordered. "Believe me, it isn't like I enjoy this. Now, if we- oh, Wednesday!" As she had moved her hand to the left, widely, she smacked her granddaughter square in the face.
Wednesday took a half a moment or so to recover from the shock. She shook her head. "I'm here." She said.
"I see that." Máma put a hand to her cheek. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine." Wednesday replied.
"Good." Máma abruptly took her hand of off the child's cheek and got back to work. "Now get out of my way, we have funeral planning to carry on with."
Wednesday stepped before her grandmother, provoking a great sigh from the irritated old woman.
"I'm here." She said again.
"Is this some sort of game?" Máma questioned, not in the mood. "Shoo, out of my way."
Wednesday raised an eyebrow. "But you sent for me."
"Why would I do that?" Esmeralda asked.
"I…" Wednesday's eyes narrowed.
She had been deceived. Completely, straight-faced lied to by the face of innocence. The face of innocence, that her brother had fallen for faster than he had ever fallen off of the roof, and harder than he had ever hit the ground.
If she had been suspicious of the face of innocence before, she hadn't been. As this was suspicion. This was what is felt like. It felt like the wings -no doubt she flew upon after the blood of innocent's had been sucked to give her that face- were fluttering about, spasmodically inside her stomach. It felt like cold blood was the only kind, and it was running through her veins, shooting itself into her heart; with the shock more intense than that of the attic-based electric chair. It felt like she was the only one who was aware of the dangerous creature upstairs, with the appearance of a black rose but a crown of thorns around her heart.
It felt like she didn't want the face of innocence anywhere near her brother.
"I don't know." Wednesday admitted, hastily moving out of the way of her grandmother.
She had to get upstairs. She had to find Pugsley. She had to-
"On second thought," Máma then grabbed Wednesday's arm and stood her next to Lurch. "Since you're here, you can help us figure out where this preposterous open bar is going to go."
She had to stay.
….
"Tighter." Morticia's voice oozed seduction, and she could feel Gomez's lips on her neck as he stood behind her.
"Sadist." Gomez shook his head and nipped at her neck.
"Ah, remind me again how I can be sadistic towards myself?" Morticia asked.
Gomez tugged at the black strings of her corset. "By having me tie this tighter than the ropes you use to hold me to the bed." He replied, and tied up her corset.
Morticia sighed. "I like them tight." She said, then turned in his arms and looked into his eyes. "And so do you."
Gomez pulled her close against his chest. "Mi demonia…" He growled.
"Mon diable…" Morticia's hands played with his tie as she leaned in and kissed him.
"Tish," Gomez wished that they could forget this funeral and he could take her right here, now. He wished.
His hands ran down her back as they went deeper into their kiss, breathing each other's air and hearts beating in time with one another's.
Morticia broke the kiss, a smirk on her lips.
Gomez raised an eyebrow, captivated.
His gothic temptress then pushed him onto the black, velvet couch in their closet, landing on top of him where they continued their heated make-out session.
Their well-organized closet was an entire room in itself; the walls of which were black with silver, gothic spirals printed in the wallpaper. The entire back wall was a mirror.
The floor was the same as that of their bedroom; black porcelain.
And there was a velvet, luxury couch in the middle of it all.
Looking up at her, Gomez was completely entranced. "Cara mia." He kissed her, also holding her stable atop his form.
"What are you staring at?" Morticia asked, elegant finger, absently running along the side of his face.
"You." Gomez responded. "I'm staring at you, and wondering how on earth I got so lucky."
"Gomez…" Morticia's eyes shifted, and she smiled. "I ask that same question about myself, all the time."
"Ti amo, mi encantadora." Gomez's lips met hers for the hundredth time that day. He craved her more than any addict had ever craved a drug (or several), and he forever would.
He picked her up in his arms, then. His destination was their bed. He was determined to physically adore her for as long as possible.
Morticia leaned her head against his shoulder. "I do adore funerals." She admitted, despite this one being at a rather inconvenient time.
They had reached the bed, and Gomez gently lied her down, sitting atop the sheets with her and holding her in his arms.
"Everyone all in black," Morticia continued. "In mourning, in tears…"
Gomez's heart skipped several beats at her darkness. It was one of the first things that attracted him to her, minus her bewitching enchantment. "I adore you." He replied, unable to get enough of her.
Morticia snuggled up in his arms. "Must you make it so incredibly hard to go downstairs?"
Gomez laughed.
"I'll take that as a yes."
"I have to." Gomez defended. "All I want to do is keep you to myself all day." He paused, thinking. "Every day." He kissed her hand, continuing to her wrist. "Is that so wrong?"
"If it is, I'll gladly have you stay a sinner for eternity, mon cher." Morticia purred.
"Damn it, Tish." Gomez joked. "When did you plan to tell me that sinning was wrong?" He sighed, pretending that realization was setting in. "I am going to Hell."
Only Gomez could truly make Morticia laugh. She did, and then she kissed him. "Then, I'm going with you."
"That isn't an option, it simply is." Gomez kissed her forehead. "Believe me, I won't be anywhere without you."
Morticia's eyes looked out their window, then back at her adoring husband. "Rain."
