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thegreyjester · 3 days ago

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On Wednesday's, We Kill (Wednesday/American Psycho) Fanfic

So, like, I already posted this on ao3 and on fanfiction.net, but I figured I might as well use this account and post something. Plus I edited it a bit cause I wasn't satisfied with what I published on ao3 and fanfiction.net. I already plan to make a second chapter, but I wanted to see if this is a fic to make more than just that. Comments are super appreciated.

Fandom: Wednesday (TV 2022), American Psycho (2000)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Relationships: Patrick Bateman/Wednesday Addams (Platonic, still a bit indecisive about it.)

Additional Tags: Patrick Bateman & Wednesday Addams Patrick Bateman Wednesday Addams Tyler Galpin Lucas Walker (Wednesday TV) Jonah (Wednesday TV) Mentioned Noble Walker Mentioned Donovan Galpin - CharacterLarissa Weems Carter (Wednesday TV) Platonic Relationships Ambiguous/Open Ending Patrick Bateman is an Assholeinternally Violent Thoughts Obsessive Behavior Existential Crisis Internal Conflict Unreliable Narrator Patrick Bateman is at Fault Wednesday Addams is Bad at Feelings Lucas Walker Tries Barista Tyler Galpin Character Study

Summary: “But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve. For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.” - Iago from William Shakespeare's play, "Othello."

A self-loathing, narcissistic loser meets his match with a stuck-up, unlikeable goth.

“Patrick Bateman,” he offered her his hand, extending it over the table.

She didn’t take it.

“I didn’t ask.” She replied, her tone lifeless, as if she was going through the motions. No, as if she was tolerating something beneath her. Detached. Disinterested.

Comments: I was looking up, both on Fanfiction.net and archiveofourown.org for fanfics on Wednesday and onAmerican Psycho. And imagine my surprise when no one written about a crossover for both of em! Well, there is on ao3 but that's a multi-crossover, so that don't count! So, I tried my hand! I love the show Wednesday, and I love American Psycho. So, here is what I written!

Word count: 6,500+

Fic under the linebreak.

──────◇──────

“Listen, people like me and you, we’re different. We’re original thinkers, intrepid outliers in this vast cesspool of adolescence. We don’t need these inane rites of passage to validate who we are.”

— Wednesday Addams

"It is hard for me to make sense on any given level. Myself is fabricated, an aberration. I am a non-contingent human being. My personality is sketchy and unformed, my heartlessness goes deep and is persistent."

— Patrick Bateman

I’ve familiarized myself with a bunch of fools. Idiots, if I was being honest. I’d call them slow if I wasn’t certain that theyweren't. Maybe. They’re just… existing, coasting around with no ambition. Completely unaware of how limiting their lives are and are going to be. It’s like going to a zoo and watching the animals, utterly predictable. Dull and tedious.

If it was a year ago I wouldn’t have even bothered interacting with them, viewing them as utterly inconsequential. But, here I am, surrounded by them, a clique of losers by the names Jonah, Carter, and Lucas. I only bothered to remember the latter’s last name, he served a purpose, if only due to his familial connection. The rest of them are just decorative. If that was the right word. Decorative. Maybe "detritus" is better.

Jonah, a bit of a loudmouth, is the picture perfect example of a middle-class nobody. His family is bland and utterly content in their mediocrity. He doesn’t matter. The only thing he has going for him is his height, being somewhere around six feet. I’d compare him to a goldfish, maybe? No, a dolphin is more fitting—in particular a cruel one. Actually, aren’t all Dolphins cruel? I vaguely recall that they torture smaller fishes, slapping them around or suffocating them for the fun of it. He’s somewhat clever, only somewhat for these inane topics. Otherwise, he is utterly unintelligent.

Carter, on the other hand, is a completely different breed, an utter mess. He comes from a low-income background. In simpler words, he’s poor. His family, his grandparents on his father's side, are avid gamblers. Piss poor ones at that, managing to rake up a large debt. Caused him to get a chip on his shoulder. He, like the rest of them, works at Pilgrim World. He’s the angry one. In the sense that he snaps whenever someone insults his family or friends. Or make snide remarks about his anger issues. Wouldn’t know how to choose a fight, he lacks the intelligence to do so. It more or less leads him to getting his ass kicked more often than not.

Then, there was Lucas. He was different. He’s soft. Easily influenced. If his friends told him to jump off a bridge, he’d probably do it without hesitation. Follows the crowd type of guy, kind of like him being an extension of his friends rather than his own person. A people’s pleaser, a kiss ass through and through. His lack of backbone is glaringly obvious. There’s only one reason why I interact with him and his friends. Lucas’s father, Noble Walker.

