In the matter of Wanda Maximoff, poison has always been in her life. In her mind and on the tip of her tongue. Grief and loss are ever so prevalent in her life, and it only makes the poison grow deeper and deeper as it eats away at her soul. And whe...
The melodic and ever-so-catchy tune plays through Ivy's mind as she sits up in her twin bed, her nose burried in a book as Wanda sleeps soundly in the bed beside her. Despite being the middle of the night, Ivy's hair is styled and looks ever so perfect.
Ivy gently closes her book, her fingers tracing the faded cover as she takes a moment to soak in the silence of the room. The soft glow of the moon filters through the curtains, casting a dreamlike hue over the vintage decor. Everything seems frozen in time, suspended in an illusion of idyllic perfection.
As Ivy swings her legs over the side of the bed, her slippered feet touch the plush carpet, and she rises gracefully, her movements flowing with an elegance befitting the era. She casts a glance at Wanda, who slumbers peacefully, completely unaware of the thoughts and questions swirling in Ivy's mind.
Ivy tiptoes across the room, careful not to disturb Wanda's slumber. She finds herself drawn to the vintage vanity table, adorned with an array of meticulously arranged makeup and hair products. Her reflection in the ornate mirror gazes back at her, and she studies the perfectly styled hair and flawlessly applied makeup that conceals the turmoil beneath.
With a sigh, Ivy reaches for a brush, its bristles gliding smoothly through her hair. As she runs it through the glossy locks, she contemplates the nature of their existence in Westview. She questions the origin of this reality and the purpose it serves, desperately seeking a way to break free from the confines of the charade.
The sound of footsteps outside the bedroom door jolts Ivy from her thoughts, and she quickly places the brush back on the vanity. Wanda's eyes flutter open, and she looks at Ivy with a smile that mirrors the scripted happiness they're supposed to embody.
"Good morning, darling," Wanda greets, her voice tinged with a cheery enthusiasm, "Did you sleep well?"
Ivy returns the smile, her lips curving effortlessly despite the tumultuous thoughts that occupy her mind.
"Like a dream," She replies, her voice flowing with a honeyed sweetness.
Wanda slips out of bed, her movements as graceful as a dancer. She joins Ivy at the vanity, and together they apply their makeup, their synchronized actions a well-rehearsed routine. Ivy watches their mirrored reflections, the masks they wear to blend into the fabricated world of Westview.
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As they finish getting ready, Ivy and Wanda descend the staircase of their quaint suburban home. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the air, and the melodic tune that has become their constant companion drifts from the kitchen radio. Their footsteps echo on the hardwood floor, marking the passage of time in this meticulously orchestrated reality.
In the kitchen, they find a spread of breakfast dishes neatly arranged on the table, as if placed there by unseen hands. Ivy's stomach churns with a mix of hunger and apprehension. She wonders who prepares these meals and what other unseen forces shape their lives in Westview.