It was 5:00 pm. The skies had begun to grieve.
Gomez looked out of the window as well, and noticed the tears falling from the oversized puffs of grey in the atmosphere.
"You'll read the eulogy wonderfully tonight, my dearest." Gomez told her.
"Merci, mon cher." Morticia held up her hand for her amour's lips to meet.
They did, and it was quite the passionate greeting.
Morticia had been chosen by the family to read Cousin Cordelia's eulogy, and prepare the last third of it.
Her immediate family (which consisted of her mother and two sisters) didn't care much for her. It truly was a terrible thing, to deny her respect just because she wasn't schizophrenic as the rest of them were.
They had spent an hour on the phone with Mrs. Addams, the night that the funeral date was set and pleaded with her to read and in part, write, Cousin Cordelia's eulogy. To which, she kindly (albeit somewhat rushed and strenuous to do so in so little time) agreed.
Morticia wore a black, gothic dress that swept the floor (as usual). It was tight, and of a silk-esque material. The dress was cut in a deep V-neck, and had long sleeves, lined in black diamonds. Her corset was black, and tied with midnight-coloured laces in the back. Its sides were lined, too, with black diamonds and it was covered with Victorian gothic designs.
With the dress, she wore black tights, and black, three-and-a-half-inch high heels. Her earrings dangled, and were of black diamonds. Of course, she wore her signature dark smoky eyes, and with her lips and nails as red as the blood that spilled during the vicious homicide of Cousin Cordelia. She wore five rings, four of which were black or silver.
Gomez, her beau diable, was clad in a black pinstripe suit. His tie was black, with a dark grey pattern, analogous to Morticia's corset (yet dissimilar in colour). A thin silver chain crossed over the tie.
He wore black dress shoes, and his hair was, as usual, slicked back.
"I still think Ezra killed her." Gomez said.
"Gomez!" Morticia playfully hit his chest. "Ezra was her mother."
"She lived similar to the women from Grey Gardens, Tish." Gomez explained. "Who would have killed her? If not, her mother?"
Morticia's eyes shifted in thought. "Her sisters?"
"Emilie and Autumn? They couldn't harm a fly; let alone stab their sister in the heart." Gomez concluded.
"Or, perhaps that's what they want you to think?" Morticia suggested.
"Very clever, Detective Addams." Gomez chuckled and kissed her cheek.
"I try." Morticia smoothed down the tie she had pulled out of its place during their heated session on the couch. "Do you remember your cousin, Balthazar's murder?" She reminisced.
Black hearts in his eyes, Gomez spoke, "How could I forget?"
"When I came to his funeral, my first funeral…" Morticia sighed, romantically. "You were still a suspect."
"You were so beautiful." Gomez told her, taking her hand. "Pale and mysterious. No one even looked at the corpse."
"I couldn't stop staring at you, all through the eulogy." Morticia recalled. "Your eyes, your mustache… your laugh."
"You bewitched me." Gomez kissed her hand. "I proposed that very night." His lips then traveled, farther up her arm and to her neck, then to her lips. And he pulled her into another amorous kiss.
Eyes closed, in paradise as her husband continued to shower her in affection; Morticia groaned. "I don't want to leave this room."
"Put the idea right out of your head." Gomez's lips met her temple, as if to kiss the thought away.
"Oui bien, mon diable." Morticia nodded, allowing him to worship her completely.
"Gomez!" The voice was so feint that neither of the two heard it.
"Gomez!" Was there even a voice at all?
"Gomez!"
There was. There came a banging at the lovers' bedroom door.
Gomez and his black angel exchanged a curious glance.
"Máma?" Morticia speculated.
Gomez shook his head. "She never knocks."
The amorous pair got out of bed to investigate the knock at the door, presuming it was one of the family to request they come downstairs to assist with the funeral preparations.
Oh, how very wrong they both indeed were.
Gomez opened the door to find nonother than Regina, standing there before them, in her mourning attire.
Her two-piece ensemble was completely black. Her skirt extended down to an inch or two above her knees. Her long-sleeved shirt was close-fitting, and lowcut in a sweetheart neckline. The shirt flowed out over the skirt a bit.
With the dress, she had on black, leather gloves. Her earrings were black diamond studs. She wore gothic tights and black high heels with ankle straps. Her hair had been curled for the occasion and half-pinned up; and a black hat-headpiece sat atop her head, with a short fishnet veil that fell over her eyes.
The only thing with some semblance of colour was her makeup; crimson lips, black eye makeup, with some amount of red. It always did have some amount of red.
"Gomez?" Regina had finally found him.
"Yes?" Gomez wondered what she was doing up here.
How long had she been looking for him? Their room was on the fifth floor.
"I've been looking for you." Regina explained. She looked him up and down. "You're looking handsome." She complimented. "I don't think I've seen you in that suit."Morticia's blood was reaching its boiling point but, hands folded, she said nothing. She did cast her husband a glance only he would understand.
The question was: Would he notice?
Gomez noticed, of course he did. But… the big picture. The damn big picture that only he and Regina knew existed. Twenty-two years ago, Regina had drawn it and he had foolishly been drawn into it. And now there was no escaping it.
"Thank you." He hesitantly responded.