Noble Walker. Former Sheriff—the current mayor of this hick town, Jericho. The kind of guy who’s always winning elections since... what, 1991? Charismatic, sure. He runs Pilgrim World— some tacky tourist attraction, chargingridiculous prices for the tickets. Managed to make a stronghold of employment opportunities. He holds the monopoly of the labor force in Jericho through Pilgrim World. Employs everyone from teenagers and retirees. Pays them just enough to make them feel like they’re not being exploited. What was it again- a little under twenty bucks per hour? At least it beats the federal minimum wage, but it’s hardly impressive. He still has to rely on funding from Nevermore.

Lucas Walker is a means to an end. His father is the connection I need to cultivate. An alumnus of both Phillips Exeter Academy and Harvard University, Noble Walker’s letter of recommendation would be invaluable. It would enhance my application to Exeter. It would cement my application and spot at Harvard. Of course, I’m already a legacy student, but having an Alumni recognize and endorse me? An Alumni who fosters various social programs and has a long-standing political career, with consistent electoral success? Someone who supports both of those schools' outdated values? They'd eat the ever living shit out of that. So, I have to tolerate these people. Grit my teeth and hang out with my so-called friends, even if they are dressed in those ridiculous, appalling, garish Pilgrim uniforms that make them look like an out-of-place extra in some bad historical reenactment. A small sacrifice, really. A tiny one, that will pay off well in the future.

We were currently situated roughly a block away from the Weathervane, specifically, loitering around the Farmer’s Market. Jonah stood, cracking jokes that are barely coherent to both us and any passerby farmer as if it were a sitcom no one asked for. Carter was sulking against a white wall outside an auction house. Lucas—bless him—his head ping-ponging between Carter to Jonah, nodding like an overeager puppy as he heard them rant and blather. One of the farmers, in an act, I could only assume as misguided charity, insisted we take some chairs instead of sitting on the ground. Jonah and Carter refused, of course. I, being the only person here with a modicum of intelligence, accepted. Lucas followed my lead. Naturally.

Jonah clasped his hands together, grinning like he'd just discovered fire. “Why did the pilgrim go to the party?” Jonah had asked before pausing, waiting for dramatic effect. None arrives.

I knew better, it wasn’t a simple question. This clique followed a pattern. Jonah would crack some lame joke, the attention-seeker he was, and Carter would land a sarcastic remark, and by the end, Lucas would laugh while trying to add on to the joke.

Carter rolls his eyes at the question. It’s a question that could’ve been found in one of those corny joke books. “I don’t know, why?” Carter obliges for some inane reason.

I could practically see Jonah’s eyes light up, he leans in, enthusiastically landing the punchline. “Because he was toast!” He laughs, so hard he almost doubles over, as if he were some kind of comedian.

Carter lets out a snort, somewhat amused by the joke, he smirked. “That’s a good one, Jonah. Real highbrow stuff. You’re practically Shakespeare.” He was sarcastic, I would be too. That punchline was stale. Jonah, however, is unbothered by Carter’s sarcasm. He still laughs— it died down to a chuckle.

Lucas laughed too, before deciding to join in. “... B-Because he was snrk… on a roll!” He was clearly proud of his joke, being able to find it amusing. Both Carter and Jonah chuckle at that.

I chuckle too, if only out of sheer obligation. Inside, I feel my soul withering.

Jonah, noticing that I wasn’t actively participating in this meaningless conversation, decided to direct his attention towards me. He threw a curveball. “Hey, Patrick,” Jonah had stated, his grin somehow turning more obnoxious than before, if that was even possible. No one else acknowledged such, so it must've been just me. “What do you think about the Outcasts? Y’know, those freaks at Nevermore?” He gestured vaguely in the direction where he assumed Nevermore Academy was located at.

Outcasts. Freaks. Monsters. Mutants. Whatever they are called. Apparently, Nevermore Academy houses those of some bullshit, absurd, and self-important people with superhuman abilities straight out of a bad paranormal fiction novel. To be frank, I honestly couldn’t be bothered to care. I would not, of course, interact with any of them willingly. I had better things to focus on than.

