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The Roman Myth . . . Chapter Three raised like this
It wasn't childish for Wanda to say I want... Was it? But she does want; the world's literature, the moon, color, a house made of pennies, wine and wonder. And Wanda, whether she was aware of it or not, was brutally honest. If she didn't like something, she wouldn't sugarcoat it but rather spit it out raw, naked, unfiltered. Wanda didn't care if she hurt your feelings or not. For a lack of better words, Wanda doesn't care.
Although, there were other parts of Wanda that made her childish. A childlike rage to throw a tantrum when things didn't go her way. It's all she's ever known. Due to the power she wields within her fingertips, she has received everything her heart has ever desired. From toys, clothes, respect, love. Many left in a storm when they understood Wanda's love wasn't sincere yet a mere imagination, the lies she had whispered against their skin as she dragged her teeth across their necks, a trick of her magic. She had wanted to feel love, some sort of love; someone who would keep her grounded, not let her fly off her rocket; but she never has. She was manipulative, with puppy dog eyes brimming with tears and a pretty please laced with the sweet as sugar tongue, she always had received whatever she wishes. The root of the problem was her mother. She could never say no to the young daughter, born from chaos and war. Because no one knew how to tame the wild beast within Wanda. A childlike loneliness, that beast wields; and he clings onto Wanda for dear life. Because he believes and makes Wanda believe, no one will be able to love Wanda like the beast inside her loves her.
The beast's love was different though. It was an open vow or a broken oath. It had become... profitable for the beast.
As Wanda had stepped off the platform and onto the cracked cobblestone, she looked around but saw no love. Just... Lust, within the eyes that roam her figure.
Wanda looked up, at the wicked naked beauty of the scraped blue skies. The grey-blue of the sky falls over her like silk. The buzzing of whispers echoed across the lot, all and sundry eyes on Wanda, as if on display for them to pick and prod at. But Wanda wasn't a doll. She was a breathing, living human girl with a beating heart that could squeeze. If you were to cut her flesh open at the seams of her scars, she would bleed. Warm, red, cosmic blood. Wanda shouldn't have to be cut up, alive and beautiful, to be declared and publicized both of those things, with her blood on your hands and guilty tears insight.
Wanda knew they were staring, but she acted as if she hadn't noticed; nor did she care. She marched on, unfazed, posture as if a large stack of books had been placed upon her red locks. Her fiery red locks contrasted deeply with her pale skin. Her fingertips ditz with the bronze trinket, her fingernails running over the ridges on the side of the coin.
1, 2, 3, spin.
But suddenly she stops before the stone stairs and black railing. She backpedals, just a few steps backward, and twists at the hips, capturing a silver wrangler jeep and the tremendous beauty that stood alongside. The whole student body should've dropped dead at the sight of such immeasurable beauty from the group of six.