Regina smiled. Or… was it a smirk? No. It was a smile. But behind it, there was a flash. A flash, of… wickedness? Or was it just lust over abuse of power? Therefore, was that not by default, wickedness?
"You're welcome." She then remembered why she had walked up five flights of stairs in the first place. "I need some help."
"You certainly do." Morticia said under her breath.
Regina cast her a threatening glance. But how did she hear her?
She turned her attention, then, back to the woman's husband. "I just have so much to do, and I still can't find Scarlett…" Her voice trailed off.
There was that look again. That look Regina shared with Morticia's husband and the fact that it was a look at all-
Morticia wanted to throw herself out of their bedroom window. But she stayed put.
Gomez hated the very thought of it. He wanted, desperately to stay with his Tish. He wanted to hold her and make up for Regina intruding on their time together, and shower her in the devoted affection she deserved.
But was a part of a bigger picture than what anyone else realized. And he could not take that picture down and cast it aside no matter what he did. All he wanted to do was take that picture, throw it out of their bedroom window and into the rain, and let it fall five stories down until it soaked itself… ultimately wasting away into a pile of nothingness. But nothing is something the big picture would never become.
"Of course, let's… go find Scarlett." Gomez reluctantly agreed, pulling a cigar from his pocket to smoke.
He was going to need it.
Morticia watched, in a devastated daze as he walked out the door with Regina after planting a passionate kiss on Morticia's crimson lips. But it didn't change the reality of what he had just done.
He had just walked out of their bedroom without her. And with someone else.
….
Wednesday, Pugsley and Scarlett had been sitting under the oldest -and one of the only two- willow trees in the cemetery for the past hour, now.
The crying skies had been using the greenery as handkerchiefs to catch their liquid grievance. Little were they aware that the tree (which the children contemplated under), used as a cloth tear-catcher needed one itself. As it, too was weeping. Not for the lost soul, but for that was its perhaps unfortunate name. The Weeping Willow.
But of course, the skies were too wrapped up in their own melancholy, to notice the poor tree, or its twin (jaded, ever was it… it hadn't truly cried in ages).
"We haven't had a funeral since Grandpa Terse died." Pugsley explained to Scarlett. "This one has to be perfect."
"And by perfect, you mean we're going to sabotage it?" Scarlett needed to make sure she understood this correctly.
"Yes." Wednesday did not wish to talk to Scarlett. But she was going to have to put up with her to figure out what the face of innocence was guilty of.
"During the viewing of Cousin Cordelia's body." Pugsley added.
Scarlett shivered, accidentally.
Wednesday eyed her, questioningly.
"Is everything okay?" Pugsley asked.
"Yes." Scarlett nodded. "I'm just a bit cold, that's all."
"Oh." Pugsley then thought of some of the good things his parents taught him growing up. He paused. "Do you want my jacket-"
"So, any ideas?" Wednesday interrupted.
No way was this little crush of Pugsley's going to go any further under her watch.
Scarlett held up a hand. "I have an idea."
"I would assume so." Wednesday said. "Unless you just raise your hand because you have some sort of morbidity."
Pugsley shook his head. "What's your idea?" He asked Scarlett.
"We could switch the bodies." She proposed.
"What?" Wednesday counted down from ten, internally. This was only option- not at all, ever.
"Switch the bodies." Scarlett said again.
"Yea." Pugsley was on board. But he would have been on board with anything; even if Scarlett had suggested they mail the body and themselves to Cuba. "I get it." He turned to Wednesday. "We could switch Cousin Cordelia with… Old Man Jenkins from the street where our bus stop is!"
"Poor Old Man Jenkins." Scarlett bowed her head. "When did he die?"
Wednesday was completely expressionless in her reply. "He didn't."
Scarlett suppressed a gulp. It was dreadful enough that she had shivered. "I see."
"We can't switch the bodies." Wednesday terminated the idea.
"Why not?" Pugsley inquired.
"Where are we going to find another body on time?" Wednesday asked.
"Old Man Jenkins-"
"Even if we wanted to take the time to arrange the slaughter of a beloved, seventy-six year old neighbourhood watchman; we couldn't." Wednesday paused, letting her explanation sink in before her brother started up again. "It would take too long."
Scarlett could not meet the eyes of the ghoulish girl, so close to her in age, but she had to. So, she did.
"Darn!" Pugsley snapped, defeated. "What else is there?"
"I have an idea." Wednesday told the two. "We could steal one of Máma's spell books and resurrect Cousin Cordelia during the viewing. It would at the very least, startle people." She sighed when she got no response. "I'm working at a disadvantage. We only have forty-five minutes."
"We can't do that." Pugsley shot down her idea.
"Why not?" The inquiry came from Scarlett. Why?
Now, Pugsley wasn't so sure why not. On second thought, maybe it wasn't such a bad idea after all.
When Pugsley said nothing, Wednesday spoke. "He's right, for once." She began, eyeing her brother.
She knew what Scarlett was doing. No way would she fall prey to her manipulation. One of the siblings had to stay rational.
"Cousin Cordelia would likely order a mass slaughter of all of the living members of the family." Wednesday explained.