Given the lectures taught in Jericho High School, various "Outcasts”—they call themselves that? Utterly pathetic—can vary in their level of danger. It’s why Nevermore sends chaperones when their students go to Jericho. Food, clothes, entertainment— anything they could want, they had to be monitored while getting such. For "normies" safety, of course. I had better things to focus on. The only thing that mattered, my future at Exeter and towards Harvard.

But, of course, Jonah would be the one to bring them up. I wouldn’t be surprised if he got off from speaking derogatorily about outcasts. Some twisted pleasure or kink. I glance toward Carter, he smirks, waiting for my response. I then glanced at Lucas, he looked hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure whether to encourage or stop this conversation.

I let out an overly dramatic sigh. A practiced smirk forming on my face. I lean more into my chair, interlocking my fingers together and placing them behind my head. I had to settle into a role. The reasonable one. I gave them a small shrug. “I don’t know,” I managed to say casually while offering an easy shrug. “I guess I haven’t thought about it.” A deflection, a non-answer. My behavior and attitude was carefree, they wouldn’t be able to discern my true feelings, beliefs, and perspective without probing further. Jonah wanted to see my reaction, to see where I stood. I offered an answer that said absolutely nothing while making it sound definitive. It was a skill. Really.

Jonah’s grin falters. He wanted to hear a ridicule, a joke at some outcast expense. “C’mon man. You’re seriously telling me you don’t have an opinion? They’re freaks. All of ‘em.”

“Yeah,” Carter added in, seeking to support Jonah’s stance. “Bunch of weirdos. Like, you hear about that fish guy at Nevermore?” I had an inkling of understanding who he was talking about before he added on, “Gills, man. Actual gills. What does he even do in the winter? Hibernate in a tank?” He said while nudging Jonah.

Jonah snickers. His grin returns. “Maybe he wears a scarf to keep ‘em warm.” He mimes wearing a scarf before laughing. “What was his name Bent?”

“Kent,” Lucas corrects, before adding on. “I mean… yeah, they are kind of weird.” He chimed with a laugh. It was slightly more forced and hesitant than his previous one. Utterly pathetic. He glances at me, as if asking me to talk before our conversation derails to more mocking comments.

I decided to. “Look,” I said, trying and successfully getting the attention of the two. I had an easygoing smirk. “They don’t bother me, and I’m not about to waste my time bothering them. Live and let live, right?” I managed to pull out that proverb from nowhere. Not that they needed to know.

Jonah snorts, most likely agreeing partially to what I said. “You’re no fun.” It doesn’t stop him from being slightly disappointed. Carter let out a grunt in agreement, Lucas seemed relieved.

“I’m heading to the Weathervane,” I got up from my chair. It was best to change subjects. I was beyond bored with this entire conversation. “Bagels? Donuts? My treat.”

Jonah perks up immediately, his disappointment vanishing. “Get me a bagel. Cream cheese. Don’t skimp out on me Bateman!”

“Those powdered donuts.” Carter said, before snapping his fingers, elaborating further, “The ones with the cherry filling.”

Lucas contemplates, having an internal dilemma before saying hesitantly, “Uh… a chocolate donut, if they have it. Please.”

I nodded, before flashing them a smile. “Got it, I’ll text you if they don't have what you guys wanted,” I said before turning and heading towards the café. I begin walking away, before jogging. Escaping this pointless conversation.

──────◇──────

The Weathervane Café was stifling... It was suffocating. Intolerable. Revolting. The idle chatter from the patrons was exhausting and adding to my discomfort. Not necessarily because it was loud, but because it was meaningless. Like a fly that buzzes around incessantly and relentlessly despite being swatted at.

The idle conversation was excruciating.

The only thing that made up for it was the warmth, it made the place more bearable compared to being outside. Mostlikely due to it being packed like a hotbox. My patience ran thin, my regret offering to pay becoming evident. A momentary lapse in judgment, surely.

I stepped inside, closing the door behind me. I could already smell the aroma of cheap espresso. It was bitter. The hygiene of the inhabitants here was the only reason why I wasn’t pinching my nose. They managed to take care of themselves. Most of them, at least.

As I made my way forward, I felt someone bump into me. No apology, just a half-hearted grunt before they brushed past. I glanced at the offender—a man who wore an ill-fitting blazer, it wasn't even buttoned up all the way. Cheap wool. He wore such a basic plaid shirt under it, that screamed "clearance aisle." Probably bought from a discount dingy outlet store, likely a two-for-one sale. My lip twitched. I bit back the urge to tell him plaid was out of season. I'd bet he wouldn't be able to tell the difference between Prada and polyester. Uneducated half-wit who doesn't deserve fashion advice.

