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Last night you'd laid out in the yard in an old Halloween costume, steadily getting drunk off of the one bottle of alcohol you were allowed to have. You screamed the lyrics to every Twisted Sister and Kiss song you could remember and loudly recited your own version of the Lord of the Rings from start to finish. It started turning into Star Wars at the end somehow, but you thought it actually worked pretty well. You made it until just after four in the morning before you started crying again.
New record, cool.
You went to take another sip of the liquor, your tears rolling down into the bottle and shimmering like red string lights as it turned into a tall glass of water. She was watching. She was always watching.
You stared at it, the "sweet" gesture twisting like an oily snake in your belly. You hated it, hated this, hated her- so you threw the full glass as hard as you could towards the delicate little white picket fence, waiting patiently for the shatter. There's another flash of bright red and a heavy rubber ball bounces off it noiselessly instead. Figures that Wanda can't let you have your anger or satisfaction to yourself.
Sorry, not Wanda. You're pretty sure she died when Pietro did.
The Scarlet Witch must be getting upset if she's finally interfering and you decide that's a good sign to start winding down. Not every fight is worth fighting, although can it even be a fight when one side doesn't actually stand a chance?
When morning came and the neighbors began running through the routines she had set for them, they gave you identical cheery smiles and big waves as they passed by. Apparently she hadn't done it on purpose- a side effect of her magic and your beauty, she'd told you with adoring eyes and her own simpering smile. It slipped only briefly when you lunged at her, spitting and sobbing, held down by the enchanted restraints she kept under your shared bed for the bad days.
Knowing she'd be listening, you told each of them to eat shit with your own large grin, and they thanked you without a single change in expression and continued jogging down the path. You stripped down to your underwear when the mailman got there, wordlessly going back to the house and heading towards the shower. You could hear her rattling around in the kitchen, probably making the two of you breakfast. You wondered what she'd make. You wondered if you should actually eat it.
Surprisingly you hear her start to move in your direction, her fluffy bunny slippers making soft taps against the cold tiles. Distantly you think of your own matching pair, the duckie slippers that still appear on your side of the bed every day, no matter how many times you tear them apart. You freeze for a second before shooting up the stairs, skipping most of the steps. All of your anger bubbled up into an awful combination of fear and nauseous anxiety. You regretted talking back to the neighbors at all. You barely make it up as she appears with tousled hair and a hesitant greeting to an empty living room.
Your heart is pounding when you slide into the bathroom and lock the door, like it matters. Like the lock is even real. Like a goddamn push-button lock would stop something like her.
It had been four days since you'd chosen to see her and she had humored you, almost condescendingly, allowing you to deviate from the picture-perfect life together she had tried to build in this cursed place. She'd almost even seemed like she was avoiding you back, dropping your meals off via neighbors or teleporting your book or what have you to your location to when you couldn't find them.
“Anything for you,” She had whispered to you once, when she was still sweet little Wanda and you were something more than someone's big dark secret. “Everything for you.”
Knowing what you do now, you wonder if what she is now has always been around in some capacity.
It's an idea you don't have long to ponder when you feel the energy in the bathroom shift. You can't explain it but you instinctively know when she enters. Absolutely still, like a deer in headlights, you don't dare to breathe within this oppressive atmosphere. Out of the corner of your eye you see the you in the reflection spasm and break apart, the bones and musculature wriggling and writhing as it resettles into another familiar face.
You still refuse to look at her.
“My love, please come down to breakfast.” Her voice is so soft, so helpful in hiding all the jagged edges that lay underneath. "We can go back to bed after, spend the day in together. Hmm?"
When you don't answer she sighs. You expect her to leave but she doesn't, lingering in the mirror and just looking you over slowly. Her gaze on you is so, so heavy, and for a second your knees actually wobble.
Out of nowhere her hand shoots out of the glass, making you scream on pure instinct. At first you're fighting her, trying to pry her glowing hands off of you, but then a few loose tendrils snake up and into your nostrils and ears. A buzzing fills your ears like millions and millions of bees are swarming through your skull and burrowing in deep. The sound is so loud and distracting that you give in quickly, but you usually do. The bees were your least favorite type of 'lesson'.
Wanda pulls herself out the rest of the way, sitting gracefully atop the counter and yanking you into her. The screeching of the glass shifting back into place only adds to the misery brewing in your head. She wraps both her arms around you, ink-tipped fingers curling into your bare skin. Leaning in to rest her forehead against your shoulder, she just takes a moment to breathe you in.
You're still frozen, wincing, until she pulls back her magic. You know that she'll do it again- she may not want to hurt you, but in her own words she had no issue making you uncomfortable if it meant keeping you safe.
The silence is terrifying in length, nothing but the hum of the fan while the woman behind you drank in you, your smell, your energy. She hated that you were so uncooperative, so distant from her, but...
“You can hurt me, you know...” It's whispered so quietly you almost don't hear it. You go to answer but find your voice has disappeared, a leftover tingling sliding down from your temples to your throat.
“Hurt me. Yell at me. I'll give you my heart and you can shred it to pieces, if it makes you happy.” She rests a hand on her own chest, the nails digging in hard enough to leave harsh red welts. For a long, horrifying moment you think she might actually tear it out.
“You can do whatever you'd like to me, anything at all, but you have to promise to stay with me.”
The hand on her chest returns to your waist, linking with the other one so she can tug herself even closer. You're trembling as her breath hits your ear and she whispers that she loves you over and over and over again, until your tears fall once more.
Where would you go?
Where could you go?