"Her family kept her on their property to try and make her go crazy like the rest of them." Pugsley enlightened the confused Scarlett. "Nobody knows if it worked."
"She always said if she escaped the property, she'd do it." Wednesday continued. She sighed. "Cousin Cordelia had a thing for genocide."
Scarlett nodded. "Alright, no resurrection then."
"Wait!" Pugsley almost leapt up, he was so excited. "We could hold her for ransom."
Wednesday shook her head, exasperated. "She's dead, Pugsley." She added, "And we could just pay it."
Pugsley's expression turned glum. "Well, it was just an idea."
The children sat, the tears of the sky drowning out the silence of their thoughts.
Scarlett brightened up. "We could-"
"Wait." Wednesday held up a commanding hand. She had an idea. Turning to her younger brother, she asked, "Aunt Vindetta, she's eighty-five with that anxiety disorder. Right?"
Pugsley nodded. "Don't forget the addiction to hallucinogenic drugs."
Registering this piece of knowledge, Wednesday asked another question. "And there's going to be that big, blood fountain next to Cousin Cordelia. Right?"
"Uh-huh." Pugsley confirmed.
No one did catch (and she thanked whatever power there might have been) the worried look in Scarlett's eyes at Wednesday's words. What kind of fountain?
Wednesday nodded, slowly. "Pugsley?"
"Yea?" Pugsley shifted, sore from sitting in the same position for so long.
Wednesday's eyes gave some indication that she would have been grinning, if she ever truly expressed herself physically. "Go get Thing."
….
"Believe me, I did this to your father twice. And then all you'd have to do is take a tiny pint of blood while he's asleep and put it into the cauldron." Máma explained. "He won't feel a thing."
"Of course not, with what you suggested I do beforehand." Morticia locked her mother's bedroom door. "Máma, I am his wife. I can't knock him out and take a pint of his blood. What do you take me for?"
"A desperate woman or you wouldn't be talkin' to me." Esmeralda stated, bluntly.
"Does everything has to have an immediate magickal solution?" Morticia asked.
"Yes. I'm your damn mother. I've been a decent one for the past twenty-one years and I'm not going to screw it up now because you have a 'tude."
Morticia raised her eyebrow. "I do not have a 'tude." The word, 'tude, sounded odd coming from her voice. As her pronunciation was eloquent and the word was pronounced no different than all others. "I have a husband, who had a Regina." She sat on her mother's bed, straight-backed. "Who clearly wants him back."
Máma shook a finger. "You know most battered women kill their lovers to escape and find themselves."
"Yes, well I'm beginning to question whether or not she was truly battered." Morticia admitted. "And the only place she's trying to find herself is back into a my husband's bed."
Máma's eyes enlarged. "Morticia." She cracked a smile. "You really are my daughter."
"Is that a good thing?" Morticia questioned.
"Not sure." Esmeralda replied. She continued to flip through the pages of her spell book. "Try this, then. Drain all his blood. Replace it with vinegar overnight. Leave a headless rooster behind his pillow. Smear his forehead, palms and feet with the tears of a stillborn monkey. Add milk. Oh, wait- never mind. That's suspicion and anxiety."
"Máma." Morticia was -to say the least- offended. "I told you I don't want any spells. And even still; that's barbaric." Disdainfully, she shook her head. "Milk."
Clapping the book shut and causing dust to form a cloud around her, Máma then put it back on her shelf. "Truth be told, I don't think you need one." She told her daughter. "I'm just trying to help."
"I know." Morticia looked up at her. "Thank you. I think, more than anything, the last incident upset me the most."
"Was that when he left the bedroom with Regina?" Máma asked.
Morticia tried not to explode internally just reliving the horrible experience. She succeeded, admirably. "Yes. It was."
Esmeralda shook her head. "Morticia, he's probably just revisiting old memories."
Morticia's eyes widened at her mother's words. "What kind of memories?"
Esmeralda simply chuckled.
Morticia shook her head, still unconvinced at what her mother was implying. "He doesn't want her here."
Now, Máma laughed. "That could've been a lie, Morticia." She sighed, sympathy in her eyes when she looked at her daughter. "You're too much like your father."
"Gomez never lies to me like that." Morticia told Esmeralda. "He would tell me the truth. And that wouldn't happen. I love him with everything I have and he would do anything for me. He loves me -and only me, for that matter- completely." She was standing now.
"I know." Esmeralda shook her head, seeing the hurt in her daughter's eyes. And she knew that she was in part to blame. "But the spell thing is still on the table if the one you've had him under for the past twenty-one years isn't-"
Knock.
Morticia smoothed down her dress. "Let him in, please."
Máma, not willing to argue with her stubborn daughter (she really was a female carbon copy of Charles, in almost every way), opened her bedroom door.
Standing at the door was Gomez; black rose with the sharpest thorns he could find, in hand.
"Hey there, stud." Máma winked.
"Hello, Máma." Gomez winked. "Is Morticia in here with you?" He asked.
Máma feigned confusion. "You mean you weren't looking for me? I must say, I'm rather disappointed. I get all dressed up for your ass, only for you to tell me you're here for my daughter?"
Gomez laughed. "I apologize. I know how, awkward this must be."
