𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘠𝘰𝘶, 𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘔𝘦 || 𝘠𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘢 𝘉𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘢

⁰¹

(Unedited, 3686 words)
Trigger Warnings: Explosion (at the end)

I don't understand why Sokovia is the way it is. 

The streets are always covered chunks of concrete, large piles of trash, cars with their windows smashed out, and people yelling in Sokovian and English while carrying weapons and setting fire to anything that the flames will catch on. 

Mama says it's because people in Sokovia don't understand that the world is bigger than us, and that what might be best for the rest of the world just isn't good for Sokovia, and that knowing that makes Sokovians very mad. Papa says it's the Americans trying to rip Sokovia apart get her to shut up and to get the rebels to stop fighting. They don't talk about it in front of each other, or at least not in front of me and Wanda and Pietro. Mama only replies to my questions after the fighting in the street gets loud enough for us to wonder if it'll affect us. Papa talks about it without being asked. 

I don't know why what's best for the world wouldn't be good for Sokovia, or why the Americans would destroy Sokovia if they wanted to fix it, but I do know that whatever goes on in the streets is not supposed to reach our apartment. Mama says to wipe our hands clean, and Papa tells us not to think about it.

But it doesn't matter if it's on our skin or in our heads, it's not supposed to make it past the front door. 

In our apartment, everything is what it should be. 

In our apartment, the front door opens into what Mama calls a foyer, where the coat rack holds all of our outer layers, ready to give us warmth before we head out into the cold. In our apartment, the kitchen is Mama's safe place where she makes us snacks and spends most of her time cleaning. In our apartment, the TV is only used with DVDs because— as Papa puts it— the news never has anything good to say about us, and—as Mama says— we'll learn more from movies and shows than we will watching a news report. In our apartment, there are three worn spots on the carpet where Wanda, Pietro, and I sit to watch the TV on nights that we're allowed. 

In our apartment, no one carries weapons or speaks with angry voices. We don't yell. We don't curse. Even when our parents are mad, they're calm and they're kind. Even when Pietro and Wanda argue, they keep their voices quiet— or at least as quiet as Pietro can be. Even when I'm upset, I cry softly. We don't have to be mean or loud or angry to be heard. We don't have to be anything other than ourselves, and none of us are mean or loud or angry— except for Pietro, who is very loud.

In our apartment, Mama is just Mama and Papa is just Papa. 

And Pietro is just my older brother.

And Wanda is just my older sister. 

And I am just me. 

I don't understand why Sokovia is the way it is.

But in our apartment, Sokovia is the way it should be.

━━━━〖 ♠ 〗━━━━

I have an imaginary friend named Katya who could shapeshift into a cat long before I knew the English word for cat sounded like the first sound in her name. She is older than me by a year, meaning she was born sometime between me and Wanda and Pietro. She has long brown hair that twists and curls lazily towards the bottom, and eyes so colorful they remind me of the stained-glass windows in the churches of the American movies I have seen. She doesn't speak a lot of Sokovian, but she does speak fluent English. Since I'm trying to learn English, she and I typically have our conversations in that language.