Summary
Her name was Natalia Alianovna Romanova. She isn't that little girl with pigtails anymore. That girl had died; perhaps a little more each time another body dropped dead, each time another drop of blood tainted her crimson ledger. Her name is Natasha Romanoff, and that might be the only thing she knows for sure. (All events included)
There Was A Little Girl, Chapter 1- She Had A Name (Pre Red Room Childhood)
My reasons to live
Were my reasons to die
But at least they were mine
- 306, Emilie Autumn
She remembers the first time she learned to say her entire name perfectly, and then write it down.
Papa and Mama had been as patient with her as they always had, even though she, being only a little over two, just couldn't seem to get her tongue to curl around her words just as perfectly as Papa could, or finish writing her name with the same distinct yet beautiful flourish in Mama's writing. Finally, she'd managed to accomplish both feats with ease and when she did, she'd squealed with ecstasy with a bright smile stretching across her face, not unlike the ones on Papa and Mama's faces that mirrored her joy.
They'd taken her out for ice-cream after that, even though it wasn't exactly what her parents could afford every other day, but they'd insisted that her learning how to say and write her name flawlessly at her young age was something worth celebrating.
Halfway through her very own cone of classic vanilla ice-cream, she'd decided that it was the best day of her life and that it was a day that she would remember for the rest of her life.
Looking back now, she realizes that she's glad that she still does. Or rather, she's glad that she has been allowed to keep that memory, that the Red Room hadn't taken it away from her.
She always remembered how to say and write her name after that day.
Natalia Alianovna Romanova. My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova.
She remembers the first time she went to school.
She was three by then and her parents had just enrolled her at a kindergarten located within their neighborhood.
It had been raining earlier in the morning, and by the time Papa and Mama left her in the care of the educators at the kindergarten, there was a rainbow stretching beautifully across the sky. She had been thoroughly nervous, but the sight of the beautiful rainbow had managed to calm her nerves slightly as she came to stand at the front of the classroom before her peers to introduce herself. Her voice quivered as she shifted awkwardly from one foot to another.
My name is Natalia. Natalia Alianovna Romanova.
Then she smiled, hearing herself speak with the exact same accent of Papa and Mama's which she had always envied. It reminded her of the day she learned how to do that; the best day of her life thus far.
And if her teacher wasn't already impressed by her ability to introduce herself with the perfect pronunciation and accent, he surely was when he saw her writing her name down in an impeccable handwriting that could not have belonged to the three-year-old girl that was Natalia Alianovna Romanova.
She remembers her fifth birthday, although... she doesn't remember that date as her birthday, or that particular day as her fifth.
No, it was something else entirely.
She had gone to the kindergarten as usual, after Mama had specially woven her flaming red hair into braided pigtails and then secured them with glossy yellow ribbons. The only thing out of the ordinary was the slight spring in her step and the twinkle in her eye after Papa and Mama promised that she'd have a cake baked for her by the time she was back, and a mood so good that not even the nasty boys calling her pigtails "girly" could ruin.
That was until she got called out of art class fifteen minutes into the lesson and was shown into the main office.
A man in uniform was there to pick her up. He said that she needed to go immediately, and so she followed.
The ride with the strange uniformed man was silent. He did not explain a thing, and she dared not to ask. She wasn't sure if it was because she was afraid of the strange man, or if she was afraid of what would be his answer.
She realized that it was the latter when the vehicle rolled to a stop before her home after a few minutes.
At least that's where she guessed she was.
The tiny and run down house which she had dearly and very gladly called her home was entirely blackened, with half the walls left as piles of charred debris on the ground. The only thing left standing with which she was able to confirm that it was indeed her home was the wooden swing painted white and dotted with red flowers in their front yard, quite a safe distance away from the ruined house. The one Papa had built for her just a few weeks ago; the one Mama had painted with her, teaching her how to dot the flowers at just the perfect angle.
All she could feel was silence.
The fire men were shouting orders at one another, some packing their equipment and some picking through the debris to ensure that the fire was entirely extinguished.
There were uniformed men standing around, pointing around at the blackened mass that was her home, seemingly trying to put together what had happened.
There were paramedics at the site, ensuring that no one was hurt.
Except there was someone who was hurt.
She was hurt. She was scared, afraid, and confused. And despite the hustle and bustle of the adults around her doing their job like as if it was just another day, which it was for them, all she could feel was silence.
Papa? Mama? She called out, her small voice cracking at the end.
There was no Papa or Mama around who heard her cries.
Papa? Mama? She tried again, louder. Maybe they were here somewhere, maybe they were trying to find her.
There was no Papa or Mama there who came rushing towards her.
Papa? Mama? Maybe this was just a dream, a nightmare. If she called loud enough, they'd run into her room and shake her awake and end it all, right?
