Notes:

DISCLAIMER: A repeat of what was said at the beginning. This world and it's characters are not mine, in this chapter, the previous, or any others, they are merely borrowed for enjoyment.

THANKS TO: Scribbler, to Beta read and checked this for me.

REVIEWERS:

Chaotic Boredom: Thanks for reading! Glad to see you're getting so into the characters.

DeLiz: Yay, a nice long review! Me likes! Do it again for the other chapters, eh? (;  Is Pietro evil? Well, you'll just have to read and find out…

Laureate: Thanks for the praise! I'm glad to see you're so glued, and that Toddy has a supporter. Poor little slime, he needs all the friends he can get…

Mrs. Jean Grey-Summers: Thanks for your readership! I hope I haven't put you off… coincidentally, if you like my writing, and like Jean Grey, try out Being Normal. It features her as the main character and (if you'll believe some people) is my best work thus far. But that's enough shameless advertising…

Harry_Wiggle: Glad to see you around, Harry, especially with the Nutbord down. It makes me sad that I can't talk to the guys there… ): Do I plan out my stories? Yes and no… it depends. I didn't plan this one, though I thought about it a lot. I did plan out Being Normal, but that was a lot more complex… Keep on reviewing!

Rilo: Thanks for your review!

Ricter: Thanks to you too! I like the word twincest, BTW, it kinda… works. Hummm… must remember that one…

FINAL NOTES: Sorry about some of the layout problems, nothing I could do. I hope they didn't interfere with your enjoyment too much.

PLEASE don't stop reviewing!

Now, on with the story!

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Shard 3: Wanda

I'm a creature of habit, not half as strong as some people think.

I always go to bed at the same time - nine p.m. sharp. Earlier than any of the boys. Why? I don't know, it's habit I guess, habit from... from... I don't know where.

Perhaps it's from my father. Yes... yes I feel sure... he was strict about bedtimes. Nine o'clock was when I went to bed, and then he'd read me and my brother a story, then sleep.

Yes. That's how it was.

Yet I'm surprised I didn't rebel. I'm a young woman, after all, in control of my own life, powerful, independent. So why do I still do as my father told me, even all those years ago?

Because I love him.

It's funny, why was I so angry with him before? He was such a good father, right? How could he be anything else? He's given me so many good memories.

It's getting on towards winter, it's already becoming dark outside.

That's another reason why I like early nights. I hate the dark. Sounds odd, doesn't it? A girl of my age, afraid of the dark. But I am, and again I can't say why. Probably another childhood thing, dreaming of monsters in the night, creatures waiting with teeth and claws, fangs and needles.

Needles?

I think the strangest things, sometimes.

So, after spending a day reading, watching bad TV, and wandering around stores with no money to spend, I head up the creaky, rotting stairs to my stark bedroom.

There's another odd thing, it always scares me how empty it is. Not physically empty but... I don't know... spiritually empty, I guess.

Just a few hours after I joined the Brotherhood, after I took up living here, Gambit came around with a load of stuff. My stuff. He even helped move it up to my room. And there they all are, my favourite clothes, toys, and bedspreads - even posters. I should love them, and I remember them all, but I don't...

Take the duvet coverlet. It's black, velvety black with delicate, curling ivy patterns in green and gold thread round the edges. It's undoubtedly beautiful, probably expensive too. I have a memory of my father giving it to me for my thirteenth birthday; I remember the look on his face, the love of love, as I unwrapped it from the golden-foil paper. I remember it all so clearly...

But I don't *feel* anything. When I slip beneath it, I don't feel safe, or happy, or secure. It doesn't feel like *my* bed, it feels... new... alien.

That's how everything here feels to me. Like I'm living someone else's life, a differentm Wanda.

And there are gaps too. For example, I remember what I got on my thirteenth birthday, but for the life of me I can't say what Pietro received.

Then there are the books.

I like reading, I really do, and I've got a big book collection, all my favourites, mostly from my dad, or from Pietro.

Lying in bed now, sleep far from my mind, and the light outside beginning to fail, I turn to those tomes.

