There Was A Little Girl, Chapter 4- Stripped, Raw, Empty (São Paulo)
Thank God I'm pretty
Every skill I ever have will be in question
Every ill that I must suffer merely brought on by myself
Though the cops would come for someone else
I'm blessed
I'm truly privilaged to look this good without clothes on
Which only means that when I sing you're jerking off
And when I'm gone you won't remember
Thank God I'm pretty
- Thank God I'm Pretty, Emilie Autumn
She remembers the first time she was shown respect.
It was during a mission in São Paulo.
She had received orders from the Red Room to remove a Russian mogul who had fled there from the face of the earth.
With just a photo of her target ingrained in her mind, she had set off to São Paulo.
She was already fifteen by then.
For the past two years, she had become accustomed to using her body as a bait, easily luring the targets eager to claim her body as a prize. Men who would run their filthy hands all over her, believing that they possessed her. Men who would take her to a seedy hotel room afterwards, looking forward to a quick fuck with the pulchritudinous young girl in their hands.
Sometimes, she let them. She had learnt that many of those men were only too eager to spill secrets and information that the Red Room was after when they were half draped over her, having satisfied themselves with her. It would only take a little on her part to coax the information out of their loose mouths then.
Regardless, none of those men had lived to see another day.
She was confident that this latest mission would be similarly successful as well.
She had dressed in a tiny blood red dress that showed off much more skin than a girl her age would have preferred. It didn't matter though. That night, she was a woman, she would let her target take her to yet another dingy and secluded location before she turned the tables on him and finished him off. Her makeup and done-up hair, together with the tiny scrap of cloth hugging her body, only made her look the part even more.
She'd been slowly sipping on a drink in a dimly lit bar when she finally spotted her target entering from the corner of her eye. He had taken a seat at a booth in a corner, and she allowed him to down a couple of drinks before she started throwing him a few shy glances and coyish smiles. Then, she'd made her way over, the sway in her hips already a practiced motion, and sunk into the seat opposite him.
She'd leaned forward, giving him a perfect view down her dress as she spoke in a sultry tone. Only a hundred Reals and it's yours for tonight.
He shifted in his seat. Would you like to go outside instead? He had asked.
She had been surprised; the men she had encountered previously would definitely not have had any reservations against shoving their tongues down her throat and their hands up her dress there and then. She definitely didn't have complains though. This would only make her job easier, faster.
She'd let her target lead her out of the bar and into the streets before reaching for his face, under the pretense of giving him a kiss when actually getting into position to snap his head right off his neck. However, the man had gently placed a hand on her shoulder and placed distance between them.
She frowned.
Is someone making you do this?
Her heart thumped wildly. How had she been made? She had always been careful.
For a moment, panic flashed in her eyes before she composed herself again.
But the man had misunderstood the panic, and continued speaking. No, no don't be afraid. If someone is making you do this for the money, I can help you.
She eyed him warily then, both stunned and confused by his gentle tone.
Again, he continued. Look, I promise you, I respect you as a woman, you can trust me. You don't have to do this.
She held his eyes for what felt like an eternity.
Respect.
The word ran through her head, again and again, filling her with confusion and conflict.
The only respect she had been taught in her life was respect for the Red Room.
She was never aware that she could be worthy of respect.
Sure, she was the Black Widow. People feared her because of that. But here, standing before her, was a man who respected her as a human being.
You don't have to do this.
His words echoed within her mind.
Didn't she? Didn't she have to finish her job, leave him in dead with nothing but cold blood still in his veins?
Trust.
She'd heard that word before.
It was a word ridiculed in the Red Room.
Trust, she remembered Mr. Ivan Petrovitch had once said, is stupid, yet dangerous. If you do not use it to kill, it will kill you.
The sound of a boisterous group leaving the bar from behind jolted her from her thoughts.
Trust.
She let the emotionless mask on her face fall and put on one of panic and fear.
It isn't safe to talk here. Come.
The man had respected her, had trusted her. He followed without a question.
The shadows of the alley engulfed them both.
What is it, girl? Tell me, I will try to help. His voice was laced with sympathetic as he watched her turn towards him.
It wasn't the face of a fearful and nervous young woman that came to face him.
It was the face of a dead girl, with no emotions, with no mercy.
Trust, she murmured in a low and deadly voice that made her target's blood run cold, is stupid. It is dangerous.
It was sudden and quick.
If I do not use it to kill, it will kill me.
Her target was now on the ground, his head twisted at an odd angle.
She had laughed at that very moment, as the wide eyes of the dead man stared up at her, still filled with the fear from the very last seconds of his life.
She had laughed at the man's stupidity, as she recalled her lessons from the Red Room.
It was exactly like what they had told her. It is better to forgo all human emotions. They would only make her weak, they would only lead to her death.
It was the man's foolish sympathy that had made him weak.
It was his stupid willingness to trust that had killed him.
She had still been laughing the cold laugh that could have chilled the already dead body of her target to the bones as she fled the alley. But along the way, she found the mad laugher dying down as the adrenaline drained out of her system.
My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova, and I am the Black Widow. I will never trust anyone. I will never weaken myself with mere human emotions.
It didn't sound as good an idea as before.
A flash appeared across the sky, the distant rumbling of thunder could be heard. The first few drops of rain dripped on her face.
Her footsteps slowed, and slowed.
The rain got heavier by the second.
She stopped.
The streets were empty, the houses were quiet, windows closed. The street lights flickered.
She felt it again, the loneliness she had tried to ignore time and time again.
The stabbing pain in the left of her chest appeared again as the realization struck her. She had killed the first person on that planet who had showed her respect.
Lonely. Alone. Lonely.
She'd said those words out loud. They didn't sound good at all. They left a bitter taste on her tongue.
She turned her face upwards, facing the sky and closed her eyes, letting the rain fall on her face and trickle through her hair.
The hair products washed off along with the rain, leaving her red hair in its natural waves and curls, matted to her face and body. The makeup she had worn for the mission streamed down her face, revealing the bare yet still flawless face.
Her face.
The face of the fifteen-year-old girl she was supposed to be and not the twenty-something Brazilian working woman she had been playing.
Her muscles loosened as the water rolled off the skin, washing off the sweat and dirt she had accumulated on her latest mission.
She was left standing in the middle of a street of São Paulo, bare and without a disguise, bar the dress she had on.
My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova, and this is me.
The rain water that ran from her face and into her mouth had tasted slightly salty then.
To this day, she hasn't admitted that it hadn't been the rain at all.
Not even to herself.