Bloody Hands, Bloody Face
Chapter Four:
Bloody Hands, Bloody Face
Alla's seventh birthday was days ago. She was standing at the edge of the creek, watching the muddy water rumble below her bare feet. She wished her friend would come back. Wished her mother didn't take her back to that godforsaken house.
The wind blew violently through her copper curls. Alla took a deep breath in, inhaling the scent of the pine trees, the scent of the water, her sea blue and emerald green eyes closed. She exhaled deeply, straightening her shoulders.
Today was the day.
Today, Alla would swing off the rope, into the river.
She'd do it.
Alla would do it.
Alla stomped down the grassy hill, her bare feet making imprints on the dirt ground. The wind blew her copper curls over her shoulder, and strands of unruly curls brushed her face. She scrunched up her face, pulling the strands of hair out of her face.
Trudging down the hill, the rapid wind blew her towards the end of the creek. The brown rope dangling from a tree branch comes into view.
Alla would do it. Like her friend told her. She would.
Today was the day.
| November 2012 |
White snow fell softly on the roof of the Victorian walls of the Red Room. Alla had been moved to a ground facility instead of the Red Room Headquarters. It had been two weeks since her transfer, yet it had been seamless. Alla was sedated before she left the Headquarters, and was woken up as the plane landed, walking through the grand doors leading to a large and luxurious lobby with two grand staircases leading up to somewhere Alla hasn't been yet.
Being sedated was nothing new to Alla. She has to be sedated on every leave and entry to and fro the Red Room. For any mission, or to be temporally transferred to HYDRA Facilities. Mostly to keep the location under wraps if Alla were to go rogue.
Like that would even happen.
It was early morning, about four-thirty in the morning. The lady who came in every morning to uncuff the remaining girls of the Red Room walked in, scuffling her feet tiredly on the marble floor. She looked to be about in her eighties, with a hunchback. She was a normal civilian that the Red Room had paid to keep the girls on time. Alla assumed that the Red Room had bribed her to work here, or her family would be dead. They probably are already.
Death is a fact of life.
Alla laid on her back, eyes closed. She waited patiently for the elderly lady to take off the handcuff on her left wrist, chained to the headboard. Alla counted each second as the old lady uncuffed the other girls waiting too. When the old lady approached Alla, she had counted to 184 seconds, meaning it had taken the old lady three minutes and five seconds to get to Alla. A lot slower than usual.
The old lady uncuffed Alla. She swiftly slid her legs to the side of the bed, placing her hands on her lap. Sitting in her stationary position, waiting for the other girls her age to get up.
Alla was one of the few girls to survive through the last reaping. That's what Alla liked to call it. Where each grade–age actually–would fight against one another.
Alla was a part of the 10-13 year-olds. Being 10, Alla was amongst the youngest girls to survive. There were about 20 girls through this age bracket, from ten and a half to turning fourteen. Five girls were 10 years old, five that were 11, five that were 12, five more that were 13. Only four girls that were thirteen survived.
Now, only eight girls are remaining.
Alla had killed four of them brutally. Not even blinking as their necks cracked under her grip as their bones broke from her movements. Alla was the best assassin. Or growing assassin. She had a legacy to live up to.
The other girls did not.
They were nobodies. Nobodies that mean nothing. Alla has no place in the world. Nor do the other seven remaining girls in the room.
Alla had killed her one and only friend. But she can't think of that. She can't think about how much her friend, Ivona, who had just turned ten, had cried when Madame B nodded to Alla to start their fight. Ivona had given up so easily. Ivona's black curls had spilled all over the mat where she lay dead. It wasn't Alla's first kill. Not by a long shot it was. Yet, a piece of Alla had died that day.
Now she sits like a Widow. With her hands clasped, chin up. Her blue and green eyes look blank and emotionless. Her face is void of any emotion.
Widows do not cry when they kill someone. They do not cry at all. They are as strong as marble. They are as strong as trees, and as sharp as a knife. They do not crumble under the pressure of having red in their ledger. If anything, they become stronger.
Once the three remaining girls were uncuffed and sitting in their beds like nice and polite Widows, Madame B entered the room. Their usual routine.
"You are dismissed." Alla watched Madame B's lips. Madame B looked as polished and rigid as usual. With her wispy blonde hair up in a tight French Twist behind her head, her lips as red as blood. Her eyes are as sharp as knives staring down the remaining seven girls. Alla returned her glare, hardening her eyes.
