Vermilion [Wanda Maximoff Imagines]

Easy Pretense

Summary : As Wanda sets out her plan and refused consult after your abandonment, both find it was easier to pretend that the past was just that. The past.

Words : 4.2k

Warning (s) : blood, sadness, self-hatred?? some mental shit.

Part 1 of 2

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Dust was collecting on the shelves of the dark, gloomy living room; a reminder of her failure to look after one thing over the other. It used to be easy, as light as breathing came, yet this small mundane thing was too much for her exhausted brain to handle. The sun shone bright on her porch, dry leaves already piling up on the lake beside her house. Wanda used to wave her arm or snap her fingers, and it would all be fixed in a blink of an eye – now, her heart was elsewhere, and the scarlet unfortunately refused to do her bidding.

The Scarlet Witch was flipping the book of the damned every waking minute, and even though she should be capable of doing much more, the redhead found it hard to concentrate on foreign words and brew coffee without setting the house on fire. She told herself it was temporary, that it would go back to normal in a few days – only it didn’t. The weather broke each time she adjusted it to her likings, the tress rot and its leaves dried before fall came, the fish in the lake floated to the surface after a few days before she replaced them with new ones. Each item Wanda tried to correct came to bite her in the ass – so she stopped trying.

She stopped trying to fix the all too hot weather, the broken pipe of her sink, the bothersome chipmunks in her backyard – the door to Scarlet Witch’s room wasn’t even locked anymore, it was left ajar each morning when she projected herself, granting access to a show no one was present to see. It never took much out of her, hell – it only ever needed a thought, and stuff would be unbroken before she realized. Now that she wasn’t focused solely on her projections and the book, it was easier to notice something else occupying the space she told herself was her safe sanctuary.

There were blankets and pillows on the couch, as opposed to her dislikes against unmade, messy beds, she’d remembered you telling her it wasn’t a bed to begin with. There was an extra mug on the counter, another plate piling on top of hers in the kitchen, a pair of shoes laying on the rack that wasn’t hers. If she didn’t know any better, her innocent, hopeful of a heart would’ve wished you’d step in from the door and find that nothing had been changed since you were there. It all stayed the same – Wanda hadn’t dare remove any of your belongings in fear of the sight of disappointment when you find the house different, of realizing how much time had passed.

Wanda kept telling herself the odds were too low, yet the hope she carried still lingered, the very same hope she didn’t know she was still capable of keeping. It was easier to pretend you were never here. After all, her ignorance was what drove you away in the first place; neglecting your advices, rolling her eyes at your show of concern, leaving only silence to answer your questions. The witch couldn’t imagine the feeling if she was to be in your shoes, and your departure made so much sense in a sudden realization – who would want to deal with the mess that was herself?

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Threading through branches and bulging roots in the ground had never been harder. Twigs and leaves catching your hair or clothes, sharp stems scratching your skin and the distinct smell of animal waste had you fighting to keep the contents in your stomach inside. They were all small wounds, though. Insignificant, unnoticeable, just like you were, in a sense. Those scrapes were nothing compared to the gaping hole inside your chest, hollowness consuming you from head to toe, drowning and keeping your head on the surface at the same time.