" we are not who we used to be "
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in which romanoff decides that enough is enough, and she risks everything to bring back the one she did all this for
BOOK THREE | Natasha Romanoff |
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the red room academy russia
before galina
MUSIC WAS playing. A song composed by Beethoven, Madame B.'s favorite. I had grown very sick of hearing the symphonies. It only reminded me of the pain that came whenever the song played. Swollen toes and feet. Back aches and sprained ankles.
Still, I did as everyone else in the class did. My actions mimicked my sisters. Moving from first to second position, following the patterns and dances that I had been learning since I was very young.
We moved as one.
Madame B was watching us carefully and that meant we could not make a mistake. Mistakes were failures. And too often, failure meant death in this place. It was an Academy for Death.
Standing by Madame B was Natalia. She was watchful too, just like the mistress. But they were for different reasons.
"Stop. Now." Madame B yelled in the midst of the song. We all halted to a stop and looked around, trying to discover what it was that caused Madame to stop in the middle.
Then I saw it. A younger girl, very young, was having trouble keeping up. She has tripped over an improperly tied slipper. She got up almost as quickly as she had fallen.
"Failure. Natalia, take her to confinement." Madame B ordered. No one moved. No one said anything for the younger girl.
Natalie moved though, without hesitation. She looked straight ahead. Until she passed me and our eyes met. I saw her sorrow. I knew she did not want to do this.
"No, please, I am sorry." The young girl cried. I believe she was six years of age.
Natalia spoke in her native tongue to the little girl; shut up, you will only make this worse for yourself. She was right. If the girl kept it up, surely death would become the only answer. Confinement was the best option after failure.
When Natalia dragged the little girl out of the room, Madame B set the needle on the record player and we began again.
We did not stop dancing until she told us too. Long after blood began to soak into the pink soles of my slippers.
🕷
Later that evening, my bedroom had become my only safe haven. The springs in my mattress squeaked under my weight as I dropped down. My blanket, old and very frayed, was a comforting friend.