And the smell—Christ the smell. He reeked of utter horse shit. My nose scrunched involuntarily and I pursed my lips to not give an audible gag. I decided to focus on something else, if only to distract myself from the stench.

My gaze locked onto the line in front of me. I let out a small sigh, the line was long. Some dipshit managed to fix the espresso machine, so now people were flocking towards it to get their caffeine fix. Junkies.

I pulled out my phone–an iPhone. Apple. Not one of those clunky Samsungs or gaudy Androids that tech-obsessed nerds clung to, claiming it to be a functionally better choice. I wasn’t a plebeian who would choose a model that screams mediocrity. I wasn't someone who paraded with a technically 'superior' device. An iPhone was better, it actually had taste. Anyway, I check the time.

I glanced at the screen. 2:14 PM.

I ran my fingers through my hair before slipping my phone back into my pocket. I could wait six minutes. Maybe even seven if I was feeling charitable. Provided that should be enough time for the line to thin out.

Turning my head behind me, I notice the lack of people. Small mercy. Likely it would just be this line. My gaze shifts to see if there is an unoccupied table. All of the tables were occupied by the locals. Their attire was borderline offensive. Flannels, denim, and—God help me—hiking boots. Hiking boots. Indoors. It was as if they, for some reason, collectively decided to dress in clothes from an REI clearance sale. Offensive.

My eyes landed on one table. Unlike the others, it was nearly empty except for only one occupant. A girl.

Her attire was unmistakably a uniform. It consisted of a white dress shirt, it possessed a high, stiff turndown collar. It was tucked in—neatly, admittedly—under a black sweater. Neither too tight nor too loose, a decent choice, I suppose, but not entirely remarkable.

Then, there was the tie. A black tie, it was fastened, yes, but worn like a tie. Still, the knot was crooked, it made the tie look bloated, fat, and shaped disproportionately. Overly bulky. It looked off, the length of the tie hung at such an awkward angle. But then again, it was from Saint Laurent—I'd recognize that fabric anywhere. Designer brand, sure, but it was an insult to let it be worn by that. A simple tie clip would have sufficed, it would have corrected this flaw. Easily. It would've kept this unruly mess in place. Would've corrected this imbalance and made the outfit look more cohesive. The black sweater would've provided the perfect amount of cover for it. It would keep her ineptitude hidden, concealing her mistake. But, of course, she hadn't bothered to correct it.

The blazer, though. That was something else. Familiar as well—likely Saint Laurent as well. Customized. Tailored, likely for some sort of attempt at individuality. An attempt to seem unique. The stripes that should've been a vivid indigo, or maybe blue, even purple depending on the lighting, were now a muted black and a dull gray. It stripped aways its potential for a halfhearted attempt at originality. Where was the flavor? Subtletly. At least be subtle.

And then, there was the backpack. Judging by the buckled shoulder straps, she was wearing a backpack while sitting down. A student. It was obvious—her uniform all but yelled it. The monochrome crest on her blazer's left chest pocket confirmed it. Nevermore Academy.

The embroidered alma motto, "Unitas est invicta," what I had been told meant "Unity is invincible." An Outcast. Her attempt at customization was hardly something to applaud, just a shoddy attempt at defiance that fell woefully short of any real statement.

It was hard to dismiss how much shorter than him she was. Even while sitting down.

She was small. Tiny, even. I am taller than her, I was certain of that. I estimated her to be around 5’1". A head shorter compared to me, at 5'9". A midget in comparison.

Her skin was pale. Her black hair was braided into pigtails, neatly but looked overly childish. They framed her face, being pinned behind her ears. Her fringe blocked her forehead. Her lips didn't have any gloss or lipstick. They were pressed into a thin line, her eyes were fixated unblinkingly on her coffee. Likely an espresso.

An axe. A hatchet to the face. Quick, precise, yet messy.

I imagine it in perfect clarity. Picture it.

I was standing over her, gripping a smooth, likely polished, wooden handle with both of my hands. Tightly. My knuckles turning white under the pressure, the wood digging into my skin. Irritating my palms.

Her head tilted up, those dark black eyes widening before blinking in surprise. No, those eyes would stay locked on me, unflinchingly.

I would heave the blade up, my muscles tensing, coiling. She stared. The blade comes down in a perfect arc. The blade meets the skull. It causes a satisfying crack. It splits her skull, her flesh and bone being unable to handle the pressure. I felt the impact just resonate in my arms.

