Crossing The Mental Line

Chapter 4: With hatred...

●●●3rd Person's Point of View(POV)●●●

(Okay, quick thing to note, I have not much exposure to vulgarity so yeah, but the words I am using below is what I am spilling from my limited knowledge. Thanks and skip this if you do not enjoy vulgarity:))

"Quickly, three... two... one... shoot!" The referee commanded.

Val wore a set of headphones, making sure her eardrums would not be burst. The guns were pathetic, short and small. If the Firsts were going to use that in the competition, farewell to them.

Her sleeves were rolled up, her lipstick stained with black dust. Next to her were fellow representatives of Singapore, America and France. The universal translator helped them speak to one another.

"Hey, dickwad! Shoot the freaking bullseye if you wanna win because at this rate, victory is as good as mine!" The Singaporean representative, Arnold, shouted at no particular person, in his own native dialect, which was Hokkien. He had forgotten that the universal translator was still on so everyone understood him.

"Who are you calling dickwad, you arse? Shut the hell up and get out, you little shit cuz everyone hates you. You are only a small dot in the vast spectrum of the universe. Idiot..." the American representative, Bill, bellowed.

Val kept quiet, fully absorbing herself in the practice. Precision, the way she held her gun, all led up to the success of the shot. Hitting the target's bullseye was not a piece of cake. She closed one eye and peered hard at the shot. It was small, thin and unwavering. She needed to win, so that these imbeciles would learn to fear her, not treat her like a Barbie doll, waiting in line to dress her up.

She closed her eyes, heaving in a huge gasp of air, letting her mind soothe. She thought back on the piano piece she had heard over her static filled video player, Clair De Lune. It had no particular speciality to it, hearing it with an untrained ear did contribute to the fact that she did not understand the piece and its origins. It was just a French word for moonlight or sentimental walk. It was very slow, like a waltz, just a little more livelier. It would make you sway your body gently, absorbing you in its tranquility. Her eyes stayed shut for a little longer, letting the melody and sound take a place where the Firsts and the world's reality die not exist.

Though the sound of the vulgarities returned and she opened her eyes. With the music still coursing through her veins, she caught the tempo and as the arpeggios reached its climax, she released the trigger, in sync with the top note.

She opened her eyes in pleasant shock.

She saw the bullet... hitting the middle of the bullseye.

The boys stopped their mini brawl, staring in wonder and hatred at the young woman who had pulled off the very feat they were both squabbling about.

She smiled smugly, giving the two boys and the France representative a sideway glance, only saying a few words which added fuel to the fire.

"Your argument is like two aunties sitting on the void deck arguing about whose son is getting into a good job before the other. I suggest, working harder, so the 'auntie' side of you two is under control." She referenced it to Arnold's home country, clearly mocking him.

She removed her headphones, placing them down dramatically on the side table as she heard grunts and questions being asked, but answers were not given.

Unbeknownst to her, a pair of eyes were watching her silently from across the room, observing her smoothness in speech and ability to mock with great sarcasm.

Val forlornly thought back at how John had helped her with the gun. His fingers clasped tightly around hers, encouraging her to keep aiming and that hope was never lost. They were not in love, contrary to whatever you dirty minded fellows might be thinking of now, but they knew that whatever intimacy between them, wasn't romantic at all. Brotherly-sisterly love, if that's another way to put it. The gun was like her guardian. After her debut at the Army of Britain, her mother had become this little torture in her life, and she could not vent out her anger. It was kept sealed in a glass jar, refusing to se the light of the day. She was going though deep depression and wounds had stabbed her heart deeply. Her mother's horrible deeds towards her, using her to gain popularity, leaving her to die in a porthole when she had failed. It was a dark, dull and depressing period of her life. Until she had found a hidden love for her sister, which pulled her out of her misery. She learnt how to treat life as a train, and that life was short, so time was valuable. She stepped out once again and embraced the preposessing scenery before her. The momentary delusion about the tranquil scenery helped her jolt back to reality. Even if it was for a small sliver of a second, that second changed her life, completely.