ADDAMS.

RULES + MUSES.          INTEREST TRACKER.          MEMES.          STARTER CALL.

morticia’s heart grows cold at the thought of gomez        (      it is the surge of fondness that cannot be suppressed for long,      the ache and burden of a happiness that overwhelms her   :       she likes when it love comes with a pinch of salt,   with a bite that tears open the swooning meat of her heart        ---       what is love,   if not a scalpel to all that is tender?       ).        everyone,  after all,   has a soulmate,   though one might spend their entire life looking for it.    cassandra and her cut out eyes,    helen of troy and a ruthless war,    madea and the knife she used.   gomez is her knife,  her agony,   her tremendous grief   :      he is as familiar to her as a scar.       ‘   he isn’t in right now,   ’     she sighs,  holding the ache of her heart in her palm.    when she touches the chambers just right,   they begin to scream in perplexed mutiny.     ‘   oh,   but you must come back for dinner one night.   we throw the most lavish of parties--     guillermo the rotten once said that it was the most exciting night of his life.   and we know just what debauchery he’s seen.   ’     a shared wink,   inviting mara into the joke.    she tilts her head,  considering the little flower’s declaration.     ‘   why,  of course.   you’re still so young.   why would you not have your taste of the napoleons and the alexanders before settling for someone a little quieter?   ’

shopping around     --     ah,  the unkempt dandelions of youth,   spilling their bright petals against mara’s dark past       (       she skims headlines of the macabre and the unusual   :       she knows there were once a wedded couple that perished and left behind two young starlettes,    their beaks twisted into bullets and their spines snapped beneath the weight of the presses’ cool disregard      ...      her heart enjoyed a brutal tragedy,     but some cruelty was just too much for her       ).    as she stands,  she brushes an absent hand over mara’s hair      --      she looks so much like wednesday did before she left home,  vacant dithering staunching the flow of her movements.   she had been filled with a potential that must be released through bloodshed and torment   :     the metaphorical severing of the veil.    perhaps she sees parallels only because she is desperate to do so.     two black - haired girls dropped on her doorstep by an unknown stork     --     baskets could bring omens just as easily as tidings.     ‘   why,  of course.   it’s a hard time out there for young ladies.    so many rotten dishes to be eaten!     i’ve always said you must save yourself for the man you want to be beheaded with,   because you never know when that lucky day will come.   of course,  my courtship with gomez was rather fast.   one must act quickly when the man of your nightmares is engaged to your sister.   ’    her smile is secretive as she gestures for mara to stand with her.    ‘   the closets are this way,   dearest bedbug.   ’

hands are clasped as she takes in the joke   :       the laughter she returns is all morose glee       (        to invite a monster into one’s home might be unsavoury,   if one’s home hadn’t been built for monsters      --      she keeps this place as a sort of haven,   welcoming in night creatures with motherly hands       ).      ‘   delightful,    ’     she settles on,  with a forgiving nod of her head.    her hand reaches out,   pale flesh meeting cold touch,   to clasp at his own   :      she has met so many strange beings    --     but kindness is what she searched for above all else,  despite what fangs and claws might follow.     ‘   let me show you some of our art.  then perhaps you’ll let me sketch you?   ’

the mythology of the addams house does not disappoint,  with its yawning display of weapons and a design that consisted mostly of greys   :       morticia circles him with wide - eyes,  mouth painted black with a spider’s legs brew that grandmama recommended     (       somewhere in the distance,   a growl is heard,  brutal and raw      ...      poor kitty is no doubt hungry,   but she’s been put on a rather strict diet by the vet!        ).       ‘   oh,  no,  no,  gomez is much more interested in the nude body.     but your head...   ’       she raises her hands around his head.     ‘   if you’d be kind enough to let me create a bust...   ’

if bitterness is noticed,   it is not mentioned.   morticia’s smile stretches wide and empty at the declaration   :      she has always felt the love she shared with gomez was special     (     but decorum dictates all and she knows not to brag about the gifts she had always been so fond of     ...       life had given her much and asked for little in return     ).      ‘   we don’t like to brag.    my great aunt was prone to bragging,  and,  well,   the french dealt with her how they’ve always dealt with their usses.   ’      she lies a hand against her throat in foreboding,   before shaking her head to rid herself of such thoughts.     ‘   of course,  i’ve always admired the guillotine,  but i confess i think it’d work better for torture than murder.    far too quick and easy otherwise.   ’      this seems like something she has put thought into.  suddenly,  jaggedly,   morticia reaches out to snatch up mara’s hand.     ‘   you’ll find your great love soon.   you have the complexion for it.     ’     the idea of change sits uncomfortably in her chest,   but her frown is only a temporary slip.   stepford smilers had often been a symbol of unhappy women   :       morticia’s grin is macabre joylessness forced into joy.    she drops mara’s hand and waves it away.     ‘    oh,   beauty doesn’t fade with age,  dear.   you should see our lovely grandma.   her wrinkles have very much set nicely into her face.     ’      of course,  that was gomez’s mother,   and what good genes they had!     ‘   but alas!    you’ve convinced me   ...   to try it.   would you like a look at my closet?    ’

morticia nods sagely,   savouring the gentle taste of every death   :       mourning is the healthiest thing a human can do       (        truly,   the most wonderful thing about a death is that it bathed the soul in new light       ...        the cleansing potential of death should be celebrated        ).       ‘   dying in one sleep’s is always a tragedy.    such potential wasted.     i’ve always much preferred the thrill of screaming out my last words.    of course,   i’d have to make sure that i’m close to gomez when i pass     ---     but there is still a lot of creativity to be found in that intimacy.    ’        a dreamy sigh leaves her at the thought.   the romance of dying side by side with her love had always struck her as romantic.    a soulmate understood that.     her head tilts fondly as she focuses back in on the situation,   on the young starlet in front of her who reeked of desperation and a haunted sense of self.     morticia would like to commission a portrait of her face   :      those wide eyes,   those expressive breakdowns        (        morticia’s aunt had been an actress before she had drowned     ).        ‘   what’s that     ...      sephora?   it sounds positively egyptian.    oh,   do they do mummification samples there?   ’       morticia’s smile is all amusement and teeth.      ‘   i don’t wear just black,   my dear.   i throw in some greys   --   and i have sampled a red or two.    are you suggesting         ...         whites?   ’