Switching on the light on my nightstand, I pick up the book I've been re-reading.

Or I think I'm re-reading it, anyway.

It's Frankenstein, and reading it is like experiencing deja vu in reverse.

I remember reading it before, I know it's one of my favourite books, but it feels like a book I've never read. Some passages are completely new to me, I don't know what's happening next, and nothing is familiar in it. Not really familiar, just remembered.

Eventually I put the book down and give up. It's no good.

I lie back down amidst the covers and attempt to get to sleep again, but I know it'll be of little use.

I hear a vehicle pull up outside, and the front door opening and closing. Lance is back.

I don't know what to make of Lance. I like him, I guess; he's down to earth and stuff. But he's so... distant. Like he's afraid to say the wrong thing around me. Like I'm a dangerous.

Freddy acts the same, though he hides it better, I think. He's still pretty nice, making me cups of cocoa and stuff, but he watches me with this... this fear in his eyes. It's almost hostility, but not quite. He's the only one that knows about my sleeping habits, I think he's onto what's been going on recently, but he keeps his mouth shut. Too scared to speak, I suppose.

Of course, it might be the way I act. I am a bit aggressive sometimes, I'll admit, I like to show myself as strong, I hate looking weak. But I am, you know, deep down, I feel weaker than anything...

Oh God, I feel like such a... a freak for even thinking that. You know, the stereotypical modern girl, strong on the outside but pathetic in the middle, waiting for some fairy-tale hero to save her? So much for 20th century woman, eh?

But it's not like that, because the problem doesn't come from outside, doesn't come from any ogre or dragon. I don't know where it comes from. It comes from nothing, from everything... it's like nothing's quite right.

It's like I'm Alice in Wonderland.

Yes, that's it, Alice in Wonderland, I loved that book, and I still do. It's odd that I don't have it in my collection, because it's one of the few books that *does* provoke an emotional reaction in me. I remember reading it with Pietro when I was younger, about nine or ten, I think.

Yes, that I do remember, that feels right. Almost everything with Pietro feels right.

Lance is talking to someone now, himself perhaps? He's never been the most stable of individuals; he's got a hairpin temper, that's for sure. A few seconds later there's a smashing sound, like he's slammed or thrown something against the wall.

I shiver in my bed.

Then I hear a knocking on Lance's door, probably Freddy. The door opens, there's a silence, then it closes again, and I hear Freddy start going back down.

I can't do this. Not again. I can't lie alone in a dark, empty room that feels so strange. I can't sleep with a madman next-door. I can't do this.

I've got to go to him again.

I slip out of bed, trying not to make too much noise, and exit that dark, cold, remembered yet unfamiliar room. The room that's mine, and yet not mine.

I lock the door behind me and creep along the corridor, quiet as can be, until I reach my brother's room. Using my other key, the key he's shared with me, like I shared mine, I unlock his door and slip inside.

This is better, this is familiar; more of me is in Pietro's room than exists in the chamber set out for me. I know him, even if I don't know myself.

I smile at the posters of semi-clad women on the walls; I know he has a weakness for supermodels. There's also a poster of Michel Schumacher, the Formula 1 racing driver, one of Pietro's personal heroes.

The room is messy at the moment, his socks, shoes, jumpers, T-shirts, pants and undergarments spread everywhere, yet that is his habit. His bedroom often switches from horrendously messy to fanatically clean depending on his mercurial mood.

I know this well. I know him. I know he's safe.

I take out a pile of blankets from his bottom draw and, as I have done these past three nights, spread them out on the floor for me to sleep on.

Yes, I've been doing this a lot recently. At first I thought my room was all right, at first it seemed good, but the longer I spent in it, the more I saw of it, the less I liked. The more it felt like I was living in a stranger's room.

Three nights ago, I could no longer bear it. I crept over to Pietro's room and asked if I could sleep with him. Share his bed.

At first he seemed confused, even a little frightened, but he accepted me.

So I spent the night in my brother's bed, knowing that I was safe.

It had been over ten years since I had done that.