Esmeralda shook her head. "Way to make a woman feel old. She's over there." She moved to the side so her son-in-law could step into her bedroom, then and find her daughter.
Gomez walked into Esmeralda's bedroom.
It was the stereotypical real witch's bedroom. There was a cauldron in the middle of it and black bookshelves with spell books of all kinds lined the walls. The bedsheets had pentagram designs on them, and there was a cream-coloured, spiderweb canopy around her bed.
But all Gomez could focus on was the radiant beauty that was his Tish.
He approached her, and held out the rose. "Cara mia, you're enchanting." He kissed her hand. "I adore you. You'll read magnificently tonight. I've heard how dark your bewitching voice can get." And at that, he handed her the rose.
Morticia took the flower, and wanted so badly to let him to take her in his arms and show her how sorry he was but she tortured him for an extra minute and herself. "So… are you going to stay with me at the funeral?"
Gomez couldn't resist her. He held out his arms, needing her desperately. "Querida, why wouldn't I?"
Morticia couldn't take it anymore. She embraced him, and finally allowed him to hold her, tightly and kiss her everywhere that he possibly could.
She kissed him, passionately. "It's five-fifty-six, mon amour." She informed him.
Gomez looped his arm through hers, and took her pale, delicate hand, bringing it to his lips. "Then allow me, to escort you to the funeral of the year, Mrs. Addams."
Esmeralda waited a minute or two to proceed out of her bedroom after the lovers had left; escorting herself to the only funeral, of the year.
….
Six o'clock.
The grey clouds had begun to dawn their black clothes but thirteen minutes prior, so as to blend in among the mourners. Their shapes deformed to fit their state of gloom.
They now bloated themselves, black and grey mixtures of puffiness spilling over into each other. They had now lost control of their weeping. Their works of water spilled out of them and fell down to earth, sliding off of the black umbrellas of every Addams who had brought one, descending down the weeping willow trees, and falling flat upon the gravestones of the long-since buried deceased.
Soon -as they had promised their mother of darkness not to disturb her reading- they would begin to howl.
Cacaesthesia had fallen over the ever-silent Addams clan, as Mrs. Addams concluded the reading of the eulogy.
"And in dying slowly, do we already depart? Enclosed in morbidity, does one truly take the vow, in health, as such? Tearful skies give us pause on this day of mourning. Of which, we should somehow see through eyes, not our own, that beauty can exist through affliction. It did, and it died. But let it not be forgotten."
Morticia stepped down from the small, black podium at which she recited the eulogy, then. And she joined her husband in the sea of black.
….
Wednesday held up a hand.
They knew their rolls. They had gone over the plan one hundred times.
It was now time for the viewing of the body.
The plan was absolutely perfect: Wednesday was to give the signal for Thing, who was lying in the coffin, disguised as Cousin Cordelia's hand. As soon as Thing got the signal, he would pop up. It would send Aunt Vindetta -whom was eighty-five with an anxiety disorder and heavy addiction to hallucinogenic drugs- into a panic. She would fall backwards, crashing into the blood fountain. Blood would thus, splatter all over a couple of guests and look like an Addams-version of the prom scene from Carrie.
The plan was absolutely perfect. Was.
What the three ambitious children didn't count on was the plan working as terribly as a broken Rube Goldberg contraption. But that was, to their dismay, what happened.
"Ready?" Wednesday whispered behind the gravestone of Uncle Imar.
Scarlett hid behind the gravestone adjacent to Pugsley, who was hiding between the two girls.
Wednesday wanted him within her view.
Scarlett nodded.
"One…" Pugsley began to count down. "Two…" And just as he was about to reach three-
Scarlett's hand flashed the okay sign, high enough for Thing to notice; yet low enough so none of the mourners would see it.
The chain of events that played out after were something out of a terrible movie (comedy or drama, one was never able to tell).
Upon observing what Thing perceived to be the signal, he leapt up out of the coffin… early. Approaching the coffin was indeed Aunt Vindetta. However, there were three funeral-goers in front of her, and two behind her. She had a full-on panic attack, worse than the youngsters or poor Thing could have imagined. In a complete and utter state of terror, Aunt Vindetta fell into all five people. This caused them all to end up in a cluster, fighting to untangle and calm down the uncontrollable Aunt Vindetta. The hoard crashed into the blood fountain, and blood splattered everywhere. It was on everybody within fifteen feet of the fountain… including the body of Cousin Cordelia.
The children froze.
Everyone froze. That is, until they began to grow angry, seeking out the perpetrators of the outrageous incident.
Funerals were serious business in the Addams family. The prank would have been looked and laughed at as just that, had blood not been splattered onto the body of Cousin Cordelia.
Respect for the bodies of the dead before being placed in their eternal resting place was of the highest importance at an Addams funeral.
And the body of Cousin Cordelia had certainly not been respected.
Wednesday was furious, and she enragedly glared at Scarlett. "We went over this one hundred times!" She yelled.
Scarlett, hearing the venom in her voice and the upset from the mourners, knew she had done something wrong. She looked down at her shoes (looking anywhere but the fountain). "I'm sorry." Her voice was barely audible.
