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It catches her off guard every time, robs the breath right out her chest, leaving it tight and searing.
Part of it is the fear. She cannot simply bear the thought of watching her life fall to pieces over and over again without feeling a raw panic bubble up in her body. Her heart, which already has been broken too many times to number, cannot handle another singular moment of pain. If she had to face everything that happened to her over the course of her life over again, she would simply fall to pieces. Wanda is convinced, in the very marrow of her bones, that she would not survive it.
Maybe that was the reason that all of this started. Wanda couldn't say for certain, but she liked to imagine that she was protecting herself. Or as she liked to better think of it, someone was there protecting her, watching out for her, finally taking care of her.
The other part of it all enrages her. She has suffered enough for a lifetime, for several lifetimes. And now someone wants to hurt her again. The injustice of it all boils her blood in a way that is so familiar that feels like she is coming home. As her face heats up, she can almost feel the cool mountain air of her country and smell the scent of her mother’s cooking drifting in from another room. She can't tell if it's an illusion that she created or an old memory or something beyond her control and understanding.
This strange place was her home. Her perfect, wonderful, and safe home that she had been dreaming about ever since she was a little girl. She can vividly remember watching the old television her grandmother had bootlegged from some of the local aid workers in exchange for a few hot meals and a few nights in her bed; watching those shows, Wanda finally was able to imagine a life where a family lived freely, with love, without fear. Even as bombs rattled off and people died and her country fell apart, those shows made her feel safe. They gave her a way to escape.
And now, it seemed like everyone, even her own psyche, wanted to take it away from her.
-
For the day after her trespasser left, was ejected somewhere far far away from where Wanda no longer had to think about her, she can barely look at him.
Vision is pleasant and loving as always. He passes quietly around the house, tidying as he goes and stopping from time to time to drop gentle kisses on their sons’ foreheads. When he isn’t pacing around, he’s playing with the boys, reading them stories, bringing them up to the window to point out the swing set in the backyard, the birds in the sky, the beautiful flowers in Agnes’ garden. The sunlight is constantly streaming in the windows, illuminating the house and his red skin.
She can see the redness of his skin out of the corner of her eye, and relief rushes into her body. But it's only temporary, and she still cannot bring herself to look at him fully. She is still too rattled from the night before.
She can hear the boys gently coo and giggle, and it brings such a warm smile to her face. Vision is nothing, nothing, like her own father who stomped and shouted and drank and swore. Her own father was completely broken by the chaos and turmoil around him and beyond ashamed that he could never protect his family the way that he wanted.
She was elated that her sons’ would never have to grow up fearing their father as she and her own brother did.
Everything is exactly as it’s supposed to be. Or at least, it seemed that way for now.
Anxiety still crept, in though. She felt in her body and her chest most acutely. The image of Vision, dead, has been seared into her brain, and she was never sure it was ever going to leave.
Wanda still sees it every time she closes her eyes, even for a moment. Every time she hears him walk around the house or address her, she has to keep her eyes firmly on their brightly patterned carpet. It gives her a headache and makes her eyes burn, but it’s better than the alternative.
The unseeing eyes, the gaping hole on his forehead, the pale, monochrome, and lifeless body - all of him walking upright like a spectre sent to haunt her.
-
Pietro was home.
Everything is exactly as it’s supposed to be. Or at least, it seemed that way.
Her heart was bubbling up in her chest as she wrapped her arms around him to pull him into a hug. He did feel like her brother, didn’t smell like him, didn’t look like him, but inside of her head, her entire being willed herself to believe that this was true. This is what she had been dreaming about for years. All she had one wanted was another chance to hold her brother, to cling to him one last time and tell him that she loved him.
Vision heads up to bed in silence, the sound of his weight creaking up the stairs lingering as he made his way. She wants to talk to him, but she does not want to let anyone bring her down at the moment. Instead, she only wanted to focus on her brother and the joy in her heart - one she hasn’t felt for years.
To have him back in her life, permanently, was something beyond her wildest dreams. It was so incredibly wonderful that she had never even dreamed of hoping for it. Now that it was happening, felt too fragile to question. It was as if one wrong glance or word would send the entire thing spiraling out of her control.
The house doesn't have a spare bedroom for him. She makes a note of it, to talk to Vision about adding one tomorrow for Pietro; although she does chuckle to herself, she doesn't need his permission or his help changing the house. But for tonight, Pietro insists that’s alright. He’s flexible, he says, and he is just so happy to be here. Pietro just missed his sister so deeply, and now everything was simply better. He’s back with his sister. He has two nephews that he gets to meet in the morning. Her long lost brother, who was so far away from her, was finally home. Who cares if he had to sleep on the couch?
Pietro lays down on her couch and closes her eyes while she wanders the house to rummage up a blanket and a pillow. She wants to sit with him and talk with him and just be with him, but he's asleep as soon as he hits the couch. She tries to reason with herself that everything will be alright. Besides, he has had a long journey and has traveled so far, or at least so he says. He needs the time to rest. They will have plenty of time in the morning to catch up on everything.
Wanda comes back to the living room with a quilt and an old pillow. She doesn’t remember who made the quilt or who gave it to her, but it was clearly handmade and warm. It would be perfect for the night until she came up with something more permanent. She clings it to her chest and creeps up behind the couch as not to disturb him.
She peeks over the back of the couch, expecting to find her sleeping brother. Instead, she finds a horror too great to name.
Pietro is still, unmoving. There are dozens and dozens of holes littered across his body, through his jeans, his jacket, across his exposed skin. Blood, warm and gushing, spilled all over her couch and leaked onto their carpet where it pooled. It's begun to sink and stain, and the entire room smells sweaty and metallic. His eyes are closed, but he does not look at peace.
Wanda screams louder than she ever imagined. Her entire body drops like a ton of bricks onto the floor. She is shaking and screaming, and the quilt lying next to her has unfurled itself into the blood, dying it an unhealthy shade of red.
-
Stop. Rewind.
-
Pietro lays down on her couch and closes her eyes while she wanders the house to rummage up a blanket and a pillow. Besides, he has had a long journey and has traveled so far, or at least so he says. He needs the time to rest. They will have plenty of time in the morning to catch up on everything. In fact, they'll have all of the time in the world.
Wanda comes back with a quilt and an old pillow. She doesn’t remember who made the quilt, but it was clearly handmade and warm. She clings it to her chest and creeps up behind the couch as not to disturb him. Then she remembers. This was her grandmother’s quilt. She had made it for them, in the bed that they shared as infants. This quilt kept them warm and safe, and it would keep Pietro safe now.
She peaks over the side of the couch. Her stomach drops for a reason she cannot name, but she is at peace as soon as she sees him. Pietro is still, his chest moving to accommodate his deep heavy breaths. His eyes are closed, and for the first time in years, he looks completely at peace. Wanda bends down to kiss his cheek and carefully arranges the quilt over his sleeping body. She smiles softly.
They will have plenty of time in the morning to catch up on everything.