Part three: Insomnia

Wednesday woke the to sound of rain pounding on her window and the reassuring scraping of the old dead oak in the front yard against her bedroom window. The sun was cloaked behind dark clouds, so it was only when she checked her alarm clock that she knew it was 8am in the morning. Feeling thoroughly rested after her traumatic incident the day before, Wednesday stretched and climbed out of bed. "It's amazing," she thought, "what a good night's sleep can do for a body." She almost smiled with the sheer lightness, before remembering herself and the fact that she was deeply opposed to any kind of smiling - save for the occasional maniacal grin, ironic smirk, or a sarcastic sneer. The lightness of her restful sleep faded quickly, however, as she remembered the torture Pugsley inflicted on her and the burning need for retribution. Minutes passed as she sat on the edge of her bed pondering the best way to get back at Pugsley, and, for the first time in her life, Wednesday had no plan. Her mind was a complete blank. Thoroughly irritated, she threw on a comfortable old black hoodie and went downstairs for some breakfast, hoping that a little nourishment might kick start her vengeful imagination.

Down the hall, Pugsley was feeling the effects of his all-nighter. In defense against a possible attack by his sister overnight, Pugsley had kept himself awake with a cocktail of Red Bull and espresso, not to mention the amusement of his chemistry set, assorted books on autopsy procedures, and his lengths of various thicknesses of chain, rope, and wire – to practice escaping from whatever binding his siblings might put him in next. All in all, it had been a pleasant night. But now that morning had broken, he was feeling the effects of too much caffeine, too little sleep, and a gnawing fear that whatever Wednesday cooked up next might actually be the death of him. Pugsley knew he had REALLY gotten to his sister. He was incredibly proud of sheer trauma he had inflicted her and the brilliance of his plan. It was definitely the best torture either of them had come up, ever. However, being such, Pugsley was sure Wednesday would not let it stand. Her retribution would be swift and likely immensely painful. As much as Pugsley felt excited by that prospect, he was also scared stiff. So when he left his room to go down for breakfast, he moved stealthily and warily.

At the breakfast table, Morticia, Gomez, and Pubert were already enjoying Mama's newest creation, Elderberry and Mayapple Cobbler with Yak's milk ice cream on top. Pubert was amusing himself by trying to toss spoonfuls of the ice cream into Cleopatra's mouth (for lack of a better word) from across the room. Cleopatra would dive for each glob, frequently missing and wrapping herself around Lurch's arm or neck as he poisoned the other plants in the conservatory. Pugsley walked in the room just in time to take a particularly large glob right in the face.

"Ugh!" Pugsley exclaimed, jumping about 20 feet before realizing it was only ice cream and not some deadly poison thrown at him by Wednesday. Wiping the cream from his face, he said, "Hey, what's this for?"

Pubert was already bounding out of his chair to offer a napkin to Pugsley. "So sorry, old chap," said Pubert in the manner of his father, "You just so happened to cut of Cleopatra. That glob was for her."

"Oh," said Pugsley, "Sorry Cleopatra." Still looking rather dazed from his near heart attack and his sleepless night, Pugsley moved to sit down at the table. Lifting his head from his stupor, Pugsley noticed that both his parents were staring rather intently at him. "Mother? Father? Is something wrong?"

"Well, to be honest, Pugsley, old man," said Gomez hesitantly, "I have to say you're looking rather ghoulish this morning."

"I am?" Pugsley asked, "Well, I didn't get much sleep last night."

"Well, dear," Morticia added, "I have to say the look really becomes you, but it seems to have dulled your reflexes a bit. You've never missed a projectile blob from your brother before. Perhaps you'd better find a different way to attain this level of beauty and charm."

"Yes, Mother," Pugsley agreed. "I think I will try and get a bit more sleep."

"Good idea, darling. We'll wake you for lunch," said Morticia, slightly concerned.

Instead of heading to his room, Pugsley headed outside to Uncle Fester's old tree house. It was easily defensible and surrounded by a minefield Uncle Fester put in to discourage robins from hanging around. From there he could set a few traps and most likely a few hours of sleep without worrying about Wednesday.

Back in the breakfast room, Wednesday was grumbling about her empty head as her parents were whispering about their concerns about poor Pugsley's health.

"I just don't know Morticia," Gomez argued, "it's just not natural for a boy that age to be missing projectile blobs. And he saw it coming from across the room."

"Gomez, dear, calm down. It's never happened before. And you saw how tired Pugsley looked. With a little sleep he'll be as rotten as new," Morticia countered.

"Perhaps you are right, querida. We will wait and see," Gomez conceded.

By this point Wednesday had settled herself into her usual seat. With feigned indifference she asked, "Something wrong with Pugsley?"

Her parents glanced at each other slyly before Morticia answered, "The poor dear seems to have gotten little sleep last night. How did you sleep, darling?"

Never moving her eyes from her cobbler, for fear of revealing the maniacal glint in her eyes from the plan forming itself in her mind, Wednesday answered in monotone, "Like the dead."

Another Addams was suffering from insomnia, but for a very different reason. Thing found himself unable to rest and utterly lifeless as he waited for correspondence from his beloved Lady Fingers. It'd been years now that she had been abroad with Cousin Millie (that is, Princess Millicent von Schlepp) and the only contact he'd had with her was through handwriting. But Lady Fingers' letter had never been delayed this long. Her response should have come a week ago. Thing imagined the worse-case scenarios he could think of – his lady love must have been hand-napped or perhaps she got trapped in the glove compartment of a stranger's vehicle or was somehow caught in a cookie jar. Thing's imagination ran wild with the possible misfortunes that could have kept his Lady Fingers from writing to him. And so he spent the nights pacing the floors, or starting new letters to send to Lady Fingers, or browsing the Internet to try and find a way to contact her. All to no avail. For several nights now, Thing continued to wait for Lady Fingers, and he did not sleep.

Across town, it seemed the insomnia of another Addams was cured. It seemed that marriage suited Fester nicely. Instead tossing and turning in his sleep every night, as he had for years, Fester now found himself sleeping soundly. It may be due the fact that his wife found many new and creative ways to tire him out before bed, or, at least in part, due to the fact that Dementia typically hit him over the head with a club after their goodnight kiss. Either way, the black circles around Fester's eyes had faded substantially (and the black and blue lumps on his head continued to darken). This new pattern was just one of the many blessings of his new, married life, and he was pretty sure he'd never tire of it.