There Was A Little Girl, Chapter 3- Sweet Death (Drakov's Daughter)
Why live a life
That's painted with pity
And sadness and strife
Why dream a dream
That's tainted with trouble
And less than it seems
Why bother bothering
Just for a poem
Or another sad song to sing
Why live a life
- The Art Of Suicide, Emilie Autumn
She remembers becoming the very first Black Widow.
It hadn't come as a surprise, really. She had rapidly improved by the day and had always been the best among all the other girls.
She had been so good, in fact, that she had been awarded with privileges that the others could only dream of.
She had her very own strict but experienced advanced trainers and instructors, her very own exhausting yet fruitful ballet lessons, and of course, her very own room.
The day she moved out of the dormitory and into her own room, there had been only three other girls left out of the original nineteen. Yelena, who had been begrudgingly playing second fiddle to her without an incident ever since the last, had been among the three.
Without acknowledging their sulky yet envious faces, she had grabbed her set of uniforms and the few weapons she could call her own. That was all she would need; Mama's sapphire ring has always been safely around her neck, with Papa and Mama's photo and the yellow ribbons in her pocket all the time.
She never looked back as she walked down the corridor towards the room that was hers. She had left them behind, being better than them all. She thought she should be feeling brilliant.
But as she stepped through the doors of her new room, what she felt wasn't expected at all.
Being the only occupant in that entire room only made it even more evident that she was alone, and that was not all.
She was lonely.
That was quickly put aside, however, as she reminded herself of how she had gotten to be where she was, to be who she was.
My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova. There is only space for one best in the Red Room. That's me. I'm the best.
And so when she received the title of the first Black Widow, her new set of uniforms, complete with customized weapons and widow's bites from Mr. Ivan Petrovitch himself at just the age of thirteen, she had held her head up high and let them fill her head with promises of being somebody.
My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova, and I am somebody. I am the Black Widow.
She remembers the first mission she received.
It wasn't what she had expected. She had expected the missions to be exactly like what she was trained for, like the simulated situations she was often subjected to during trainings.
There had been those where she was subjected to torture, again and again in all possible forms, sometimes continuously for hours and hours on end.
There had been those where she had to learn that her body was no more than an instrument to be used to extract information out of a male warden all too willing to be her pseudo-target.
And there had been those where she had to overcome seemingly impossible obstacles, like a raging fire threatening to swallow her or a shower of real bullets hot on her trail, before engaging in combat against at least ten trained fighters without even time to catch her breath.
That was what she had been trained for, who she had been trained as. A killer, in the body of a thirteen-year-old girl, yet capable of accomplishing the impossible.
But none of those various near fatal simulated situations that had pushed her so close to the fine line between life and death had prepared her for her very first mission.
It should sound rather simple, really.
There was a billionaire who had been secretly providing funds for America companies, or something like that. She wasn't really sure of the details anyway. Her job was just to take him down. That was all she needed to care about, all she needed to know.
The only problem was that Konstantin Drakov was highly cautious, and had spent huge amounts of money on security, ensuring his safety from people who would want to assassinate him. People like her.
But the Red Room had a plan.
According to them, all she had to do was to join the dance troupe his beloved daughter was in, befriend his daughter, gain his daughter's trust and thus his trust, and then watch him take his very last breath.
She was not prepared for it, however. Not at all.
She was prepared to hunt, to hurt and to kill, but she was definitely not ready to be a friend to someone else, not even if it was only as a cover.
She had been trained to kill, to survive, but not to live, to be human.
However, between being the prima ballerina of the show and pretending to be friends with Kseniya Konstantinova, she had found herself actually taking a liking to the life of Anastasia Ivanova that was her alias.
Eventually, she had been invited to Kseniya's house for a sleepover, and reality set in as she found it the perfect opportunity to assassinate the father of a girl that was the closest thing she had to a friend in close to eight years.
As Kseniya brought her around the gigantic mansion when she, as Anastasia Ivanova, first turned up, she took in as much as she could about the building, noting especially the room which Kseniya had indicated was Konstantin Drakov's.
That night, before they slept, Kseniya pulled her long chocolate brown hair into braided pigtails.
She was immediately brought back to the day the little girl with the pigtails and yellow ribbons had died along with her parents.
