A/N: Wednesday is an incredible character and her Indian revolt at Camp Chippewa was a good bit of dark, hilarious fun. But I guess I took it a little too seriously, because one day I started thinking, "What happened to Amanda anyway? What would she do after a scary experience like that?" And the next thing I knew I was writing this story.
I'll Be the Victim
She was burned more than just once. It would happen again and again.
Every night when she limped into bed and tried to sleep, it ignited. The memory of Wednesday's cold dark eyes, searing her with cruelty. The match lighting in her pale hand. The fire spreading at Amanda's feet. The terrified campers running for cover, glimpsed through the smoke as she screamed and screamed and…
Amanda Buckman cried out and bolted upright in bed, kicking her legs frantically as if her pilgrim's dress was still burning.
But the disaster at the summer camp play had been a week ago, and she was wearing a pink Disney nightshirt with her bare feet wrapped in bandages. Stuffed animals lay all around her, mocking her with their smiles.
She sighed and sank back down in the flowery sheets. How many nightmares was that now?
"Oh my God, why me?" she mumbled around her retainer. Why did Wednesday Addams hate her so much? All she ever did was be herself—the happiest, prettiest, richest and most popular girl around! What was the problem?
Had Amanda really ticked her off so much with those silly lines about the Indians being inferior because they didn't have shampoo and stuff? No, Wednesday must have planned that whole thing. Amanda just recited her lines as Gary had written them. (For smarmy yuppie camp leaders, he and Becky were pretty lacking in political correctness.) Looking back, Wednesday's off-script speech as Pocahontas was kind of interesting…
Great, she thought, rolling her eyes. Kudos to the crazy goth girl for that one. She taught everyone at camp a little history lesson, and all it cost them was a near-death experience and thousands of dollars in damage.
"And my feet," she groaned. One of the counselors had freed her from the stake before long, so the burns were mostly superficial. But it still hurt like hell to walk, and reliving the fire every night was becoming unbearable.
There was a knock at her elegantly carved bedroom door. Amanda nearly jumped out of her skin before taking a deep breath and drawing back the satin bed curtains. "Yes?"
One of the maids poked her head into the room. "Miss Buckman? Are you all right? I thought I heard…"
"I'm fine," she said with forced cheerfulness. "Just a bad dream."
"All right. Call me if you need anything." The maid stifled a yawn as she shut the door.
Amanda's pretty face crumpled into a frown, and she glared at the shadows. She did need something. But for once she would have to take it herself, just as that girl had taken so much from her.
There must be a way to put out the flames that still burned behind her eyes. And Amanda thought she knew what it was. Somehow, she was going to get back at Wednesday Addams for this—with a perky little smile on her face.
Gomez kissed Morticia. Wednesday decapitated Pugsley. Lurch swept the floor. They were all wooden figurines on the giant cuckoo clock in the middle of the Addams mansion, but all reasonably accurate portrayals. The clock chimed on until it reached twelve, and then once more.
Pugsley gave his sister a puzzled look, as best he could through the chains wrapped around his face—indeed, his entire body. "Thirteen o'clock?"
Wednesday shrugged. "Father always liked it better than one," She stood calmly over him, holding the controlling mechanism for the chain. "Now no more stalling. Any sound you make from here had better be screaming."
"I can do that," the husky lad agreed.
Wednesday pressed a switch, and an automatic pulley began to lift her brother feet-first into the air. A sadistic smile ghosted across her face as he was suspended over a vat of boiling acid.
"Any last words?"
"Wednesday and Joel, hung from a tree! K-I-S-S-I…"
"Never mind," she punched another button and lowered the chain.
The door creaked open, and there stood Morticia with a yawning baby Pubert on her shoulder. "Children! Do you have any idea how late it is?"
"Yes!" they chorused.
Their mother smiled. "Good. Just try to spare each other's limbs. You have school in the morning."
Wednesday watched her leave and then turned back to Pugsley, who was only five feet from the acid. The bright and sunny day had left her in a despondent mood and school starting tomorrow didn't help—but now, at least, she could have some fun. Just a few more seconds until…
Another interruption. A disembodied hand scrabbled into the room and grabbed insistently at her ankle. Wednesday paused the machine with a sigh. "What is it, Thing?"
He jumped up and down excitedly and held out a small envelope between his two little fingers. Mail at this hour?
"Hey, what's the holdup?" Pugsley asked. One of the chains had fallen in front of his eyes.
Wednesday ignored him and extracted a postcard from the envelope. There was no return address, only a "W" written on the front. She immediately winced at the cutesy cursive handwriting and pink stationery.
Meet me if you dare, among the tombstones of your family cemetery tomorrow night at the darkest hour. Sincerely, your BEST nightmare
She studied the note for a long moment. Sickly sweet presentation. Unfettered melodrama. The smell of expensive soap. Whom did that combination remind her of…?
"It can't be," she mused. "I thought I'd killed you already."
"What are you talking about?! I'm still hangin' here!" said a clueless Pugsley.
"Not you, idiot…oh, never mind." Wednesday absent-mindedly hit the button again, lowering him into the bubbling vat. His howls of pain jolted her back to the present. She glanced once more at the mysterious note before slipping it into her pocket, and stood back to enjoy the show.