The results would be immediate. Blood gushes. Erupts, painting the area, the booth in crimson. Warm and viscous, thick and red. It would spray across his face. It would soak and seep into the fabric of my blazer. Staining it. I could practically feel the droplets of blood staining my cheek. It drips down to my chin. The smell was immediate, so much so I could practically taste the metallic tang.

I would then yank the hatchet from her skull. One, or two tugs and it's free. The blade would be slick and red.

Her face would collapse onto the table. Making a meaty squelch. The impact would knock her coffee over, her blood mixing seamlessly with the expresso.

The café would, of course, explode in chaos. People trampled over themselves to the exit. A desperate attempt to live. There would be screams and cries. Chairs and tables would clatter, being pushed aside. It wouldn't be silent, but I didn't mind. I imagine that some would stay, shocked, utterly frozen at the sight. But my focus, my attention would be directed solely at her.

I would stand there, watching as the blood pools from the table and onto the floor.

I reached out, my index finger running across the table, tracing the mess—coffee mingled with a crimson pool—with my trembling finger. Drenching it. The mixture was cold, sticky.

I raised it to my lips, bringing it to my mouth. Tasting it. My mind was searching for it, the thrill, for the satisfaction I had expected to feel. The spark.

There was nothing.

I blink. I was standing in front of her. She was seated, alive, and composed. She was staring at me directly. Black met Hazel Brown. She was sipping her coffee.

“Excuse me,” I managed to say, my voice and tone were controlled. I shook my head to get rid of my thoughts. “Would you mind if I sit next to you? All of the seats are taken.” I managed to smile at her. It was practiced. Refined from years of careful effort.

She stares at me. Her eyes were completely focused on me. She was evaluating me. It was as if I was on a mortuary table, she was dissecting and scrutinizing me under a microscope.

She doesn’t respond immediately. Was she slow? Mute? Deaf? An utter waste of time if either. Before I was able to open my mouth again, she interrupted.

“Sit,” it grated my nerves.

Sit. She ordered. As if I were some kind of fucking dog. The audacity. She said it in a way that her tone and pitch were monotone and flat. Was she an emo? A goth? Undergoing a crappy phase? Great, fantastic, I have to deal with a poser. She slowly gestured towards the seat across from her.

I slid into the chair. The table dug momentarily into my sides.

“Patrick Bateman,” he offered her his hand, extending it over the table.

She didn’t take it.

“I didn’t ask.” She replied, her tone lifeless, as if she was going through the motions. No, as if she was tolerating something beneath her. Detached. Disinterested.

I felt my jaw tighten. Locking. I retracted my hand, instead opting to comb it through my hair. My smile is struggling to stay in place. It bristled. I bit my tongue to avoid causing a scene.

“Not a fan of small talk?” I tried to say in a manner that was considered teasingly, good-natured. My eyes flicker to her coffee cup. It was tiny, and made of white ceramic. It had the insignia of the café, a fox holding a rodent by the tail, proudly.

She took another sip from her coffee, a slow sip. The kind that made it clear she wasn't in a rush, before placing it down onto her ceramic coaster. “I’m not a fan of wasting time.”

She irritated me, but I refused to show it. Instead, I leaned into my seat, attempting to make myself more comfortable.

How would she look strangled?

I could see it clearly. Her pale and slender neck would be wrapped around a garrote. Piano wire? Nah, maybe a cable–a phone charger cord. Yeah, something a bit more common, easily accessible. It's not like I keep piano wire. Where the hell would I even get piano wire from?

I’d get up from the table, do a casual stretch, probably some shoulder stretch, before pulling out my phone, making a show of toying with it, then sighing. I would then walk up to another table, someone who is using their phone.

"Excuse me," I would say while approaching them. "Do you mind if I borrow a charger? My phone is dead, and I'm waiting on an important call."

I'd ask with a practiced smile. Trustworthy. I would be confident, I would have to establish some level of credibility. They would have to believe me, they would have to trust me. They'd nod, they'd accept. They would hand over a charger without so much as even glancing in my direction. Already returning to their conversation. Why wouldn’t they?

I don't bother to thank them. I would feel the charger in my hand, quickly removing the USB block, before discarding it behind me with a casual toss. My fingers, moving, curling around the ends of the wire.

My hands, being wrapped with the ends of the cable now, would give it a jerk. The wire, taut, showing no signs of breaking. Even as I increased the intensity of my tug. It wouldn't be bad. Great craftsmanship. Whoever manufactured this would deserve a raise.