There was no Papa or Mama who would hold her in their arms and tell her that everything would be fine.
PAPA! MAMA! She was screaming by then.
There was no Papa or Mama, at all.
The adults looked at her with pitying faces. Why were they looking at her like that? What's going on? What's happening? Where's Papa and Mama?
Yet another uniformed man walks to her and crouches down. He tries to tell her gently that the house has been burned down; there was a fire that started in the kitchen. He doesn't yet bring up the issue of where Papa and Mama were, but it doesn't matter. She has already stopped listening to the man who wouldn't tell her the truth. The truth that her parents had died while baking her birthday cake. She was only five, but she definitely wasn't stupid. That must have been what had happened.
She had killed her parents.
That was when she spotted the two covered gurneys about to be pushed away.
Papa, Mama! She knew now, they wouldn't be coming, not now, not ever, but that didn't stop her from screaming her lungs out anyway.
She sprinted towards the gurneys, tiny hands reaching for the covers, needing to see Papa and Mama again, but she was pulled away at the last second by the paramedics.
The uniformed man approached her again and attempted to calm her down.
It wasn't before her voice turned hoarse that she eventually just shook in silent sobs.
The fire truck had left.
The police men had left.
The paramedics had left.
And along with them all, her parents too. Her parents were gone.
She was left with yet another strange man in a strange uniform.
But he wasn't like the others. His uniform was different. The way he looked at her was different.
The others looked at her like a fragile sheet of thin glass, ready to break any second. And maybe she was.
But this man did not. He waited for her sobs to quiet down, he comforted her with the right words and soothing sounds, but he looked at her like she was just a silly child, only capable of crying. She could see it in his cold steely gaze.
And so eventually she stopped, merely hiccupping occasionally. She was determined to not be viewed as just another silly child. She had to be strong. Maybe then she could repent for causing her parents' death.
The man handed her a photo and a necklace, and told her with a kind smile that did not reach his eyes that it was what they had managed to save.
She recognized them.
The necklace was Mama's, a chain with an elegant engagement ring hung on it. It was lovely and had an intricately cut sapphire set in it. It was definitely something they would not have been able to afford if it hadn't been an heirloom passed through Papa's family. Mama had refused to have it on her finger while she did the housework, worrying that she would damage it, hence the chain around her neck.
In the photo, Papa and Mama were kissing her cheeks as she held a cone of vanilla ice cream. It was the very same day she had learned how to say and write her entire name perfectly. It was the best day of her life. It was evident in the way her eyes shined and her lips stretched across her face in the photo.
But alas, those were all she had to her name now. Her dead Mama's ring, now hung around her neck, and a photo of the dead.
It was true, she now knows. The little red haired girl with pigtails and yellow ribbons had died along with her parents on that very day, and there would no longer be a time when she could smile like she did in the photo.
And maybe the five-year-old had known too at that time, because as the uniformed man, who had introduced himself as Mr. Petrovitch, drove her away to where he said would be her new home, there was only one thing that filled her mind.
My name is Natalia. Natalia Alianovna Romanova.
And I killed my parents.
Since then, every single time someone would muster enough courage to ask her about her birthday, she lies. She would put on the poker face that she has perfected and look away, not letting anyone drown in the sea of emotions that would fill her eyes as she says that she doesn't remember a single thing about it at all, not even the month, and that it isn't important anyway.
But there is one day every year, the very same date, where she drinks herself to oblivion, no matter how many bottles of bitter liquid she would need to drown herself in in order for her body to succumb to the alcoholic effects.
She rambles on about the foolishness of celebrating being alive in that cruel and painful world, she rambles on about how perhaps she should be long gone by now, and she rambles on about how birthdays are stupid and overrated.
What's the point, she questions to no one as she sits in the empty room she would find herself in, when you're just taking another step closer to a stupid rock… with a birthday carved into it that I'm pretty sure is wrong.
But eventually, when the alcohol takes its toll on her body, the part of her mind that she keeps locked away on every other day of the year would open its gates and unleash the demons within her.
She throws the bottles on the ground, not caring if the shards of broken glass cut her because, at that moment, that would be preferable to the pain caused by the shards of her broken heart.
She lets tears roll down her cheeks and bites down hard on her lips to keep the cries within her, but fails every time.
She releases string after string of slurred words, not even knowing what she's trying to say anymore as the sobs take over her body.
And among those words she spews out of the drunken mouth, the same few words always make their repeated appearance.
Мне очень жаль.
I'm sorry.
Note-
I stole a line from The Vampire Diaries in this chapter, did you find it? Anyone else loves Dalaric/Team Badass by the way?
Anyway that was my take on what happened in Natasha's childhood and I hope you enjoyed it.
Thanks for reading!