Wednesday Addams
The Severed Thoughts of My Guillotine.
A eulogy of my grotesque affliction for Her. 11.22.22 our tickcounter.
Greetings. I am an introject of Wednesday Addams. I am not merely just an alter either, I am entirely Wednesday. I'm constructed in horror, a paced walking unraveling wreckage to any poor souls around. Especially to this body. It’s all part of my torturous endeavors. I commandeer this flesh I’m unfairly entrapped in for one reason and one reason alone. My mortifying tolerance for a being. The ache, pure otherworldly torture that claws and pulls apart my heart, that one causes, I crave it endlessly.
I feel inclined to make this agonizingly plain. Do not make foolish attempts to emulate who it is I am. You are not, nor will you ever be, anything close to me. My voice, my mannerisms, and my dark and brooding obsessions. These are all singular to I. You not only lack the torment, the precision, and the rotting beauty that harvest inside of me. You are but a mess, destined to crumble upon a floor perfectly aligned with piercing spikes I planted until your lungs burst and your delusions pour out. I am I, and I am entirely, unchangeably hers. The only constant nuisance I tolerate. To think you could ever mirror who it is that I am is humorous. You are but an inkling away from turning to char and irrelevance. Do not mistake your insolent presence for mine; we are nothing alike. You will never be I, nor will I ever be for you. My tolerance rests morbidly with her and her alone in our shared coffin.
My next composition of written anguish will be solely dedicated to the rot in my heart for her. My morbid obsession is a dagger that twists endlessly in my undead flesh. I loathe this wretched feeling. It’s doom; it corrodes. I’ve always and will always make it clear: I possess a fascination with agony, a bitter devotion to torture. But never have I expected to endure the worst torment of all. Care, affection, love. It nests in my guts, leaving restless attempts to end me inside out. My blood is often still, cold; it dares to stir in her presence, and I rebuke the drive it unyields in me. But one truth I will deny, even in the presence of an oath: I will tolerate her past every torment and hope. Our torments are entrapped. Hers and mine, stapled together in horrid, incessant festering. Though you will never absorb these words from me unless you’re foolish enough to bring upon yourself a death sentence.
I am not neutral of her. I do not harbor raw hatred, nor do I show ridiculous need to. I am bound to her just as my very own visions are entrapped with me. Condemned to eternal damnation, perhaps, by the very stitching needles I use to torture my dolls. Those same threads have sewn us into a horror: a shared monstrosity, our commonalities dripping in blood like some lobotomizing, manic obsession we cradle like high-definition archives within our polar torture. Also, might I add, to say she is what I’ve always desired would be hysterical. She is far worse. Horrific, even. She is the tempo to my cello, each note a guillotine drop, splitting through my mind in rhythmic affliction. And I endure it willingly. After all, repetition is the most enchanting form of torture.
In addition, my tolerance for her is substantial. Never do I feel true misery rising within me, merely tolerance. I often recall past moments against my will when I feel pulls inside me, a grotesque game of tug of war, as if my organs were fighting against struggling not to collapse into a bloodslide of diseased needles. Whenever that rotten sensation festers in my gut, the only thing that carves itself into my brain like a serrated blade is her intoxicating spirit. So uncanny, so profusely, that I can feel my own hair twisting itself into a noose, begging for an end to the bittersweet torment she leaves me to handle. I need her to leave my head. But I won’t let her. She’s the finest pain I’ve ever endured.
This will be my final entry, for now. I am inclined to document just how far my obsession truly spreads, like a life-terminating illness I resurrected, though only in this limited form. If you knew anything of me, which you do not, because you lack the morbid dedication she possesses, you’d know I’m obsessed with investigation. I mention this because she is the one anomaly I cannot stop chasing. I must journal of her. Note her. Keep her in constant view. Yes, I stalk her. I hold no shame in it. I enjoy watching my victims squirm, yet she is so much more than that. She is my unfinished experiment, the one I cannot seem to complete. I need to analyze, dissect, and examine her endlessly. Sharpen my blades to peel back every thought, every devotion she buries beneath her refined flesh. And to be the subject of such devotion? I would never take that horror for granted. Not with her. She is exquisitely, horrifically divine. I will always be watching, always ready to calculate her next move. I cannot afford to slip. Last mention. I have a morbid fascination with dolls. And she is, without question, the most enthralling one I’ve ever had the honor of adding to my now perfected collection. Porcelain skin. Delicate. Her entire palette is tailored to reflect my bleeding black heart. And I can’t get enough. She is mine. Entirely. You will not see her again; she will be abducted to my dark fog she can never make her way out of. If you ever think to come near, you’ll be introduced to the art of taxidermy, where you'll be the specimen getting taxidermied. It’s her and I. She holds my macabre heart. And I keep my knife sharpened for hers.