I would move to the table behind her.

"Pardon me."

The people seated there would move, shift to the side without question. She wouldn't move. Not even tilting her head.

I would quickly, in one simple motion, loop the wire over her neck, and pulled.

The first noise I heard was a sharp inhale of breath. She would gasp. Her hands shooting to her throat, feeling the cord, trying to break it. But my pull would be unrelenting. She seemed the type to struggle. I could tell. At least when it came to strangulation.

She would scratch my hands. Her fingernails digging into my wrists—my perfect wrists. Sharp enough to sting. I would bleed. I winced, not from the pain. But at the thought, the sheer gall of her. The damage. I could already feel it. Scars. It would leave scars. Fucking Scars.

Did she have any idea of how much effort went into keeping my skin flawless? My skincare routine? Exfoliation, hydration, moisturization, and the careful use of SPF 50—even when it wasn't sunny. And here she was, running it without a second thought. Utterly thoughtless. Some people were so inconsiderate. My dermatologist would cry.

I would have to cover it up, of course. Concealer, maybe. Or Dermaflage. It would be such a pain to find the perfect shade, the perfect tone that would blend seamlessly into my skin. A nuisance. Absolutely annoying!

I didn't stop. The wire no doubt made an indent in her skin. Her mouth was opening and closing. Either attempting to gasp for air or choking out some words that were unintelligible. I'd bet my money on the latter. Broken syllables. Probablyeither my name or someone else's.

It didn't matter.

"Just fucking die. Die. Die. Die." I muttered. Almost conversationally to her. I held the cord steady. I saw and felt her thrash weaken. Her hands going limp. Her body failed her. It was beautiful.

The situation would require effort. But I didn't mind. I wouldn’t stop. Not until she stopped breathing. Not until the light in those eyes faded. They would get glassy. I'd hold it just a moment longer, just to make sure she wasn't faking it.

Her struggles slowed to a halt, her arms fell limp to her sides. I tightened my grip. Her head lolled forward. I sighed, loosening the wire—not out of guilt, of course, but out of exhaustion. Killing someone properly takes a lot of energy.

I could already feel the sweat beading on my forehead as I caught her by the pigtails, just to keep her face from slamming onto the table. No need to ruin the Weathervane's atmosphere.

I tilted her head from the left, then to the right. I was angling her face, studying it. Trying to find out what her good angles were in the light. She wasn't bad looking, being somewhat attractive, That was... irritating. I found it irritating.

Maybe I'd take a selfie with it. It would be blog-worthy.

Peace sign or no peace sign?

What would the caption be?

‘Captured in the perfect moment. #Chilling?'

Or maybe.

'Strangling the competition. #JustVibing.'

No. Too obvious.

Either way, it would likely go viral. She wouldn’t even have to try hard.

I hated that. I admired that.

I grabbed a napkin, before gently dabbing the corner of her mouth, wiping away any spittle from her mouth. Wiping her bloodless lips clean. A final gesture of respect. Or mockery. I couldn't be sure which.

“Are you going to keep staring at me, or are you just planning my demise?”

The girl’s voice had snapped me away from my fantasy and back to my one-sided conversation.

That question sent a shiver down my spine. Did she know? Was she able to discern my true nature? Could she read my mind as if it were a book? I didn’t recall any outcasts having an ability like telepathy or mind-reading. My heart was beating. Pounding. Both out of a sense of anticipation and out of frustration. I felt it. My world was unraveling. The thrill of the chase. The thought of getting caught.

It was fun.

I decided to lean forward. My elbows digging into the table. My hands, folded and placed beneath my chin. I proposed a genuine question. It could be seen as teasing though. “Would you like me to?”

I was smiling. It wasn't forced. Genuine.

She stared unblinking at me. She didn't flinch. She didn't laugh. She didn't roll her eyes. Her head tilted downward slightly. Her eyes continued to stare at me. I could make out her eyes more clearly. A dark color. But it wasn’t pitch black. I made out a hint of brown. I don't recall her blinking even once in this conversation. No involuntary twitch. No smile. Not even a grimace. She didn't break eye contact. It looked as if she didn't breathe.

“You’re interesting.” Her words were flat. Detached. It lacked any emotions I could perceive.

Interesting.

That word. How utterly neutral. It hung in the air, like smoke. It was weightless. It was insubstantial. It wasn't flattering. It wasn't demeaning. It held no positive or negative judgments. It wasn't anything.

I despise that. I despise her for that.