She will not let Madame B stare her down. Alla will not be like her predecessors. She will not crumble under their gaze. She will be strong. She will be what her predecessors were not. She will be better than them.
Alla's emerald green and ocean blue eyes follow the elderly lady limp through the large doors leading to the hallway, passing by Madame B.
Madame B. watches each girl like a hawk, eyeing them with venom. "Ballet starts at five. You have three minutes." Her mouth moves stiffly, with a sneer that weirdly produces her face. Unlike the Widows, Madame B does not hide her emotions. They are displayed through her expressions. She will tell the girls if she is displeased with them.
It's a part of Madame B's nature.
She is a creature of habit. Over the five years of being in the Red Room, Alla has learned to adapt. Learn to survive, and be the best of the best. She will not fail.
As Madame B exits the living quarters, the last remaining girls get ready for their ballet class. Alla ties her blood-red curls into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She secures it into place with nimble fingers, her muscles moving instinctively. Like one does when actions become second nature.
She followed after the other girls all clad in black leotards and nude colored ballet flats on their feet. They walked in a straight line, hands clasped behind their backs, chins up, eyes forwards. It was like a routine. Every morning the girls would go to ballet class, practice and practice for hours before breakfast. They'd work so hard they were barely able to stand up straight, their legs quaking beneath them, their muscles worked to the bone.
Ballet class was brutal, the young girls were toned and molded into the perfect ballerinas, having the perfect physique to become prima-ballerinas. Their clothes were pristine, their lines straight, their jete's sharp and fact, their arabesque elongated and graceful. Their assemblé's stark, like you were able to pause and take a picture and see a perfect fifth position in mid air, their arms in fifth position too, above their perfect buns.
Ballet was not for the weak. The Red Room was not for the weak. They'd break you down to your deepest darkest fears, overexpose them to you, make you into a shell of a person until you succumb to Madame B and Dreykov's will.
The remaining eight girls stood in first position, their arms ready in preparation, left hands resting on the bare, their chest out, butts clenched. The music started, and Alla moved to the rhythm that she could feel beneath her feet on the Marley floor. At first, they'd start with their ballet flats, going from plié's to grand-bama's then balancing on their relevé.
The three large windows behind the girls showed the snowy white outside. Hours later, Alla stood in the center of the room. A blue mat underneath her bare feet. Her face void of emotion. Sparing was their next class.
Still in their ballet leotards, and pointe shoes. Their backs are rigid. The girls stood in a semi circle around the blue mat, Alla in the center. The girls had angry faces on as they stared at the girl with blood red hair—Madame B's favorite.
The grand doors to the ballet class opened up to reveal four people. Madame B., the Winter Soldier, and two guards.
Alla could feel her breath caught in her chest. Her father—her Papa—is here, in the Red Room. She could feel terror from the tip of her head, flowing down to her spine like ice cold water being thrown at her. She shivered.
"Alla, Zenovia, stand on the mat." Madame B instructed, standing her back to the wall of mirrors. The Soldat took up the space to her right, his steel blue eyes that Alla knew no longer held kindness. They were dark and stormy. His stubbled jaw clenched, his metal arm and flesh folded across his chest.
Alla knew she was done for.
She moved numbly to stand face to face with Zenovia. She was a lanky fourteen year old, with wisps of blonde hair and chocolate brown eyes. Her nose was snubbed up and she had a mean smirk on her face.
None of the girls liked Alla. They hated her, to be exact. Ivona was Alla's only friend in the Red Room. Or she was as close to a friend that Alla would ever get. The remaining girls knew Alla was special, they knew she was Madame B.'s favorite, knew that Dreykov and Pierce liked her enough, and that made them mad. It made Zenovia mad.
The two girls stared each other down, matching looks on their faces. Alla's more fair and freckled face, and Zenovia's sharp and ghostly pale features stared back.
From where Madame B. stood off to the right nodded her head to the girls to begin.
Alla pounced first, she was already on the balls of her feet. That made Zenovia mad. Alla threw her legs around Zenovia's torso, climbing up her body and using her body weight to pull her to the ground. It worked, and Alla felt a sliver of anxiety release its hold on her chest.
With Zenovia on the ground struggling and gasping, her sharp features contoured into pure anger, Alla pinned her to the ground straddling the taller girl beneath her with her legs. She threw a hard punch to the girl's pretty face. Relentlessly, Alla threw punch after punch, using her right and left hands to use Zenovia's face as a punching bag.
Zenovia's face was fucked up Alla's hands a bloody red.
