The Widow's Daughter ✔︎

Chapter Eight

The small, red-haired girl stands at the door, as if fearing to touch. She is puzzled; more - she is curious. She twists the handle, the metal's coldness leaping along her skinny arm like iced energy released from a source. The shock is mild against the dampness of her cold body. She pushes the door open and tiptoes inside, shutting it behind her.

She is in a ballet studio, but there is no joy in the dance here. Older girls on pointe shoes twirl and glide across the room while younger ones watch from the shadows. A tall man and a slender-looking woman stand in the corner, their backs straight. The woman strides over to the girl, who cowers in her shadow. "Kira, what are you doing here?" the woman asks, her voice low and sharp.

"I wanted to watch the dancers," Kira says. "I can dance too."

"Can you?" the woman asks, her dark eyes flickering in what might be amusement. Kira doesn't know for sure, so she steps back, but somebody is in her way. A tall, burly man in a black jacket holds her shoulders, forcing her to look into the woman's evil eyes. "Why don't you show me?"

Kira shakes her head. "It's OK. These dancers are better than me anyway."

"Liar," the woman snarls. She directs Kira over to a corner, where a small red pair of pointe shoes, tiny and delicate, rest on a chair. The tall man who was watching the dancers grabs a girl and takes her into the other room. Kira gulps. "These were your mother's,"  the woman says. "Try them on, Вдова."

Kira takes the shoes and threads them onto her feet. They fit perfectly. She looks up at the woman and the tall burly man. Her eyes are blue, but not quite. They are enthralling, the colour of wild, windblown cliffs and the sea. They look like they have seen a lifetime. "What do I do now?" she asks, her voice quiet and delicate but with a thick Russian accent.

"Now you dance," the woman says.

Kira is now older, but still far too young. She looks about six, and her hair, a deep crimson colour, has grown past her waist. Her face is not like any six-year-old's should be: it is gaunt and thin and pale. It has seen more than any normal person would want to see in a lifetime. The woman and the tall man stand over her shoulder. Kira is holding a small black gun out in front of her, her face expressionless but her hands trembling.

Kneeling before her is a man with a sack covering his head. His hands and feet are bound and he, too, is shaking. His mouth is covered with the sack but Kira can see that he is pleading, pleading for his life.

She looks at the tall man standing behind her. "Why?" she whispers.

He looks at her fiercely, his dark eyes narrowing, his moustache twitching. "Сделай это, моя дочь, Кира," he says. 

Kira clicks the barrel of the gun into place. She twists the safety lock off and her finger rests on the trigger. The man in front of her is pleading now. Kira shuts those brilliant eyes of hers and breathes in, and out. 

Then she fires.

Kira is sitting on a cold metal bench covered in a single woollen blanket. She is crying, sobbing in fact, her head in her hands and her red hair covering her face like a shield from the rest of the world. She is devastated - gut-wrenching sobs pull themselves from her throat as she cries into her arms.

There is a noise in the vent above her and she looks up, pulling a small dagger out from under her pillow and holding it out. "Кто там?" she demands, fear written clearly on her small six-year-old face.