Disclaimed.
Dormant.
If you asked her, that is what she would describe her past 26 years of what was adequately
named a life.
Nevermind that she was fully aware of what she was doing.
"One day, you will do something very important and be the pride of Russia." They said. "You
will teach the american pigs to kneel in shame."
Forget the fact that she was only 5 years old. That she was traine no, programmed to
recognize a series of codes when the time came. She wasn't told that when the time came, it
wouldn't just be her life on the line. Still...
Anything for Mother Russia.
Anything to make these worthless beings pay.
When the flames came, she resorted back to what any child her age would do.
She cowered in fear.
When a man that reeked of burned flesh held her in his arms, shame was all she could feel.
Shame because she felt safe in his arms. Shame because the man holding her spoke in
soothing tones and she fell asleep.
Despite him having a disgustingly faint Boston accent. Another pig.
No one told her pigs had warm smiles. That they lived in one story homes and played
Springsteen on Saturday mornings. That called her "butterball" becaus- well actually she
never found out why.
Her name was Elizabeth. His name was Sam.
The day his name wasn't that, it was daddy.
No one told her, pigs could cry happy tears and hug like they are holding on for dear life. Or
was it her holding on tighter than he?
"I want to work in the FBI."
It was never a question. Never thought out or the product of some aptitude test senior year.
She knew all along what she had to do.
If you ask her, she knew which answers to put in anyways. Truthfully, law enforcement
wouldn't have been her category. If her heart answered she could've ended up a florist.
The scar.
It was Masha, Katarina (don't tell on her but she forgot that name long ago), flames, and that
stuffed bunny all swirled together and intricately woven into one ugly nasty scar. Like she was
branded.
A constant reminder that no matter how normal she may seem, she wasn't.