"Sorry?" Wednesday looked out at the family. Soon, they would figure out it had been the children who had done it.
She would be more than happy to throw Scarlett in the middle of a pentagram and sacrifice her to Cousin Cordelia. Although she knew that it would not be requested.
"I believe we know who the… instigators, of this incident are."
Wednesday heard Regina's voice say from a few feet away.
If so much as a drop of blood had gotten on her clothes, surely she would not hesitate to anger. Would she? It was a stain on the new clothes, but it was also blood. She was a vampire. Vampires…
Regina (merely a drop of blood having gotten on the heel of her shoe) casually examined her nails, then pointed toward Uncle Imar's gravestone. "Children are products of their environment, after all. The ring leader was likely that Wednesday." She sighed. "Too much like her mother, that child is."
Each of the three children were dragged out from their hiding places, and placed next to the black podium where the eulogy was read.
Gomez and Morticia shared an alarmed expression, and looked from the children to the body of their deceased cousin.
No blood on their persons, and knowing what needed to be done; the pair proceeded to walk to the podium.
Witnessing the hosts of the funeral at the podium, the Addams clan and Regina took their seats before the podium.
Morticia cast a single glance at three women still standing over the children; and they immediately sat down with the rest of the mourners.
Gomez adjusted the microphone, looking over at the children one last time before turning to look out at the funeral-goers. "Kids." He gave a small chuckle, attempting to ease the tension.
Morticia decided it best to speak when no one laughed. "I understand you're all very concerned about the treatment body of Cordelia Addams, and rightly so." She said.
Gomez took his turn. "However, this was merely a harmless prank gone wrong." He explained. "The children intended no disrespect toward the body of their cousin. Rather, they were trying to have well-intentioned, unclean fun and things got out of hand."
"Precisely." Morticia put a hand through her husband's. "I will hold a ritual over Cordelia's grave tonight, to make amends with her."
Every Addams in attendance gave a solemn nod or a firm clap in approval of the couple's handling of the incident.
The ringing of a gong sounded.
In the ballroom, the orchestra began to play.
….
The skies had lost control of their weeping when the orchestra began to play.
Whether it was a waltz, or some other slow song, representative of that gloomy Sunday; the clouds wept until they howled. And even then, their tears fell.
Their howling shook the trees that they once used to catch their tears. Their grief was a force strong enough to produce a ground-shaking bellow. They often blinked; and that was a light, bright enough to flash bolt-like streaks of purple across the night sky.
They had no consolation. For nothing of their sorrow could be heard over the orchestra.
Cigar between two fingers (though it was almost completely forgotten by now), Gomez held his gothic beauty in his arms as they danced; looking into her eyes, all others present, becoming completely nonexistent as he did.
"You read that eulogy beautifully, mi encantadora." He brought her hand to his lips.
"Merci, mon amour." Morticia purred.
"And you handled that situation with the children, marvelously." Gomez complimented.
"Thank you." Morticia smirked. "So did you."
"Not quite as well as you did." Gomez admitted, letting out a laugh.
"Well, you were right." Morticia smiled and pressed closer against him. "Children will be children."
"Of course." Gomez stood by his previous claim. "And I am thrilled beyond what anyone could imagine," He began. "That Wednesday is turning out so much like you."
He planted a passionate kiss on her lips as the song that had once played, faded into another.
….
Wednesday had dragged her brother away from Scarlett as soon as the gong had sounded.
Scarlett hadn't gone after them.
Since the incident with their prank gone wrong -as their father had explained it- they had kept a low profile. They were not going to risk running into an unpleased member of the family (not that any of them were particularly close with Cousin Cordelia). That, and they were tremendously embarrassed.
"Why do you think Scarlett hasn't come to sneak around with us?" Pugsley asked his sister, in a disheartened tone.
The children had avoided all members of the family by hiding behind different instruments of the orchestra or sneaking away to the vacant (apart from a few boxes and miscellaneous pieces of furniture), spare room directly above the ball room, if they desired solitude.
Looking around the empty room, Wednesday sighed. "I don't know." Speaking further, she went on to say, "And I don't care."
"You're mad at her?" Pugsley played with a small pair of scissors as he sat on the wood floor of the spare room.
"Yes." Wednesday figured there was no point in hiding it. She looked down at the child-sized scissors in her brother's hands. "Those scissors aren't fit for a one-year-old. Mother and father would be ashamed."
"Sorry." Pugsley threw the scissors down. "Are we going to go back downstairs?"
"If you want." It didn't matter to Wednesday at this point.
"Oh." Pugsley's eyes were downcast.
He missed her. He missed Scarlett.
Wherever she was, he hoped she wasn't ignoring them because she was guilty.
It was an accident.
….
As the orchestra's tempo switched to a different tune, the black-clad clan of mourners changed their positions to fit the style of dance.
Gomez kissed his black angel, and after he did, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
Morticia felt her heat-level rise, on its own, for the first time in her life.
Gomez turned around to find Regina, standing before him.
"Regina." Gomez greeted and took a puff of his cigar.
"Hello, dear." Regina didn't meet the eyes of the woman beside him. "May I cut in?" Sha asked.