her smile is easy and dark,     a macabre painting of flush black spreading open like a cut wound         (       she sways closer   :       with the fog at her feet,   nature’s red carpet little more than bloodstain - aching heels,     it seems as if she is floating       ...       flight would not be the most unlikely thing to happen in her little family        ).        ‘   oh,   yes,   they’re all family.   by blood or through blood or because of blood   :       family is family.   ’       feline curiosity and motherly warmth give way to a purr of words.    a pale finger slides over his shoulder to point,  omen - like,    to the grave he stands on.       ‘   dear terrance was flayed alive for practicing witchcraft.     four days of brutal agony before his heart eventually gave in        ...       he drew it out on purpose.   such a stubborn man.   ’       there’s pride in her voice.       ‘   careful,  though.   he’s a biter.   ’

morticia’s life had always been lived in pursuit of death   :       she teased herself with its inevitability,    edged towards the sweet void and carefully side - stepped its vicious touch        (        one day,  one day,   one day        ).        DEATH WAS ALWAYS JUST AROUND THE CORNER        ...        her ancestors had been lucky enough to endure all sorts of macabre endings.     burned alive for being witches,    drowned in salt - fresh oceans,    trampled by horses       --       her end was a tantalizing affair and morticia had imagined it over and over again,    worn and weary from use.      one day,   one day,   one day.         ‘   how lucky.    how did they pass?   ’        dreaminess blends easily into fluttering eyelashes and a pale hand resting against her chest,    her beating heart becoming a mockery in her chest       (       curiosity has never been sated in her   :       she hungers and bites and devours,     a watchful mouth       ).      when mara’s hand parades in front of her face,    morticia slips the hand between her own       --       the touch of the venus flytrap,   quick and deft,    brushing over the faded nail polish.        ‘   black and green can work well,   if the green is all natural.    homegrown mold is so hard to cultivate,   though,    you have to dedicate yourself to it,    like a child.   ’

the graveyard ripples around them,    a haunting fog running over the stone idols   :       when she grins,   she shows too many teeth       (       do not let this make you hesitate to approach       --       most of the teeth aren’t hers,   after all       ).     her hair hangs like a black cape down her back,    her dress flowing around her waist like shadows.     there is laughter coming from her left,   but it does not spill from her own mouth.    IT COMES FROM THE DYING GRASS AROUND THEM,    FROM THE CORPSES STILL TURNING IN THEIR GRAVES:     there are three types of people in this forbidden land       ...      the living,  the dead,   and the undecided.        ‘   why does everyone always assume i’m trying to freak them out?     you’re the one who stumbled into my backyard.   ’

the wolf seems content to bite   :       morticia knows his maw must ache in unfulfilled relish       (       how many meals had slipped between those fangs of his?       how much had he failed to catch?       MONSTER KNOWS MONSTER        ...       and hunger calls to hunger like a filthy promise,   vibrating along the column of her chest        ).       she wipes dust from the brick windowsill,    the long bones of prison bars blotting out the light.       ‘   you poor thing,   ’       she sighs,   but it sounds like a scold.    SHE CAUTIONS IN ANY OTHER WORDS BUT THE TRUTH   :       beware on sweeter tongues,   bathed in the language of decorum.       ‘   this is where we keep things that might bite.    how lucky you’ve found yourself in here,  then       ...       considering your rather obvious predicament.     do stop me if i speak out of turn.   ’

this house is an infestation   :        you can never walk far without meeting a horrible little bug trying to crawl upon your skin,    creatures leaking from the walls with wide - spread smiles and too many legs        (        the only thing that keeps dearest wednesday from being a spider is the fact she doesn’t quite have enough limbs for it       ...       but everyone is subject to faults,   of course,   and morticia has learned to be forgiving with her own children        ).        ‘   grandmother is more than content to sleep in the graveyard.    HONESTLY,   SHE’D TAKE ANY EXCUSE TO SLEEP LIKE THE DEAD       ...       we’re thinking of getting her a little tomb for her hundredth and eighteenth birthday present.    ah,   but it’s so difficult to figure out what they want after they pass into their hundreds   :       such a special time of a rather specific decay.   ’        morticia cherishes every word like she’s trying to drink it.    a spider crawls from the vanity across her knuckles and morticia plucks the creature into her palm,     feeling its spindly legs begin to twitch at her wrist.        ‘   black is a classic.    don’t you agree?   ’

morticia’s gaze is slow,  patient.     she reels back the spiral of anger that had snapped free from her,    coiling cool blues into the grit of her teeth,    the plate letting out a small yelp as mortica’s pruned claws clasp around it.      she blinks with one long,  drawn - out hum of a movement,    before forcing the uptick of a smile to be born anew across her lips.          ‘   you seem rather startled.    that’s often a sign of a weak disposition       ...        though,   those with the weakest dispositions make excellent prey,   so fret not!     there is a place for you yet.   ’       the upperhand is not something she takes possession of for cruel purposes   :       she is flushed with the momentary slip,    she is alight with an adrenaline she tries to fight against.     TO BE CAUGHT IN WEAKNESS IS TO BE SEEN STRIPPED AND BARE         --       she is ashamed of her own insides.       ‘   did i?   i can’t quite remember.   ’