Chapter Text
Running through the grass barefooted, the blades tickling your feet. Loud, uncaring giggles as a hand reached out to tag soft skin. The heat of the sun glinting off your cheeks, leaving you warm. Bedtime stories, movie nights and sweet candy cherished by drooling lips.
These are the things a childhood should be made up of.
My childhood was not like this.
That's not to say that I didn't enjoy my childhood-- whilst it lasted---as I did very much. It's just to say that my childhood was... different. Instead of running around in a grassy backyard, I stayed inside the two-bed apartment I called home, people-watching from the one window in our living room. The thick smog of the nearby factories made it hard to see the skyline, but it was easy to see the passerby's down on the street below.
I liked to imagine what their lives were like. Were they rich? Were they poor? Did they like animals? Or art? Or sport? Did they read a lot? Were they one of the factory workers or were they one of the lucky few to evade a life of harsh labour?
For the first five years of my life, this game kept me entertained. It was a game of speculation that had little room for truth, after all, even if I saw their appearance, life was so complex that it couldn't be entirely captured in a single moment.
A few months after I had turned five, my mother returned late. She thanked Miss Moreno for taking care of me before tucking me into bed. This time, she didn't sing me a lullaby. Instead she threaded her fingers through my messy, unbrushed hair and cried. Not a howling cry, but a silent one. The only expression of emotion other than her tears was the soft frown on her face.
"Mama, what's wrong?" I remember I had asked, like all young children do.
She stayed quiet for a few moments more before pressing a kiss to my forehead. "You're going to be a big sister."
Pietro and Wanda Maximoff were born early in the morning on October eleventh, 1989. I had been left to my own devices on a chair just outside my mother's hospital room that morning, but I was a good child and good children didn't cause a ruckus. While I waited, I played my game, though it was a lot more boring because there were only ever a couple reasons someone was in the hospital.
Eventually, a nurse retrieved me and let me in to see my little siblings.
My mother was asleep, a sheen of sweat covered all her visible skin---and probably the rest of her skin under her hospital gown. Her dark hair was pulled back and out of her face, though the little baby hairs were laid askew. She looked rough, way rougher than I had ever seen her before. I remember, I had only looked away when the nurse nudged me out of my daze and towards one small cot.
There, the two babies laid. One swaddled in pink and one in blue. Their faces were scrunched and squishy and they looked kind of ugly with their overly fat, disproportionate bodies. I wish I could say that the second I laid my eyes on them I fell in love and knew I'd be the best big sister ever, but I didn't.
I was apathetic, staring at them. Searching for the sliver of feeling that I should have had.
I suppose the nurse took my silence for awe, for she chuckled and ran a hand down the back of my head. "They kept crying until we put them together." She told me, as if I cared. "Twins tend to do that. They're so used to being together that it's hard to be alone."
Maybe that's why I didn't feel anything for them like I did for my---our---mother. I had spent so long alone, with only my mother and Miss Moreno for company that it was hard to be around these babies who were supposed to come home with us.
I didn't touch them, or hold my finger out for their stubby little hands to grab. I didn't want to touch them. So instead I gave a polite smile to the nurse and left to go cuddle up with my mother.
For a few weeks, my mother was bedridden.
Unfortunately, I found it hard to not resent the twins for it. It left a sour taste in my mouth to blame babies, but she was only supposed to have one, the stress of having another had put her already frail body into jeopardy. All this time stuck in her bed was time she was losing money.
I was a naive child, but not as naive as most. I knew we were poor. My mother was a single mother without anyone other than Miss Moreno to rely on. There was a reason I didn't have toys or books to read and why I wasn't in daycare or pre-school.
When we did eventually go home, Miss Moreno was a frequent visitor, often taking care of the babies and I whilst my mother rested. I did my best to be good. I cleaned the house and watched the twins when Miss Moreno cooked and I didn't complain.
It's hard to think back on these times. Hard to think back on the sharp sting of starvation and the way the wind would chill your bones because of it. Sokovia wasn't by any means a warm country, and when you had little to spend on quality coats that fact became all the more clear.
All the funds we had was spent on making sure the babies were well, then that I was well and there was none left to make sure our mother was well.