Morticia's hands folded, elegantly (though it was made to look that way, inside it was designed to save her from choking the death out of the woman before her).
Gomez told her he wouldn't. He said- big picture.
Big picture.
Nearly inhaling when he should have done the opposite, he hesitantly agreed. "Of course."
He kissed Morticia, and in his eyes was a look that screamed apology.
But she barely recognized apology when Regina whisked him away to get into position.
She nodded slowly to herself. So, she thought. This is how he intends to play it. I don't know what he's doing. But I know this, is how he intends to play it.
Morticia memorized the spot where Regina and her husband had found their place. But she would be damned if she stood and waited in hers.
She walked through the sea of black, only stopped by compliments from funeral-goers on what a beautiful eulogy she read. As she walked, she sought out one man who she had only spoken to twice: Damien Addams.
Gomez's second cousin, never married, and almost as big a cad as he was, back in his youth (only twenty years older than he used to be). Stereotypical, tall, dark and handsome. He smoked cigars, on occasion and drank red wine. He was more Italian than anything else. Most of all, ever since the day he had set eyes on her, he always had an interest in Morticia.
The minute Morticia had turned on her mysterious charm, it took not a moment for Damien to ask her to dance.
And to Damien's delighted astonishment, she accepted.
Damien led her to the floor. At least, he was under the impression he was leading her. Little was he aware, Morticia had directed him to the perfect area: right next to her husband and Regina, the want-to-be concubine (but she would never be).
The dance was slow, somewhat of a sensualized waltz. But neither Morticia nor Gomez paid any attention to the moves they were to pull on the floor (for they came as naturally as breathing).
Rather, they continuously stole glances at one another. The tension was unbearable.
Gomez stared at the woman in his second cousin's arms, and there was only lust burning in his eyes. He knew she was well aware of who that man was.
She had planned to cast glances at him every so often, and drive him mad with currently unobtainable physical passion, turning the vision before him into pain. She had carefully calculated her every movement, designed in the name of spite and desire.
She was making him jealous.
"Thank you for the dance." Regina's hand ran down Gomez's strong shoulder when the song ended.
"Thank you." Gomez replied, politely.
Seeing this, Morticia's insides clenched up.
Damien kissed her hand. "And thank you," He said. "For a most beautiful memory."
"It was my pleasure." Morticia responded.
Before anyone could do a thing more, the last gong sounded.
The funeral was coming to an end.
….
"Pugsley, something isn't right." Wednesday tried to explain that night, sitting on her younger brother's bed.
Her hair was brushed out, and she wore a long sleeved, black nightgown with matching slippers. No one could deny that she bared a great resemblance to her mother, if they had been paid to do so.
Pugsley wore a grey, short-sleeved pajama shirt and matching pajama shorts with faded white stripes covering them.
"Apart from the incident today, which was not an accident;" Wednesday asserted. "Do you remember when she told me that Máma sent for me?"
"Yea." Pugsley recalled.
When Wednesday left, they were alone together. It was… nice.
"She didn't." Wednesday told him.
"What do you mean?" Pugsley questioned, sitting on the edge of his bed.
"I told Máma that I was there and she couldn't have cared less." Wednesday explained. "Until later." She went on to say, "I said I was told she sent for me and she said that she didn't."
Pugsley shook his head, refusing to believe it. "Maybe she just forgot."
Wednesday scoffed, in sarcasm. "Oh, Scarlett forgot-"
"I meant Máma." Pugsley clarified, cutting her off.
Wednesday was in disbelief; not only at the fact that he had interrupted her, but also that he would accuse their grandmother of forgetfulness before thinking anything at all of Scarlett.
In his eyes, she could do no wrong.
He had it bad, very bad.
Wednesday now knew she would have to be on high alert.
It was apparent her brother was as blind as the bat he had fallen for.
….
Midnight.
Morticia and her amour had just come back into their bedroom. They had been undressing, slowly for the past two minutes now.
Morticia had come back a bit later, as she had to complete the ritual over Cousin Cordelia's grave.
Now, she stood near her vanity, removing her rings, while her husband fussed with his tie.
The door was locked, the tension in the bedroom contained within its expensive, gothic walls.
"That was no coincidence." Gomez shook his head, setting his tie down on the bed.
Morticia raised an eyebrow, beginning to untie her corset. "I'm sorry, mon cher. Did my dancing with someone else right in front of you get on your nerves?"
"Tish, you know I didn't want to do that." Gomez's fingers began to unbutton his suit jacket. "That was entirely different."
"How?" Morticia questioned, corset now undone. She set it on her vanity.
"It-" Gomez lied his jacket on the bed. He couldn't tell her, no matter how badly he wanted to. And God, did he want to. "I didn't do it to spite you, querida. I would never do that."
"No? And I suppose I would?" Morticia slipped out of her dress, now only clothed in her black bra, panties, tights and heels.
"You did." Gomez said and took off his undershirt. "If you didn't, then please explained to me how his lips ended up on your hand?"
Morticia grabbed her nightclothes from off of her dresser and removed her bra. "Somebody's jealous." Her tone was quiet.
Pants removed now, Gomez looked up. "What?"
"Nothing." Morticia smirked as she changed into her clothes for the night.
