Talia Strange had become the glitch of the multiverse, connected to America Chavez.
On one fateful day in 2016, three things happened: one, Stephen Strange had discovered the divorce papers that his wife had hidden; two, after an argument, Talia St...
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AT BARLEY FIVE, TALIA HAD been deemed a miracle. From the car wreckage, a child had been found, sitting on the curb of the pavement, watching as the car had lit up in flames.
Struck by the trauma, Talia had no recollection of how she had survived when her mother had not. She also could not tell you how she managed to get herself free from the squished backseats. All Talia could remember were the final moments with her mother; the two singing Jingle Bells with Talia giggling, a smile so bright on her face.
Talia had cried for her mother as the emergency services arrived — she had kicked and screamed as they tore her away from the scene, rushing her to the hospital. When her father had finally come, he simply stared at her with hollow eyes, the love extinguishing.
"Where is mommy?" Talia had cried.
But her father had walked away.
For the days that had followed, Talia's father had not said a word to his daughter. As the funeral came, there was no comfort from her father. Talia had stood silently at his side, tears streaming down her cheeks, wanting her mother, who had left her.
"Daddy?" Talia had asked after the funeral.
The man paused, shoulders tensing as his fingers tightened around the bottle in his hands. As he turned, he raised an accusing finger at the child, the alcohol sloshing from the movement. "Don't call me that. You are no child of mine. I never wanted you — she did."
Talia felt her chest tighten, trying to smother her reaction.
"You..." the man's voice shook. "You...should have died instead."
And then he left, uncaring as the child broke, forcing herself to remain silent as the sobs bubbled inside of her.
In the years that followed, Talia avoided speaking to her father as much as possible. She was simply there — a shadow — who handed her father bottles when he clicked his fingers. Talia should have left, but she had nowhere to go, no one to love her. As much as she feared her father, Talia was too afraid to leave him.
On her tenth birthday, Talia had hidden in her bedroom, singing quietly as she drew. Talia was under her bed, trying to keep the drawings a secret in fear that they would be stolen from her too. In the drawing, Talia had pictured another version of her life: for her tenth birthday, Talia's mother was still alive, singing Happy Birthday for her daughter as the family of three shared love and cake. Even Talia's father was there — a smile on his face with no bottle or belt to be seen.
"Te quiero," Talia had whispered. "Te extraño."
I love you. I miss you.
Fingers dug into Talia's ankles, yanking her out from where she hid under the bed as she screamed. The paper had been in her hands, coming with her as her body rolled, eyes widening to see the red flare of anger in her father's eyes.
