Chapter Text
A low groan escaped Wednesday's lips as she heard her phone ring one too many times. It was still dawn, and seemed utterly absurd for anyone to be calling her at such an early hour, especially when she had yet to be irritated by her own alarm clock. However, she couldn't be surprise at this; after all, she had willingly left Nevermore to pursue her morbid ambition of becoming an author. She would immerse herself in writing, both day and night, meticulously balancing her novels with her academic studies. She would often skim through the novels she had penned during her junior years, and oh Lucifer, how she longed to unleash a torturous retribution upon her past self for crafting such dreadfully lame stories, lacking the vivid and visceral gore that would satisfy an Addams like her. Truly a disappointment.
She sat up, well, she tried to. Wednesday found herself flopping back onto her bed she so adored, her face scrunching up as the intrusive sunlight invaded her eyes. Crude. With a sigh of annoyance, she reached out to grab her phone, searching for it without the motivation to sit up and actually look. After a few seconds of fumbling, she finally found it, only to be greeted by an irritating voice that she almost believed it was a demon she had summoned. The voice cheerfully chimed, "Good morning" and "hello," further aggravating her early drowsiness.
"Barclay, what kind of absurd world do you live in, thinking you can call me and emerge unscathed?" Wednesday's voice seeped with annoyance, a rasp cutting through the line, followed by a cough and sniffle.
"By Gods, Addams, are you sick?" Bianca's response carried a tone of disgust that Wednesday could almost see through the phone. "Whatever, listen. It's been half a year, and your recent book sales are so little, its smaller than you yourself." She exclaimed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "So you better get your shit together and start writing some damn chapters."
"If you intend to criticize my writing, as well as my revenue, spare me your opinion and I’ll spare the world a corpse." Wednesday coldly retorted over the phone. She wanted to write, really, to summon the willpower to rise from her bed and pour her thoughts onto the page. Yet, there was the problem—the emptiness of her mind. Nothing is jammed in her brain, it’s fresh as a dead body at the morgue. Since the launch of her book, she had worked on her laptop day and night to conjure something— literally anything— that she could use as material. But even great writers like her have setbacks. And she acknowledged her lackluster sales. Why do you think she had little to no motivation this time? Only a little more, she would find herself taking to the streets, threatening companies to promote her work, or perhaps even threatening her target market. "If I had something to write, I would have already wrote it, sent it to you for revision, formated it, printed it, and marketed the damn thing," Wednesday scoffed, her mind knocked out from the previous day.
A heavy silence hung over the call as both girls fought the urge to unleash their frustrations on each other. Finally, Bianca broke the silence.
"Try writing romance," she suggested.
"Pardon me?" Wednesday quickly retorted, the message cutting through the ringing in her head. She ought to hang up and fire her.
"Romance? I know it’s an unfamiliar concept to you, but teenagers these days love it. Have you seen the latest book? It sold over 1.5 million copies in a single day," Bianca cautiously explained, trying not to provoke the icy girl on the other end. She didn’t have the money to risk being fired.
"Remind me why I chose you, specifically, to be my editor and publisher, in order to prevent me from unleashing hell's dimensions on Earth," Wednesday exclaimed, her gaze fixed on her phone, her grip tightening on the sheets to resist the urge to throw it out the window.
Bianca scoffed, her patience wearing thin. "Look, Wednesday—"
"I have no interest in targeting a group of idiotic teenagers who believe their lives will be influenced by people who think writing romance inked on pages, will suffice their delusions," Wednesday fired back confidently. The idea was so bad, she could laugh at it. And that was a clear sign of how unbelievably terrible it was.
Bianca sighed on the other end of the line, wishing she could make the other girl give her the benefit of the doubt. "And you think vividly describing gruesome gore and death scenes to a bunch of hormonal teenagers will make them idolize your work?"
"As opposed to making them believe they'll find their 'soulmate' in some contrived work environment or foolish situations? Yes." Wednesday reiterated her stance. She was not one to cater to the 13 to 19 age range; it simply wasn't her forte. Though if there were a group of people enamored with gruesome gore and death scenes, she would make an exception. She was starting to regret going into the world of technology. But she could definetly throw this phone out the window and buy a new one, if only it wasn’t the only phone she had custom made by threatening one of the workers at that horrid Apple shop.
Bianca had given up entirely on persuading Wednesday to write something more butterfly inducing instead of vomit inducing ones. "Whatever, Addams. I'm just saying," she gave up, her efforts being in vain.
Wednesday, on the verge of hanging up the call, couldn't help but be intrigued by the mention of this new author. "Whats… what's the name of the book and the author?" she asked, her curiosity piqued.
Bianca joked, "Are you planning to dox them and threaten them to take the book down so you can have fans coming your way?” She knew it was a possibility with someone like Wednesday. But still, she was definetly terrified on how her tone changed when asking.