Clothed in only his burgundy pajama bottoms, Gomez stared at the vision before him that was his black angel.
Morticia, makeup off but still just as gorgeous, wore a completely black, lingerie-esque nightgown. It extended down to her knees, with flowing material that swept the floor. Lowcut in a dramatic V-neck with thin, black straps for sleeves. It was a beautiful, gothic piece in itself. But on her…
Morticia pushed her hair over her shoulder. "You promised me you would stay with me." Her voice was calm but had an upset edge.
"Tish, if I could have, I would have." Gomez would have given anything to be able to give her his reasons. To make her understand.
"You could have." Morticia stated.
"If that is the case, you could have easily declined Damien's proposal to dance." Gomez threw a hand up.
"I could have." Morticia told him. "But I didn't."
"I see." Gomez bit his lip, jealousy bubbling over. "He's almost as big a cad as I was, Morticia. The bastard doesn't even have a conscience! Hell, I ought to have killed the man years ago for what he did at our wedding! I saw the way he looked at you, he always lets those lips of his -that might I add, by now have likely kissed every woman in the city of Mockrage- linger on your hand for far too long!" Each step he took was filled with passion and his hands flew with every word. "But -the fool- I let him live!" He pressed a hand to his forehead.
Morticia raised an eyebrow, unable to help the sly smile playing on her pale lips. "Jealous, mon cher?"
Gomez moved closer to her. "Yes." He growled. He looked, intensely into her dark eyes. "Insanely jealous. When he touched you, all I wanted to do was rip his throat out. More than that, I wanted to break away and take you in my arms…" He began, and walked closer with each word. "hold you and let my lips leave a devoted, very willing, passionate trail of slavery up your arm."
Morticia watched that jealous vein protrude in his forehead. Amused and admittedly, completely aroused at the state she could bring him to just by dancing with another man, she sat sideways at her vanity stool, smirking at him.
Upon noticing this, Gomez stared at her; lust and jealousy burning in his eyes. "Did I mention that I wanted to disembowel my cousin for even looking at you that way? He put his hands on your hips. He pressed against you. He looked at you with something in his eyes, Tish…" He kneeled before her, beads of perspiration dripping from his forehead. "You're mine."
Morticia's expression (all but those eyes of hers) remained the same but her tone was laced with vulnerability. "Well, perhaps I need a reminder."
"Cara mia…" Gomez's hands gripped the top of her legs, gently but tight enough for her to truly understand he was there. "You know you are the only woman I have ever, could ever, will ever, love. I love you, my darling. My Tish, I love you."
Morticia was weak at the knees. "Je t'aime, mon amour."
Gomez kissed her hand, passionately.
"Now... get up." Morticia's command was ordered in the most sultry of tones. "Remind me just who you belong to."
Gomez groaned. No further command needed, he grabbed her and pinned her against their bedroom wall. Holding her arms above her head, he purposefully restrained her and kissed her, passionately.
Their tongues danced as they wished they could have before, and Gomez used one of his hands to make-out with her as hard as he possibly could. He reached behind her and grabbed the back of her lingerie-dress, lifting it over her head between fervent kisses and declarations of devotion and tearing it off.
Morticia's hands were now free, and they grabbed onto her amour. They ran over his hair and clawed at his neck. With each kiss she exchanged with her oxygen, she was transported into a bleak paradise.
She felt Gomez's hands grab onto her bottom, and she instinctively gripped his shoulders and wrapped her legs around his torso.
He held them there, tight and protective. And skillfully, he managed to walk to the bed.
Morticia intentionally caused them to fall over backwards onto their sheets, so she landed on top of him.
Fully situating themselves onto the bed, Gomez grinned, pants now discarded and gripped her hips.
Morticia's lips crashed into his. She bit his lip, sensually and continued downward, stopping at his neck. She steadied his strong hands on her slim waist, and sucked his neck, biting and drawing blood (as he so often did do her… she admitted, she craved the taste of him, all of him).
She licked the hot, ruby liquid as it trickled out of the small wound and down his neck.
Pressed hard against him, and hands on his shoulders, she kissed him again, deeply passionate.
Gomez adored her, everything about her. He loved her when she was under him and when she was on top, tasting of a mix of herself (which he would never, ever get enough of) and his blood.
He groaned as she continued downward and pleasured him.
"Cara mia…" He was able to get out. "Tish…"
Soon, he had reached his climax. And the sound of her amour crying out her name was something Morticia could never get enough of. Especially the reminder… the reminder it gave her: he was hers.
Morticia met his lips once more, and when she did, her husband flipped her onto her back, now on top of her.
He worshipped her, and desperately needed to feel her surrounding him.
Morticia grabbed onto him as he entered her.
The lovers cried out one another's names into the dark of midnight, in blissful unhappiness (as they adored to call it) and passion.
By the time the clock struck 3:00 am, Gomez was holding his black angel, tightly in his arms.
He stroked her hair, and planted a kiss on her forehead before watching her beautiful eyes shut, allowing her to drift into much-needed sleep.
Gomez, needing to say one last thing to her before giving into sleep himself, planted a kiss on her lips and whispered: "Goodnight, mi hermosa diosa."