[darkness embraced, wanda's state of mind is not one full of clarity. she struggles, hopping in and out of consciousnessβwaking to delusions created by her magic, of her bedroom in the perfect suburban home, only to disappear the next time she opens her eyes. dreams within dreams, straying out of thought and time, stars wheeling overhead, back and forth, between the moon and the sun.
she sees vision sometimes, taking her hand and picking her off of the ground, regaling her with easygoing stories of simple, trivial things. minutes pass before she catches herself, talking alone, scarlet magic disappearing from the corner of her eyes. it's this constant back and forth, of not wanting to escape reality but wishing to do so irregardless, that makes her feel that she is teetering back and forth from the brink of something damaged.
it's amidst such a moment, in the turmoil of not wanting to confront how she feels, that her thoughts stop abruptly.
hi, wanda? my name is peter parker.
...familiar. it's a familiar name, and she connects it to the pertaining face so quickly. how long has it been? she blinks and his messages disappear before she can read them. no, come back. wanda holds on to it, to this anchor; she focuses, closing her eyes tight.]
Peter.
[it comes rushed out, frazzled, like this is a message she needs to convey, conversations prior of a boy worried of being forgotten, willing to be forgotten. it feels like the only rational thing she's thought about in days; the first thoughts that follow some kind of distinct order.]
here. we. go.
she sees vision sometimes, taking her hand and picking her off of the ground, regaling her with easygoing stories of simple, trivial things. minutes pass before she catches herself, talking alone, scarlet magic disappearing from the corner of her eyes. it's this constant back and forth, of not wanting to escape reality but wishing to do so irregardless, that makes her feel that she is teetering back and forth from the brink of something damaged.
it's amidst such a moment, in the turmoil of not wanting to confront how she feels, that her thoughts stop abruptly.
...familiar. it's a familiar name, and she connects it to the pertaining face so quickly. how long has it been? she blinks and his messages disappear before she can read them. no, come back. wanda holds on to it, to this anchor; she focuses, closing her eyes tight.]
[it comes rushed out, frazzled, like this is a message she needs to convey, conversations prior of a boy worried of being forgotten, willing to be forgotten. it feels like the only rational thing she's thought about in days; the first thoughts that follow some kind of distinct order.]