She'd tightened her hold on the bottle of nail polish Kseniya had lent her as she watched the girl braid her locks. What she saw was the person the little girl with the pigtails and yellow ribbons could have been.
Do you have ribbons? Yellow ones? I think they would look perfect on you. She had asked, without really thinking.
Yes, sure. They're right here. The girl had smiled, reaching into the drawer and pulling out two strands of bright yellow ribbons and handing them to her. My mother used to tie them on for me. Help me, will you?
Your mother…? She questioned as she tightened the ribbon on one braid, and then the other. The vague file hadn't mentioned Konstantin Drakov having a wife, now that she thought about it.
She died a few years back. Kseniya shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but she was trained in reading body language, she saw through it.
I'm sorry, I… She'd stuttered, unsure of what she should say.
No, don't be. Come on, tell me how I look, Anastasia. The girl had stood up then, giving her a little twirl. It was obvious that Kseniya no longer wanted to talk about her mother, and so she did not push.
Beautiful. She looked up at Kseniya, and gave her a smile.
She meant it.
The girl before her was what she could have been, truly a girl, and it was a beautiful sight.
That night, long after Kseniya had fallen into deep slumber from the tasteless sedative she had secretly poured into her hot chocolate, she'd made her way through the dark to the room from which Konstantin Drakov's heavy snores could be heard.
There was not a moment of hesitation as she reached into the sleeve of her pink pajamas and produced a sharp knife. She was emotionless as she made the quick deep slit across the man's throat.
Her job was done, all without a single sound.
It was her time to leave. All she had to do was to return to Kseniya's room and pretend to be that innocent thirteen-year-old named Anastasia who had slept soundly through the entire night.
But as she stood over the peaceful sleeping form of Kseniya, she was suddenly struck by what could lie ahead in the future for the girl. The girl who was now an orphan because of her.
She blinked.
An orphan like her.
She reached out for one of the pigtails, and smoothed her hand over the yellow ribbon that fluttered slightly from the breeze that blew through the open window. For a moment, she thought she saw herself, instead of Kseniya, lying on the bed without a care in the world, yet.
Had she killed the girl as well? Had she taken away her life too?
Would she turn out like me?
There wasn't a question about her actions that followed then.
She drew out the knife once again, and made the same slit across the girl's neck, just like she had done to Konstantin Drakov.
Except this time, her heart was banging against her chest as she felt a sadness course through her veins.
Because she had just saved a girl from the same fate that she had been subjected to almost eight years ago. The fate of being an orphan. The fate of becoming what she was.
But the very reason that girl had needed to be saved, was because of her.
Her grip on the knife tightened as yet another emotion dulled her senses. It was an emotion she wasn't quite familiar with. She blinked again. She was able to put a name to it then.
It was pity.
She tasted bile rising in her throat.
My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova, and I am the Black Widow.
This is not what I should feel.
I should feel proud. I have spilled blood, but it does not matter. I have done well for my Mother Russia.
She blinked again.
My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova, and I am the Black widow.
I am proud. I have spilled blood, and it will never matter, for I have done well for my Mother Russia.
The next moment, she was gone, through the open window of the dead girl's bedroom.
No one knew what happened that night, but the next morning, when the family of just a father and his daughter was found murdered in the night, there were people who mourned for their deaths.
She had envied that.
Even in their deaths, they had been remembered, been mourned for.
She had returned to the Red Room, uncertain of what they would say about her performance on the first mission, since her mission objective had been merely to put Konstantin Drakov down.
To her surprise, Mr. Ivan Petrovitch had nodded his head and regarded her with pleasure. With the girl dead, no one would remember you were even there. Remember, Natasha, every loose end you leave untied will return to trip you over in the end, so leave no trace. A life is never worth too much to pay for the successful fulfillment of your duties to Mother Russia. You did well today.
His words didn't sound quite right then, but she wasn't taught to question her superiors.
She had left the room mulling over what the man who had given her the life she was living now had said.
Maybe he was right.
She didn't fall asleep that night, in the tiny room that suddenly felt too empty and too big.
A life is never worth too much to pay for the successful fulfillment of my duties to Mother Russia.
So how many lives would be worth too much then?
How much is my life worth then?
My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova, and I am the Black Widow. But… does that make me any more worthy than anyone else?