The Nightmare (Romanogers)

Chapter Four

Natasha's POV.

I can't believe my eyes are still wet.

I'm probably far from the cafe where the robbery took place. Passersby on the street are giving me weird looks and stares without even hiding, most of them are women and a few men. I glare off every single one of them through my teary emerald eyes and they dare not to look at me again. My glares are the deadliest, according to Clint.

Clint. I would contact that Birdbrain if I want to, right now. The last call I received was from Clint, and the previous calls were obviously from Rogers. But he kicked me out of the Avengers, what's the use calling back? The place where I finally call 'home' is no longer one to me.

Everything is just temporary.

My feelings and emotions weigh like an enormous boulder and it's pressuring me, I don't even know where I was wrong before in the cafe. Or did I?

I question myself, but I defend my own right. The gang leader needed a little lesson, why did a little violence hurt?

The hell was Rogers thinking?!

Beads of tears trickle down on my rosy cheeks like broken strings of pearls. I stifle a sob from my throat and I try to swallow it down. How badly I want to settle myself in a place with nobody.

I'm weeping just because Rogers yelled at me, and a sharp pain wells up to my heart. Screw feelings.

I feel a new drop of water sliding down on my cheek, but I can tell it's not my tear. I look up to the sky, a few drops of rain start to fall already. Different shades of grey colour the clouds that are originally pure white in form.

In only a few, short seconds of time, the rain starts to pour heavily. Even the colour of the rain clouds turn into angry, darker shades of grey. People are all rushing for shelter and they bump into each other, they don't want to get soaked. The cars are moving slowly, causing a traffic jam on the roads.

I have no intention to run from the rain, instead I like it. My tears are dissolved with the rainwater on my cheeks, I'm still depressed and crying over it. Instantly, my hair and my clothes are soaking wet, and I look like I'd just taken a bath with my clothing on.

There seems to be lesser people on the pavement, those who walk have umbrellas in their hands, or wearing raincoats. Except me. I have nothing, I left my purse behind in Avengers Tower, I'd be stupid if I go back and get it.

I shiver a little as the strong, cool wind slaps my skin that's already wet and cold under the rain. My soaked clothes are another reason of me shivering. I'm cold to the core, but this is nothing compared to my intense training back in Stalingrad, Russia, my homeland. A flashback replays and projects my "childhood" in my mind.

I have to crawl on my knees, on the snow which is as thick as a goose's feathers, like a blanket covering the ground. Three AK-101 rifles, Russia made, which weigh around 10 kilograms or more are carried on my back, that's how heavy a sack of rice is. I can't drop the rifles either, or I must start all over again. I'm not allowed to wear all warm and cozy, but I'm still covered up. The training trains my endurance from the bone chilling cold. It is -3 degrees when I start my training. I have to finish it in a duration of an hour and half, or I have to accept my punishment of failing to accomplish.

My training is set outside a forest, the roads are already rocky and bumpy. The snow makes me harder to crawl because my knees sink in the soft, cold snow, but I still had to be quick. I have to crawl from the start to the end, twice. My mentor, a fierce Russian guy in his thirties tend to yell at me in a heavy accent with hurtful words when I slow down. I failed the training once, but there won't be twice.