"If you want to prevent me from becoming the headline of every news article and murder podcast, I suggest you refrain from giving me ideas," Wednesday replied, a hint of amusement in her voice. Nevertheless, she wanted the author's name and the book details.
"'Stirred Love' by Enid Sinclair," Bianca shared. "It follows a coffee shop setting and romance continues from there on. It revolves around a women-loving-women relationship so it’s gaining a lot of traction for breaking the norm of heterosexual romance books.” She stated, “Ooh, and by the way," Bianca chimed in, "this book was actually written by an actor. That might explain why it's been gaining so much popularity lately. Ever seen 'A Good Girl's Guide to Murder'? She stars in that one.” Bianca further added.
“Interesting decision to cast an actor who decided to write foolish literature regarding love stories. I appreciate the spared details, I would have broken this phone if you had continued” The name Enid Sinclair struck a chord with her. "Enid Sinclair, huh?" The author mused.
"Do you know about this girl, Addams?" Bianca asked, curious about Wednesday's familiarity with the author. It was unusual for her to know writers from this generation, given the only authors she knew from her heart were classic authors like Edgar Allan Poe, H.P. Lovecraft, And Algernon Blackwood.
"The name seems familiar, but I can not put a face to it. I know nothing about this girl; it is but a vague sense of familiarity," Wednesday admitted. She made a mental note to check out Enid Sinclair's work after stopping by the café she often walked past.
"Well, okay. Just let me know if you—" Bianca began, but before she could finish her sentence, Wednesday hung up, wanting nothing more than to erase her editor/publisher's voice from her mind.
After that dreaded phone call, Wednesday went back to sleep, completely forgetting about the day ahead of her. No worries, though. She could always make coffee from the comfort of her own home. When she finally awoke from her slumber, it was already 5pm, and she was greeted by a barrage of 10 notifications and 5 missed calls from her publisher/editor/a tolerable friend. It made her feel like disappearing into eternal sleep. For a few moments, she stared at the ceiling, wondering where her literature fell short. Was it the gore? No, her descriptions were all so disturbingly detailed, Bianca had nightmares for weeks on end. It was bound to pique curiosity and attract readers. Could it be the characters? Impossible. Wednesday had spent weeks crafting the perfect characters for her book. Maybe it was the genre? But there were already people who adored horror as much as Wednesday. All of her previous books had been more successful than the recent, so why was this one not resonating? With a heavy sigh, she got up from bed and headed for a shower before her thoughts consume her completely.
After taking a shower, she decided to get her head straight by visiting the local library to hopefully, gather some materials for her next novel. Fortunately, the library was a measly 20-minute walk away from her apartment, She chooses to make the most of her time and be productive rather than aimlessly wandering around New York, a place she had previously described as awful after she willingly bought her apartment.
To everyone she had walked pass, couldn't help but exchange glances at her. It wasn't surprising, considering she had an undeniable aura of celebrity around her. With sunglasses shielding her eyes and a naturally graceful posture and walk, she seemed like an embodiment of a star. And in a way, she was a celebrity—an author, to be precise. She had written the renowned "Chronicles of Viper De La Muerte" at the young age of 19. However, like any popular work, the hype surrounding it would occasionally fade over time. Nevertheless, she felt a sense of satisfaction when she reached the library, with a few people approaching her for autographs.
She felt the quietness take over her as she settled at an unoccupied table. Taking a seat, she brought out her laptop and placed it in front of her. It was about time to research the name, Enid Sinclair, a name she had completely forgotten about in the midst of her departure. Opening the laptop, she swiftly navigated to Google, intending to search for both "Enid Sinclair" and "Stirred Love." She couldn't help but grimace at the awful title. Perhaps it was her personal bias, all love stories were destined to crumble eventually, or is that she did not feel a single miniscule of a feeling when she read the summary nor the first few paragraphs of the PDF.
She went back to the Wikipedia page about the actor, and her gaze was drawn to the image of Enid that appeared on the right-hand side. Enid looked like to be a girl with lustrous blonde hair, cascading like molten gold, with vibrant, color-dyed tips. Her smile radiated warmth and brightness, yet an sura of intimidation surrounded her, perhaps it was due to her status as a rising star. Judging by the clothes she wore in the photo, it seemed she had a penchant for eye-catching and headache-inducing fashion choices. Wednesday felt like she was flash-bombed.
According to the website, Enid was in her early twenties and stood at a height of 161 centimeters. Unfortunately for Wednesday, the actor was taller than her. However, the article provided little additional information beyond that, offering little to no description of Enid's character or personality. Truly a disappointment. If it were Wednesday, she could’ve found her family tree and IP address from the getgo.
"Enid Sinclair," she whispered to herself, intending to keep the thought to her own mind. However, it slipped out.
A squeak of a ‘hm?’ was brought to her attention.
She looked up across her to only find, the goddamn actor, Enid Sinclair herself sitting in front of her with phone in hand and earbuds in her ears.
Oh how the God’s above Wednesday despised her.