But I was also captivated. I couldn't read her. I couldn't understand her. John Locke believed that we came into the world empty, as blank slates. That we are shaped by experience. Cause, effect, and behavior painting our canvas.

B.F. Skinner added onto that with association. Everything we develop is shaped through stimuli through rewards or punishment. It gives us experience, forging behavioral patterns. Pavlov's dog salivates. Fire teaches us not to touch. Behavior, Attitude, and Consequences. Behaviors are learned and reinforced based on the consequences of those actions. It was logical.

But she didn't fit.

It was as if she wasn't shaped by anything. Not by social norms nor rules.

I should feel superior. I was ahead of her in that aspect. I understood the framework. I was better in regards to social intelligence. I knew how to navigate social cognition. I was better.

But she didn't fit.

I hated her for it.

I hated her. However, I felt something even worse than hate. Something raw and hideous. A sense of Kinship.

It wasn't love. It wasn't lust. It wasn't admiration. It was something else entirely.

I was staring into a mirror. It was shattered.

I hate her. I hate her for making me feel like that. I wasn't supposed to feel this way. I wasn't supposed to find any connection with someone like her.

But, I hated something even more.

My inability to stop looking.

I hate how much I wanted to keep looking. "I'll consider that a compliment," I replied, keeping my tone light and conversational. Acting as if I wasn’t affected. I wasn’t.

"You shouldn't."

She didn't elaborate. It was bait. No. She didn't care. She watched as I drowned. Waiting for it. It didn't matter whether I sank or swam.

"Why not?" I tilted my head slightly. I feigned curiosity. I was curious. I showed interest. Like a fish, I was watching the bait. I felt myself biting it instinctively.

Pathetic.

It was pathetic.

I was pathetic.

"Because those who I find interesting don't usually last long."

I blinked. Her delivery was flat. It was as if she was talking about the weather. A joke? A threat? I couldn't tell.

"What's your name?" I asked her. It was casual. I ignored her cryptic death threat. It didn't dig into me.

"Why?"

"So I can put it on your obituary."

Her expression made no sign of changing. There was no twitch at the corner of her mouth. No cracks in her facade. No tricks in the light.

"Wednesday," she said. "Wednesday Addams."

Of course it was. Wednesday Addams. That is her name. How could it be anything else? It was irreplaceable. Her name was intrinsically intertwined with her, it encapsulates who she is.

Nominal determinism. Name essentialism. Implicit association. Whatever bullshit academic theory it was, her name was right.

"You're interesting," I said, the words slipping out. It escaped. I didn't even mean to say it. But I did. And for the first time, I think I meant it.

Hearing that, her head tilted slightly. It mirrored my earlier gesture. A mimicry. An imitation. Something feigning.

No. Wait. That wasn't right. Either of those implied a pretense. I couldn't find anything inauthentic about her.

I couldn't tell whether she did that gesture on purpose or not.

I was drowning.

My lungs burned. I gasped for air that wasn't there. My arms flailed, my hands clawing towards an exit that wasn't there. My legs kicked, searching for a confession that held weight.

And then, there she was.

Drowning too.

She couldn't swim. Yet she did not struggle. She could not breathe. Yet she made no attempt to do so.

She simply was.

She was there.

Doing and being something I could never hope to achieve.

I hated it.

God, I hated it.

But I loved it too.

My internal clock dinged.

Too much time, I realized. I had spent too much time talking with her.

I needed to leave.

I had to leave.

I couldn't breathe.

“I have too…” I felt my voice falter, crack. My mind was racking for something. Anything to justify leaving. “I... have to get baked goods. For friends.” I managed to bite out.

It was a pathetic excuse, but true.

I reached for the napkin next to Wednesday’s coaster and coffee. My consciousness felt like the napkin. Thin, tearable, the edges unraveled.

I pulled out my pen—a Jericho High-issued one. A terrible pen. I received it during orientation. I hated the design. Whoever manufactured it had no taste. It was a combination of red, white, and yellow. The barrel was a basic red, the tip, and the cap stark white. The center band and clip? Get this. A jarring yellow.

I used the gaudy pen to write my number on the napkin, jotting it down neatly. Confidently. “If you ever want to talk more,” I said, I slid the napkin to her.

Her stare didn’t drop towards the napkin. She didn’t even look at it.

She stared at me.

I quickly pulled myself away from it, yanking my hand back as if I touched something on fire. I moved briskly to the front of the Weathervane Cafe’s counter. Briskly. I felt her stare, the hair on my neck standing. I forced myself to ignore it. Pretending I wasn't aware of it.

