⠀⠀⠀ ࿏𖠄༅ཾ༚ ⠀THE WIDOW' S MAKING:
Her fingers danced on the trigger, her mind calculating it's moves before she took the shot.
Before her stood a girl, not much older than she. Her blonde, wavy hair swayed in the winter breeze and her eyes stared into Natalia's, once a friend, now an opponent.
Her feet stood firm, chills running down Natalia's spine and bare arms, perking her senses to the max.
Russian winter was deadly, only few could survive it's gift of snow and ice.
Much like the winter, Natalia was trained to be emotionless, made of marble, unbreakable.
But the friend she had was no longer a friend, but an obstacle standing in the way of proving herself to Madame B, to Mother Russia.
Her eyes glazed over in a mechanical hypnosis, her bloody lips curved with no smile, no smirk, no grin - nothing.
She was like a puppet, playing the game of her master.
Her body shivered but she ignored it and the girl across her held fear in her eyes. Her mouth was bloody and her arm was dislocated from it's socket, and her fists were cracked and running with blood onto the pure snow- everything they were not.
That purity, that innocence was stripped away years ago, when they first were 'saved'.
Natalia stood, the prized gun in her hand, which she proudly found in the bottom of a pit covered in ice, her shin dripping blood onto the snow covered tundra.
"Please don't, Natalia. We are friends.", the little girl spoke, her voice quivering.
Pathetic, Natalia thought, her finger dangerously close to pulling the trigger.
Who would want a baby representing Mother Russia?
The gun sounded, the girls head exploding onto her, blood coating her face and white clothes.
The snow looked painted, and Natalia could be on the portrait of an orphan and a proud Mother Russia, adopting it's daughter into its fulfilling, purposeful life.
One of 28.
Natalia killed the others.