Yes, when we were little father used to... used to... go away for a while, though he would always bring back presents. But it was dark, and we were afraid, so Pie-Pie and me used to snuggle up against each other at night, knowing that each would protect the other.

That's right, that's true. It feels truer than any other memory I have, and it's the one I keep going back to, that memory of me and my brother, safety and security.

That morning he was up and out of bed, kicking me out, telling me he wanted to get dressed alone. It was OK, I guess, but I felt... betrayed.

I went to him again, the next night, still needing his hugs, his safety. This time, though, he told me he wanted me to sleep on the floor, if I had to sleep in his room at all.

I don't understand. Doesn't he want me? What am I doing wrong? It's not as if we're doing anything... you know... nasty, just holding each other, keeping each other warm and safe.

Yet he acts like there's this big secret, this big guilt, he barely looks me in the face any more. And he's nervy, has been since I moved in, like all the others he acts as if one wrong word could set me off. I don't understand, isn't he my brother? Doesn't he know I love him?

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound the front door, and staggering footsteps. Toad, it must be Toad. He comes upstairs, and I hear him vomit. The sound of him, the thought of him, sometimes it makes me want to vomit too. Lance has muttered something about drink and Toad. I'm not sure, but I wouldn't put it past him.

He goes back downstairs for a bit. For a while I think that'll be it, he'll go out again, but no such luck.

Back upstairs he stumbles, and follows his usual routine, moving down the hallway until he reaches my door, where he stops.

He's trying to listen to me, I know, listening to me sleep.

It makes me feel ill.

He's the one that scares me the most, and on so many levels. All the others - Lance, Freddy, even Pietro - they keep their distance, but Todd...

I'm not used to it. I'm afraid of what he'll do, afraid of what he wants. I'm afraid he'll come too close to me.

If I let him too close to me, he'll hurt me.

That's another reason I moved to Pie-Pie's room, to escape him, to run from that sneaking, slimy stalker.

The nightmare on the other side of my door.

The funny thing is... sometimes... I feel like I want to let him in, want to trust him, but I can't. Why can't I let people get close to me?

Why am I so scared?

Eventually he moves on, coming to Pietro's door. I wonder if he knows I'm here. I try to still my breathing, but I can't. Besides, he's more patient than he looks, he'll listen until I have no air left in my lungs, until I'm forced to gasp for oxygen. Then he'll hear me.

Whether he hears me or not, he moves on soon enough, and I try to calm down again, try to let sleep claim me. Yet I know it will be of no use, I can't sleep without knowing Pietro's here, watching over me.

Eventually he comes, though. I hear his fast, light footsteps running towards the house; hear the front door open and close, hear him come upstairs.

He unlocks the door, opens it slowly, and even in the dim moonlight I know that he can see me. If he has any expression on his face I don't see it, I only hear him come in, closing and locking the door behind him. He moves behind me and undresses, stripping naked with such speed that I hear the static crackle on his clothes. Then he jumps into bed, not sparing me a word, a glance. It's as if I'm not even here, as if I'm a shadow, a ghost, a memory.

But he's here with me, which is what matters. He's here for me, even if I can't be there for him. With this in mind, feeling safe once again, I finally fall asleep.

Sometime later, I don't know when, I wake up again. He's leaving, my brother is leaving.

I hear him slip out of bed, slip on his pants. He tears the duvet and sheets off his bed and exits the room. He doesn't even bother closing the door behind him. Now anyone could slip in, even Toad.

Downstairs Freddy turns up the TV.

He did this on the other two nights too. He always abandons me. Why? I love him; he was always so nice to me, like our father. Now... now he's so distant, cold, he almost seems frightened of me. It's as if... as if he hates me.

My own brother can't hate me, can he?

Am I such a bad sister as that?

Why am I so frightened? Why is everything so confusing? Why is nothing real?

Why am I alone?

These question spin around inside my head, and they will do for many hours, until weariness overcomes fear and I sleep again. This is the pattern of my night, of the last three nights. This is my habit.

I'm a creature of habit, not half as strong as people think.