She got mostly better eventually, but it's easy to see that had she gotten the money and necessary care, she would have been well much, much earlier. When she went back to work, Miss Moreno babysat more often and would teach me to look after the babies. She taught me to change nappies and how to differentiate a baby's cries and expressions. It was a lot like my game, using what you could see to make an idea of what could be.
Miss Moreno disapproved of my game and often gave me a cuff on the head when she caught me playing it, but she didn't lecture me a lot. I think it was because she pitied that my game was the only thing I could play. I didn't mind. I was a good child. I wasn't loud, I did my chores and I didn't cause a ruckus.
The twins were curious toddlers. They liked to follow me around when I did my chores, often causing me to have to spend much longer doing the cleaning as they'd mess it up as we went. Pietro was especially naughty. He seemed to go straight from rolling over to running through our small apartment. He was scarily quick for such a little guy.
Wanda was unlike Pietro in that aspect. She clung to the end of my skirts to steady herself and walk beside me. Then Pietro would run by and knock her over and she let out a shrill cry that seemed to rock the whole building. It was an annoying process but one I dealt with anyway.
Wanda was also the one who liked to be held the most. The second your hands were free she would tug on whatever she could and hold her hands up for you to pick her up. Of course, everyone obliged, for who could say no to the baby of the family? Pietro despised being held however and would become a little escape artist whenever you tried to pin him down to change his nappy.
Over time, I found that they were growing on me. I picked up their little quirks and mannerisms, like the face Wanda made just before she would try to hit Pietro or the way Pietro's knee would twitch before he went shooting off to run away.
They seemed to pick up on mine too, because when Wanda got tired she would walk over to the small little window overlooking the street and sit down whilst staring at me imploringly. Then Pietro would grow tired too and lie down by the window whilst staring at me until I came over and sat down. They'd both crawl into my lap and I'd wrap my arms around them. They seemed to have favoured sides as Pietro always lied his head over my heart. There, they'd nap whilst I played my game.
Good times do not last. That's a luxury the poor cannot afford.
When I was fifteen, war struck. It was supposed to be our night off. Mother had gotten home early from the factory and I hadn't any students to tutor that night apart from Pietro and Wanda. We ate dinner in front of the dinky old TV that I had found in a dumpster long, long ago, watching a sitcom that Wanda favoured.
Then, a bomb came through our ceiling. I suspect that I felt the metal moments before it hit, for after it tore through the building, Pietro and Wanda were safely curled under my arms.
Our mother was not so lucky.
I tried to stop the twins from looking, but they were always too fast for me to keep up with. I cradled their heads into my chest, as if their tears could wash the ache away from my heart. It was strange, in that moment my emotions faltered and I was apathetic again like I had been whence I had first laid my gaze in the twins in that hospital room. The only remainder of the hurt was the dryness of my mouth and the wetness of my lashes.
The bomb didn't go off. It was a dud. A dud bomb had killed our mother, who was crushed under debris. Her blood painted our floor and what were the remains of our ceiling.
After casting a look around our little apartment, I realised nothing was salvageable. The building was crumpled like dirty laundry around us. The sky was open above our heads, the stars twinkling mirthlessly up, up in the sky.
That night we slept in an alleyway. The twins and I huddled together for warmth. I remember being reminded of when I had gotten lost when I was little and how the biting cold encroached on my warmth. This was just like that time.
For weeks, we lived on the streets, salvaging what we could from the wreckage. Sokovia had never been a rich country, but now it was deprived of the most basic necessities. More people seemed to crowd the streets than the homes as our city was in ruins. There was no help or saviour to come look after us. We had to get up and deal with it.
I took up many jobs, some I'm not proud of, but it kept the twins warm and fed. Eventually, I could afford a small one bedroom apartment in one of the new reconstructed buildings. Pietro, Wanda and I all still huddled in the single rickety bed for warmth like we had in alleys and parks.
That was a couple years ago.
I don't expect you to reply to this letter. I'm not even sure this letter will reach you at all. But just in case you wanted to know, we're doing fine despite it all. And despite the fact that you never showed up when we needed you, not even when our mother, the woman you once loved, died. We made it anyway. I hope that wherever you are out there, that you stay out there, away from us. Because I know you will never be a good enough father. You will never in a billion years deserve to be the father of Pietro and Wanda.
So if you are reading this, 'Magneto', don't come looking for us. Suffer with the realisation that you have lost the greatest, most incredible children, who far outshine any of your other achievements.
- Anya Maximoff