The cold seeps through every layer of clothing I have on causing my bones to ache and chilling me to the core. A small breeze dances through the air, making the fur around my hood wriggle in my periphery. Fooling me into thinking something, or someone, is there. But it’s an illusion. The only thing moving is the wind. Movement is not tolerated, to move is to die.
Though lying in a snowbank waiting for dawn to break, no matter how many layers of clothing and protective gear I left home wearing this morning, feels a lot like death as well. I imagine myself lying by a fire, the warmth from the flames blasting the front side of my body, forcing me to face the other way when it gets to be too much, so the other side of me can be blasted as well. If I think on it hard enough, I can almost pretend it’s true. The heat singeing my bare fingers when I hold them too close, as opposed to the icy wind that envelopes them now.
The rays from the rising sun glint off the white of the snow, making it hard to see much further than a few feet. Forcing me to recalculate move to make sure I one, have not moved, and two, remember my line of sight even if I can’t see it clearly.
A faint whistle floats through the space around us. If you weren’t waiting for it you might think it a snowbird or a train, maybe the sound of the wind in the bare trees. But it’s none of those things. The whistle is my grandmother giving the sign, which means that it’s almost over now. Soon—in a matter of hours with any luck at all—I can make my brief fire fantasy a reality. Warming my body to the point of discomfort. Until the red on my skin from the cold moves to the opposite end of the spectrum and becomes a tinge of pink from the heat.
I close my left eye, keeping my right focused straight ahead; my fingers are loose, my body is rigid. I take a deep breath in, filling my chest with air, then let it out slowly as I pull the trigger. The rifle firing echoes around me, joined by the twin sounds as my siblings mimic my movements. It is only after all sounds die away that I hear my grandmother’s footsteps approaching behind me. Her thick-soled boots crunching through the thin layer of ice above last night’s snow fall.
“Daria!” she barks. I take that as my cue to stand and face her. My entire body protesting when I try to move. Knees begging to buckle under my weight, my spine too stiff to bend to my will, forcing my core to take on the brunt of the task. I steel my expression to ensure she sees no hesitation. No pain. No weakness. To her, we are the soldiers and she the general.
“You did well. The only one to hit their targets. It is you I will continue to focus on. Your brothers and sisters have no gift. You, my dear, you have the blood of the femme fatale running through your veins. You are like me and my mother before me. This you pass along to your own daughter one day.” She grasps my shoulder with her large gloved hand and squeezes. The gesture is loving and filled with praise and I receive it accordingly because it is the most that I will get from her.
My family, the Limonovs, are not an affectionate bunch. Strong? Yes. Rich? Obscenely. Ruthless? To the core. Loyal? Until death. But a tender touch has no place amongst such esteemed traits. Not even toward an eight-year-old, like myself, who is also the youngest of my siblings to have their talents tested.
My great-grandmother was the famed Lidya Limonov, a Soviet sniper in the Red Army during World War II, credited with 309 kills. To this day, she is regarded as one of the top military snipers of all time and the most successful female sniper in history. She was given countless nicknames throughout her tenure: Dame of Death, Mistress of Mortality, Female of Fatality, Gal of the Grave. But our favorite, the one we still use in our family to refer to her as, is the original Femme Fatale.
We trudge back to the house, the snow starting to fall lightly, just enough to feel wet on my face. Walking feels good, the exertion warming my body from within. I keep pace with my grandmother as my siblings scamper about, throwing snow balls and the such. No doubt feeling relief over their lack of the gift.
Jealousy fills me when I think about how unrestrained their lives will be from here on out in comparison to mine. But when my grandmother leans down to my ear and whispers, “I’m glad it was you, my lastachka. You are my favorite—you are the one who most reminds me of her.” She’s speaking about my mother. And knowing that I’m like her makes the years of suffering ahead of me almost worth it.
From here on out, I am an executioner, first in training and then in practice. To be called upon throughout my life as my family sees fit. And, when the time comes, training my own progeny to carry on the lineage.
My name is Daria Limonov and this is my story.