Rising From the Ashes • COMPLETED ✓

8.) A Bloody Nightmare: Natasha Romanoff

HEADS UP: This chapter is about a nightmare that has to do with Natasha's backstory and the Red Room. It gets sort of graphic near the end (slight description of blood), but just read to your comfort level. If you get to a point where you stop, go straight towards the end for a short summary of the chapter. Enjoy! :)  

NATASHA ROMANOFF - BLACK WIDOW

July 11th, 2017, Wakanda

I'm dancing.

In a thick Russian accent, a woman is quietly calling out positions. "First," She names. Instantly, my feet are vertical, the silkiness of my slippers making me smile. "Second," Now my heels are further apart—and I wiggle my toes, still utterly delighted at the velvety feeling, "Third," I cross my legs so my heels fit in the bends of my feet. 

I wait for the lady to say fourth, but then my soft ballet shoes melt into stiff, black boots. The white tights are leggings, and the feathery top is replaced with a leather jacket. 

I turn over my shoulder to see that my fake pair of butterfly wings is now a backpack, and instead of a pretend magic wand in my hand; there's a gun. 

"Shoot him," The Russian woman says, her soft tone still just as soft.

I try to open my mouth to protest; but it feels like I have no vocal cords. A man is in a chair appears in front of me, a sack over his head. He's bound to the seat with rope and I know his mouth is gagged because I can't hear his screams, only a pleading muffling. 

I don't know what I'm doing but before I can stop it, my hand is raised. The curve of the trigger is so familiar, so wrong, and yet so right. Before I press down on it, the man transforms into a mirror.

The mirror is the one from the Wakandan Palace's training room, its full-length, crystalline glory showcasing my surroundings. This is what confirms everything. I'm in the Red Room. I can feel a crippling fear and anger as I glance at the background... 

But then my gaze lands straight ahead. I stare at myself. My reflection isn't mine but is somehow still mine. Gulping, I meet eyes with ten-year-old Natasha. Her cunning, icy, turquoise stare scares me: No innocence, no mercy, no regret. 

Bouncy, blazing red curls fall past her shoulders. My gun is aimed at her. The barrel is pointing at her forehead.

"You could've stopped this, Natalia," She whispers in a milky voice. That's not my name anymore. I left that all behind. "Shoot me." 

I shake my head furiously and fling the gun against the tiled floor, waiting to hear and watch it shatter across the chiseled stone. However, as it touches the ground, it morphs back into a glittery wand. 

It softly flutters along the tiles and starts to fly across the room, leaving a trail of spiders wherever it goes. 

"Shoot me," Young Natasha's sickly sweet voice echoes again, it's surrounding all my senses until all I can focus on are her words. There is nothing except for her words. "Stop it all, Natalia. Shoot me!" Falling to my knees, I start to cry. Fat tears roll down my cheeks and plop onto the linoleum.

Ballerina music starts up again, and now I'm watching girls dance and dance and dance and dance. "You'll break them," I say. Everything sounds like it's underwater, muted and wavering.

The Russian woman's voice replies. "Only the breakable ones. You are made of marble."

Their hair is sticking out from once-immaculate buns and their faces are frighteningly pale. Their shredded satin slippers have spreading scarlet-colored stains, and the ribbons that are wound across their calves are coming undone and obtaining frayed edges.