Alla used all of her pent up anger to fuel her.
She was angry that she had to fight people—to kill them. That she had to kill her best friend. That her father was just used like a puppet—Alla was angry with HYDRA. Angry—fuming even—at Madame B. and Dreykov for keeping her away from her Papa, her only source of safety and comfort. She was angry at the other girls in the Red Room. They hated her. They despised her guts, and at every chance they had, they'd punish her for being the favorite.
Alla never asked to be the favorite.
She never asked to be Project Glory. She never asked to be given serum after serum to make her HYDRA and the Red Room's perfect child soldier. She never asked for this!
Alla was thrown to the side, her punches sloppy.
Zenovia used her sloppiness to knee her in the back, and throw her off.
Alla tumbled to the side, gasping for air.
Zenovia was heaving, her nose completely broken, blood covered her face. There were globs of blood in her eyelashes. Leaning on her side, she spat out crimson liquid onto the blue mat.
"You'll regret that." Zenovia seethed.
In a flash, Zenovia was in front of Alla, a look of pure hatred on her bloodied and sharp features. She bent and gripped at Alla's arm, pulling her up to her feet with force. From there she threw a hard right hook to Alla's jaw. The force of Zenovia's punch made Alla crumble to the ground with a whimper. In seconds, Zenovia was on top of Alla punching at her face, pulling and twisting her arm at an unnatural angle. Alla cried out in pure agony. Zenovia had a bloody smile on her face, staring at Alla who withered under her.
"Huh? What's that?" Zenovia mocked, whispering close to Alla's ear.
Alla couldn't hear her. And Zenovia knew this. They all knew she was deaf. That she was incompetent. That she was a retard, utterly stupid. It was a wonder why Madame B or Dreykov even kept her. She was not useful to the Red Room with her disability. And yet, Alla was their favorite.
Alla felt her Zenovia's breath on her cheek. In anger, Alla growled and tried to kick at Zenovia from beneath her. She couldn't move, Zenovia was using her full body weight to pin her down. "There's no escaping this," Zenovia pulled back, looking at Alla in her eyes. "I'll kill you,"
Alla arched her back, kicking her feet and squirming. Zenovia griped at her almost broken left arm even tighter and Alla cried out. With tears pricking at Alla's eyes, she craned her neck against the mat, looking at an upside down Madame B and her Papa, seeing pure anger on Madame B's face. Fear—pure fear—on her father's face. Madame B looked at Zenovia, giving her a miniscule nod.
Alla was going to die.
Zenovia was going to kill her.
Alla didn't want to die. She wanted to live.
Or did she? Alla knew she didn't want to live in HYDRA's world. Or in the Red Room's world.
So, maybe it was a good thing that Zenovia was going to kill her. There must be a better place after death. Alla might even meet Ivona again and apologize to her.
But what about Papa?
Alla glanced back to her father as Zenovia pulled her up by her shoulders, turning her around. He was mouthing something. Alla's brows furrowed, she narrowed her eyes to her Papa. Go for her throat. That's what he was saying.
From her father's words, Alla exhaled and stomped on Zenovia's foot with her pointe shoes on. Zenovia released her grip on Alla. The red haired ten year old swept the girl off her feet. Zenovia let out a gasp, falling to the ground. Alla could feel the vibrations on the mat, the indent of Zenovia's tall body on the mushy mat. Zenoiva was quick to try to stand up, but Alla was quicker.
She wrapped her not broken arm around the girl's neck, pulling Zenoiva's chin up the movement. Alla kneeled on the ground, leaning back and pulling at the girl's throat. "This is for trying to kill me." Alla whispered in Zenovia's ear, her face was fucked up, more red on Alla's leger.
Zenovia gurgled, and pulled at Alla's arm. She tried pushing up with her feet, but Alla kicked the back of her knees with her own, keeping her kneeled down. Zenovia was going to die. Not Alla.
Her brown eyes were wide, lashes littered with globs of blood. She looked up to Alla, a look of pure horror on her sharp features.
Alla didn't bother to apologize to Zenovia in her mind. This girl was a bully, a killer.
But what made you two different? You do the same thing?
Alla ignored those thoughts, turning Zenovia's sharp jaw to the left. She felt her bones crack in her arms. Alla held the limp girl's body in her arms for a moment before gently setting her crumbled body to the ground.
She shakaily stood up.
Zenovia was dead.
Madame B was happy.
The Winter Soldier staired, glad it wasn't his daughter's body crumbled on the mat.
