The lost Widow - Natasha Romanoff x Female

Chapter XII

The dark walls swallowed every possible ray of light from the barren room.
As if by magic, her legs moved and carried her to the door.
The door that was always locked, the door behind which she had been held captive for so many nights. Exactly this door was not locked.
Almost hopelessly, she reached out to the cold metal and pressed gently.
But the expected reaction of not moving did not come. Instead, the door gave way with ease and swung open.

The hideous squeak of the hinges sent an icy shiver down her spine.
If her heart hadn't already been on high speed, it would have beaten even faster.
Her pupils almost devoured all the blue in her eyes as they tried to cope with the little light.
A dark corridor stretched out in front of her. No matter which way she turned, she saw nothing but cold walls and locked iron doors, to the point where the corridor ended in black nothingness.
Right or left?
It made no difference. No breeze moved her cold, stale air.
Again and again she felt something sharp on her feet as she walked along the darkness.
Her fingertips brushed the wall beside her; cold stone, metal and dried blood.
Perhaps it was her imagination, but it seemed to her as if the darkness was becoming paler, as if the impenetrable, all-swallowing black was giving way to a deep grey.
Her steps quickened, the hope of a way out driving her on.
It was true. A pane in the wall, to a room, next to it another door. Only ajar.
She didn't dare go straight in, she didn't dare look in. A cold premonition held her back. But she did. Slowly she stepped in front of the glass, but kept her gaze on the floor, not daring to really look into the room in front of her.
But she lifted her head.

She saw only shadows, but she knew the room, unfortunately.
Her focus changed and she saw her own reflection in the glass, her face pale, like a ghost. Her eyes were red.
She stood in the doorway, her bad feeling almost paralysing her.
A dead body, a pool of blood beneath it. The face was covered by a black cloth. A small body crouched over it, shaken by heart-rending sobs. The salty, hot tears of a little girl fell from her face and onto the dead body.
Her small hands, soaked with blood, she pressed in vain at the bullet wound. The gun was behind her, she had flung it away as fast as she could.
The image of the little girl faded, she did not disappear, she only moved into the background, became a little blurred.
The dead body remained. A girl, a few years older than the previous one, squatted next to it, her delicate body also shaken by her weeping.
She stared in despair at the gun in her hand, the gun she had shot with.
Nina still stood there, dead silent.
The image of the other girl also faded, as blurred as the first.
A third figure, maybe 14 stood in front of the corpse, about 10 feet away from her, tears silently running down her cheeks.
Her hand holding the pistol was trembling, still pointed at the spot where the person had been standing; where the bullet had hit its target.
All three were still there, like a bizarre picture collage, silently crying for help.
They were all suffering, they all still had - at least a little bit - hope, hope for rescue, for an end to their suffering.
Nina stood there, her face rigid, not a single tear had made it to her eyes. She just felt numb, all the feelings, all the emotions she once had, that she saw before her; seemed as if they were from another life.
The pure and raw pain paralysed her, leaving her numb. 

Should she cry? Should she scream?

Perhaps.
Maybe she wanted all of this, someday.
But was it still worth it, was there still hope?

Not for her; not any more.

-

Darkness surrounded Nina as she opened her eyes. A quick glance at the clock told her that it was still deep night, 1:08.
The silence was oppressive, her brain searched in vain for sounds, anything to show her where she was, something to focus on. Nothing.
With a barely audible sigh she stood up, like every time her body was cramped from head to toe, not for nothing do beds have soft mattresses.
With crunching bones, she plodded to her door, simply out of habit expecting to find the door locked.