Wednesday Friday Addams

The bass throbbed, a sickly imitation of a heartbeat, as Nevermore crumbled around Wednesday. Gargoyles, ripped from their perches, crashed into the courtyard, their stony screams echoing the terror bubbling in her gut. The Rave’N dance, moments before a tableau of forced merriment, had devolved into a scene ripped from a particularly gruesome Edgar Allan Poe short story.

She’d seen the vision, of course. A premonition, sharp and sickening, of Hyde’s rampage, of Laurel Gates’ twisted delight. But foresight, it seemed, was utterly useless when confronted with chaos on this scale.

She dodged a falling chunk of the clock tower, the memory of Enid’s forced smile, moments before the carnage began, etching itself into her mind. Sentiment was a weakness, she knew. And yet...

She ran. Away from the shattered remains of Nevermore, away from the screams and the dust, away from the terrifying vulnerability she felt creeping up her spine. The world outside those ivy-covered walls, already hostile to outcasts, would now be ravenous.

Wednesday navigated the treacherous woods surrounding the academy with practiced ease. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig, was a potential threat. She needed transport, anonymity.

Reaching the edge of the woods, she spotted her salvation: the local church bus, nuns piling in for what she could only assume was an unholy excursion. An idea, as dark and pragmatic as her soul, formed in her mind.

The church basement reeked of stale communion wafers and repressed secrets. A habit, pristine white against the grim surroundings, lay carelessly discarded on a pew. Perfect.

Within minutes, she was a nun in disguise, her pallid face framed by the starched fabric. She prayed – not to any deity, of course, but to the dark gods of subterfuge – that this charade would hold. She slipped onto the bus just as its doors hissed shut, finding a seat at the very back.

The quiet she craved lasted all of five seconds.

“Alright, sisters!” chirped a perky voice from the front. “Let’s get those vocal chords warmed up! Sister Maria, you have the honors!”

A nun with a floral scarf and an unnervingly cheerful smile stepped forward. “Okay girls! Let's get things started with our new version of a classic. Hit it, Sister Beth on the boom box!”

Then it began. A saccharine, offensively upbeat rendition of a Britney Spears hit, retooled for religious zealotry.

“Oh Father, Father, can't you see, Need to pray with me, pray with me, Give me faith, give me your sign, Pray with me one more time!"

Wednesday felt a twitch in her left eye. The other nuns, oblivious to the torture they were inflicting, clapped along, their faces beaming like demented sunflowers.

The entire bus erupted in song. The torture was relentless.

Next, the church version of Lady Gaga.

"I want your BLESSED ROMANCE."

The sheer horror of it all was almost unbearable. She imagined setting fire to the bus, the inferno consuming the nuns in a satisfyingly righteous blaze. No, that would be too obvious. Perhaps a discreet bomb placed under Sister Maria's seat? Too noisy.

Then, Lizzo's.

"Feel so Good in Heaven."

She stifled a groan. How about poison? A carefully administered dose of nightshade in their lukewarm communion wine? Or perhaps she could simply drive the bus off a cliff. Elegant, efficient. Too many thoughts raced through her head.

Then a Taylor swift song...

"Pray it Off, I, Pray it Off"

Wednesday briefly considered opening the emergency exit mid-song and plummeting out of the bus. A quick, merciful end. Nope she decided to sing along.

The next song was the closest she had came to hell on earth. ABBA...

"Believing Queen, Young and Sweet, Only Seventeen!"

For two days, the bus was a relentless, inescapable vortex of pop-song-turned-religious-anthem. Two days. Two days of saccharine harmonies, synchronized clapping, and the constant, gnawing feeling that she was slowly losing her mind.

Adele's "Kneeling in the Steeple" followed. Justin Bieber's "I'm Contrite For..." (complete with Sister Agnes' surprisingly impressive beatboxing) became increasingly unhinged. She had even started to sing along every once and a while to not draw attention to herself.

The Billy Ray Cyrus song was the last straw.

"Sacred, Holy Heart, Tell Your Demons Depart."

Finally, after what felt like an eternity trapped in a bubblegum-flavored purgatory, the bus screeched to a halt in Los Angeles.

Wednesday disembarked, peeling off the nun's habit as she stepped onto the bustling city street. The cacophony of car horns and chattering pedestrians was almost a relief after the constant barrage of cheerful piety. She was alone, adrift, and radiating a level of homicidal rage usually reserved for serial arsonists.

She only had one place to go. One person she could vaguely tolerate, even appreciate, although she’d never admit it aloud. The one normie she had known since she was a child, her only cousin.

After a long bus ride and walk she stood before a modern glass and steel monstrosity of a house, completely at odds with her aesthetic sensibilities.

She raised her hand and knocked on the heavy oak door. Silence. Then, footsteps. She waited, her expression impassive, for the door to open.