The line that was there previously? Gone.

Of course it was.

“Hey! How are you Patrick?”

I had forgotten that he had work today. Tyler Galpin. Standing behind the counter at the Weathervane. He was painfully earnest. Carrying a half-smile. As if desperate to please. Too cheerful. An underwhelming person with an underwhelming life.

Someone who was formerly part of the clique of losers, only to grow out of ‘pranking’ outcasts due to being sent to some boot camp—Fit something, I think. It, miraculously, changed him. For worse. Less of a jackass, more of a wimp. He no longer wishes to, as Jonah and Carter stated, "join in on the fun." So, they kept their distance, not involving each other, if only out of respect for Tyler’s father.

The only moderately interesting, sole redeeming thing about Tyler was that his father, Donovan Galpin, a sheriff. A deputy turned sheriff. Now, that's an example of socioeconomic upward mobility. Someone who was connected to Noble Walker, having worked under him when Walker was sheriff.

However, Tyler’s father is a drunk. Not even the interesting, rage type of drunk.

A sappy sad drunk. The kind that cries.

Great.

"Hey, Tyler. How are you?" My earlier interaction with Wednesday had drained me. I need to end this conversation quickly.

"Good. Good." His voice was upbeat. A cheery personality while working in customer service? One that wasn’t fake? Impossible. "How is everyone?"

Fucking loner. What was he, starved for attention? And everyone? What was I, some middleman delivering updates?

"Jonah and Carter are the same," I replied, forcing my voice to act as if I cared. "I think Carter is going to get a raise?" I forced a smile. It didn't matter whether or not Carter got a raise. Scraping together what little cash and raises he could, he wasn't going to do shit about the utter dumpster fire of a home life he has.

Tyler nodded, looking and acting as if he was attentive. His brown eyes narrowed like he cared. Pathetic.

"Lucas was wondering when you are going to come over?" I added, only to steer the conversation. "Apparently he needs help with baking?" Probably trying to impress Smothers. No amount of cookies could fix that train wreck of a relationship. "Oh, and his father needs to talk with your father. Something official. Sheriff business."

Probably about those so-called "bear attacks." Idiotic fucks who went out camping, despite the news of people getting mauled.

Darwinism at its finest.

I reached into the pocket of my tailored navy-blue coat. Pulling out my wallet. "Can I get one cherry-filled powdered donut, one chocolate donut, and one cream cheese bagel?" If I came back empty-handed, those losers would kick a hissy fit.

"Sure." Tyler tapped the order into the digital kiosk. His fingers moved clumsily while interacting with the touch screen. Like a dog trying to work a touchscreen. Watching him was painful. "That'll be... $5.40," He said, while glancing up, with a dopey smile.

I handed him a crisp twenty. I didn't do it out of generosity. But to make me feel superior. Give me the upper hand.Bastard had the audacity to be an inch taller than me. His father was 5'9", his mother was barely 5'1". How the hell was he 5'10"? An injustice.

“Keep the change,” I said casually. Tyler gave a quick thank you. It made me feel a bit better.

“Here you go." Tyler handed me two paper bags. One contained the donuts, the other with the bagel.

"Have a good day." He added, his voice cheery.

Bastard. I hoped he tripped on his way out of the coffee shop, hopefully falling face-first into a pile of wet leaves.

I waved goodbye, ignoring Wednesday’s stare. I pushed open the green-painted door of the Weathervane and stepped outside.

──────◇──────

POV: Wednesday Addams

How interesting. Only moderately so.

I watched as he disappeared, my gaze fixated onto the door he had long since passed through. Recalling our twisted conversation.

It appears I have either encountered a budding cutthroat capitalist or a would-be serial killer.

In truth, I couldn't inform you which prospect is better.

My gaze moved from the door and back to what he had given me. I reached for the napkin, the one where he had inscribed down what I presume to be his number. A promise of some sort of amusement.

It was a pity, really. I, with the assistance of Tyler, plan to implement my strategy to leave Jericho. Timing really did have a cruel sense of humor, one I found both entertaining and displeasing.

I heard the door creak open once more, much like a sarcophagus and out came the Principal of Nevermore Academy. Larissa Weems. Our eyes met briefly. No words were spoken. However, I can infer that based on my actions of departing from my court-ordered therapy session, an action that she would interpret as defiance, would have her, in turn, seek some sort of retribution.

It appears that my plans for departure would have to wait– until further notice.

How inconvenient.

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