black widow movie | dear violette romanoff,

chapter twenty four | blood

My head throbs, and I groan and thrust my torso in response. It feels as if there is a copious amount of dirt building and fogging up in my eyes as I fail to open them.

The noise of the Red Room crashing around me is incredible. I can feel the burning against my face as certain pieces fall and light up.

Certain flames are so hot that I scream.

What is left of my functioning brain is thinking, "How am I still alive and moving?"

I am not paralysed, but I'm stuck between something.

When I manage to open my eyes, I am quick to realize that the thing cushioning my fall is the bodies of those in the building. There is no breathing underneath me.

My legs are cramped, wedged underneath a broken pipe, and I don't try to move them, afraid I might make the situation worse.

My suit is caught on something and is shockingly tight around my shoulders, and I silently plead to have it off me but don't have the energy to try.

There is something underneath my suit and cutting into my chest.

I manage to unzip the top of my suit and dismember the files. I take out a sheet from the bunch. It is a large analysis with a polaroid photo of Yelena in the top left corner of the page.

I wonder if this is all that will have survived after the fire has really set in.

I feel pathetic and tired. I want to fall asleep, but I have too much to think about. I am restless.

I wonder if Yelena and Natasha are still breathing. I wonder if they will look for me or even realize that I am stuck.

What is this feeling of exhaustion and will I ever overcome it?

A set of hands reach for me, trying to speak words of comfort to me through my blocked ears. They remove my hands from my ears.

"Violette. Sweetie."

It's horrific.

"Violette."

The voice is familiar, promoting me to look up, trying to see through the water and debris stuck in my eyes.

It's Natasha; her face is wounded and bruised from tears, and her eyes tell mortifying war stories.

It takes a moment, but she beckons and reaches for me, and I let her pull me into an almost uninhibited, sentimental embrace.

As I pull away, she holds on.

"Tell me what this is," I beg her. I sound hopeless and exploited. Everything I had been told not to be. "Tell me what we are."

With my face still against her cheek, she whispers to me; "Blood."

Thoughts empty, body overworked, I am finally at ease.

I pull out of the hug, furrowing my eyebrows in distress and confusion but such relief.

She uses her thumb to caress my under-eye.

"This is family," she says to me, and I nod in shaky agreement.

As my eyes are closed, she pulls my head against her shoulder.

"Vio. I'm so sorry," she tells me.

Even this simple sentence is enough to make me forgive, but she continues her apology with newfound respect and appreciation for me.

"It's not fair, but it's so hard for me to speak to you and see you when you remind me so much of everything I've been trying to forget," she explains. "I don't want to forget anymore, though. Not after this. It's not fair to you. You're my sister. You're my little sister. You're my blood."

Any muscle in my face relaxed before is now completed with a toothless smile and cheeks wet with tears.

"Blood," I repeat, letting her move the hair from my face and pull me into a hug.

Suddenly, Yelena kneels down beside me.

I am ecstatic to see her but too exhausted to physically celebrate in any way shape or form.

At this point, my elbows still dig into the backs of soon to decay strangers and my legs and heels continue to throb under the pressure of the pipe pressing down on my calves.

As Natasha pries at the piece of metal piping, Yelena bends down and kisses my forehead.

It is the sort of kiss that you expect before death, or from parents before bed. There is no in between.

I don't know whether my tears are from joy or frustration from the metal against my ankle.

"Пожалуйста, не плачь, сестренка," Yelena soothes me.

My legs are soon relieved of the stress and Yelena hauls me out from between the bodies and piping, caring for her own wounds at the same time.

We are both kneeling, holding each other tightly. I do not feel less nor more powerful than anyone. I feel exhausted, but it's the most exhilarating feeling in the world.

Moments go by, and I gain consciousness of the situation quickly.

I look at Natasha, who is standing, facing away from Yelena and I huddled together on the burning grass, looking at the wreckage.

I wipe the dirt from my face. "What now?" I ask.

Yelena seems as though I have stolen her words.

Natasha turns around and helps me up, a ferocious look of nostalgia in her eyes.