Prompt Post #1

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Re: The quiet brutality of a well worn trauma [2/?]

[(Anonymous)]

[I'm still figuring out where I'm going fully with this, sorry!]

"Stop, please stop. Please just stop."

It was hard to tell if the voice came more from the woman standing next to Agatha, hands clutched tightly over her ears, eyes squeezed shut to block out the world, or from the far to vibrant memory of the little girl she had been that lay in front of them.
A little girl who also had her eyes clenched shut so tightly it must have hurt, hands clutching not her ears but a rather raggedy looking cloth doll as if it could protect her from the man who knelt over her.
It couldn't.
It didn't.
The man's face wasn't clear, looking like a clay doll in progress. Little Wanda must not have focused on his face, or tried to blot it out.

"Please, please, please..."

"Do you know how much it costs to take care of you? Of your brother? Little filthy heathens we have to provide for, convert. I'm saving your soul, child." His voice was distorted too, like a wobbly record, his hand pressing down on her neck so large it covered all of it.

"I don't want to--"

"God doesn't care what you want."

"I don't want to be here.". Wanda spoke it in tandem with her younger self, the same desperate tearful inflection. In the memory her younger self flinched back, crying out as the man slapped her for it and Wanda cringed back as if Agatha had done the same.

"You're hiding things. I want to know what.".
She spoke with confidence, with the same snideness to her tone she'd perfected, but Agatha felt herself wavering slightly
There was a connected memory, one that stood out glowing in Wanda's mind, like it would splinter into pieces if Agatha touched it, if she tried to pull it forth or delve any further into it.
So she did, both to see what more Wanda was hiding, and to a degree to get away from the crying child in front of her.

It didn't work to get rid of the crying child anymore than the doll worked to protect the little girl Wanda had been.
At first Agatha didn't think the memory had changed at all. Same girl, same doll, same crying pleas but... no, this girl was a little older, hair a little longer.
The man was different, his face more defined. Recognizable as human at least.

"Shut up."

"Please, please stop-"

"I said shut up! If you wake anyone else I'll make sure it hurts."

"Please--"

"Or maybe I'll find your brother instead, hmm?"

"Wanda..."
Wanda didn't answer, sinking to sit on the floor, knees drawn up to her chest.

"Please, no- no! Leave Pietro alone."

"He pleads for us to leave you alone too, you know." the hiss was brutal, accompanied by something that made the younger Wanda scream as Agatha looked away searching for a way out.
Even a faint glimmer she grasped at.

A new room same girl, older now.
This Wanda didn't plead. She didn't beg or whimper or cry out. There was no doll to clutch, or darkness of a dorm room.

Wanda bit her lip, fingers digging into the desk that a man in what Agatha recognized as the all black clothing only those annoying Catholics wore bent her over.

A man who had far too much joy on his face, and intent in his eyes as he shoved her skirt up around her waist, yanking down her underwear with enough force his nails left red marks across her thighs.

But Wanda didn't react.

She kept her eyes closed tightly, the same as her adult counterpart, barely a change in breathing at the man's hands grabbing her ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh.

"Where were you?" Agatha asked, distracting away from the scene in front of herself, trying not to look too closely at the man drawing his own belt from the loops.

"An orphanage,".
Wanda whispered, bloodshot eyes barely glancing up at the scene. She flinched away at her past self, now pinned forward across the desk by a hand on her neck.

"What did you do to deserve it?". Agatha asked airy, tried to anyway.

"I existed.". Wanda's reply was so quiet Agatha had to strain to hear it over the grunts and sounds of leather hitting flesh that seemed to echo all around them.

"You... you need to learn your place in this world, learn your use." the man's voice was winded now. He let his belt drop to the floor with a thump, hands gravitating back towards Wanda's now red and bruised ass. His fingers digging into it like before, a sharp slap with his bare hand. "If it weren't for me, for this home, you'd have nothing. You'd be nothing. Is it so hard to listen? Answer me!" he yelled, slapping her ass harder when she didn't reply.

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"It's too hard to listen." her face was blank, and it didn't seem to be the answer he wanted judging by how red his face turned, the way he raised his hand again.

"You worthless bitch-"

"What happened to him? To that home?". Agatha asked, studying his face, trying to memorize it.

"Pietro killed him." Wanda replied, not risking a look up. Her nails had dug little half moon circles into the skin around her ears, her temples. "We ran."

"Ran where? You had nothing."

"Better a box in an ally than another minute with them."

"You didn't use your magic?" Her voice was sarcastic, but Agatha was fairly confused as to why Wanda's eyes weren't red, no tale-tell traces of powers against someone angering her.

"I didn't have any."

Agatha had expected it to get better after the twins had run. She wasn't sure why, but she honestly had expected better, despite being homeless runaway orphans.
Not exactly Richie Rich in the Ritz Carlton, but something better.

Wanda using her magic maybe to make things better maybe, or anything, something 'better'.

But they were still kids, still teenagers. Children making due in a world where there was nothing but war, and anger. War, soldiers fighting in their streets, the sound of bombs and bullets a lullaby to sleep to.
Soldiers making people disappear, whispers of Americans being held hostage and worse.

The twins had been so powerful, Wanda's magic so amazing... it was befuddling to watch them trade favors in back rooms, in alleyway and dimly lit apartments.

Watching the traumatized little girl grow into a quiet adult, one that'd gone from fighting and crying to silent and faking smiles.

"Why?" Agatha asked after the fifth flash, another room with an older man she despartely felt the need to punch, another person leaving marks on the skin of a young girl with no options.

"I had nothing else to offer, nothing else to use to barter."

"Violence."

"Violence can only work when you are stronger. I was weak. I was nothing."

"You were magic."

"No, I wasn't."