For a child of that age — used to the horns and noisy crowds of a loud Sheffield —, slowing down was no easy task. Therefore, containing her excitement was the first challenge she faced in her vacation trip to her grandfather's place.
Birds singing in the sycamore tree; daytime breezes seemed to whisper.
Leaves rustled over the branches as the wind blew those who matured enough to fly away. Her grandfather's farmstead was not one of a kind; but still indistinctly special. A place where you could close your eyes and confuse the rustling with sea swells. The whole city of Canterbury muttered an utter silence, keeping its serenity under the garden walls.
"Daddy and mommy said we were going to the beach," she thought. "But so far, this doesn't feel so bad."
"It's not like anything would change if I'm either here or there."
As a child, she had to be punished as she had done wrong. Alone in that corner, she, her and herself were all the friends she could count on to. She shouldn't be questioning her parents either, because they always spoke the truth — and it was absolute.
She grasped on the handles of the rocking chair, swinging back and forth. But then she remembered of what they had said and stopped. Her chest tightened with the mere pleasure of enjoying the scenery and the funny swinging. She wasn't allowed to it. Therefore, she shouldn't.
Her knee ached with a bruise from an early stumble; yet, she couldn't even wash the dirt out of it, as she had to get up to clean it. Their words were clear. Their voice, without rest, kept muttering in her head: "Do not leave this chair until I tell you so."
It was so unfair. Her mommy, daddy and twin brother should already be strolling through the orchards of the farm, tasting the sweetest peaches and enjoying the purest of the airs. All whilst she was there, stuck in that boring and monotonous corner.
"I really like peaches."
"I wanted some of it..."
But all that was left for her was to grab her knees with her arms and curl up, as she tried to amuse herself with her own words. She turned her thoughts into a hobby of her own — into games that only she knew how to play.
"My knees. I need to wash it."
"It hurts..."
"But what if they see me leaving this place?"
"I don't wanna."
"It's better like this."
They told her to think about her future. And if she kept getting the answers wrong on those black and white papers, she wouldn't have one of their dear "futures", that seemed to matter more to them than herself.
For some reason she didn't know why this one named "future" was so important.
It always stroke her as really odd.
"Why wasn't I born like him?" she pondered, curling tighter.
The rustling stopped and silence took over the porches of the place. And heavy footsteps, from sandals almost dragging along the floor, came from behind the curves of the porch. A slow, but steady walk that got louder by the second, until it revealed to be from an old man — one she knew well — holding a small-caliber carbine in one hand.
"Natalia?" the old man asked. "Where are your parents?"
"They went for a walk."
"And why don't you go with them?"
"I can't. I'm grounded forever," she whispered, looking away as to conceal her vain shame.
Charles shook his head in a harmless disdain and took the other chair beside her. He sat like an old man; but not as a man that old. Her grandfather, even with his gray hair and in his lasts digits of age, had a good back and strong legs.
"Punishment, eh?" he said, laying the carbine over his knees. "And what the hell did you do to deserve this, girl?"
Natalia kept her faraway look. Silent as the wind that'd stopped breezing.
"Did you break a vase? Did you hit a friend in the face? Did you join the Islamic State? Something like that, huh?" he speculated, spitting his nonsense words with a gleeful smile on his face.
"Islamic... what?" she wondered, looking back at him and denying his questions, shaking her head as hasty as she could.
"And what was it then?" he insisted.
"I guess it was because I got a 'D' in history and a 'F' in math, whilst my brother almost got an A+ in both of them."
"Indeed, you did pretty bad." The old man laughed. "But leaving that aside, I want you to answer a question for me."
Her grandfather held up his carbine — mounted on a stock of decrepit wood and weighted with a silver barrel and a low-magnification scope on top of it.
"Wanna pop some watermelons?" he said, pointing to the three fruits he had strategically placed in front of him.
"They won't let me out of here," she replied.
"Do I look like I care?" he insisted. "I'm letting you, aren't I?"
"But my mommy..."
"She's my daughter. She ain't has a word against me."
Natalia looked to the sides of the trail they had started from and to the orchards in the distance. No vision of her parents. Knowing that they weren't there, she reassured herself.
"I want to!" she replied.
"That's the spirit, girl!" he encouraged her, patting his granddaughter's head. He scrambled to his feet, and Natalia hurriedly followed him, suppressing a groan of pain from her injured knee.
"Something wrong?" he asked.
"It's nothing", she said, concealing her knee.
The girl touched her knee and brushed away the rest of the sand, gritted her teeth and swallowed the pain dry. Charles knew; but he preferred to leave it at that — so that she would get up on her own even more often.
"Popping watermelons!" she thought.
Charles placed the rifle on the porch, laying it down with all the leniency he had, and turned to his granddaughter.
"First, we need to know what your dominant eye is," he said, taking her hand. "Put one of your fingers so that it covers my nose in your field of vision. Then, blink each of your eyes."
Natalia smiled as she obeyed him: she put a finger in the air to cover her grandfather's nose and closed her eyes. One at a time.
"Now tell me, which of the two eyes, when you left it open, still covered my nose?" he continued.
"The right one."
"So that's your dominant eye, the one you're going to use to pop the watermelons. Got it?"
"Shoot the watermelons, huh?" she spoke. "I think I got it!"
"I always knew you could do it," he joked. "But it's my turn first, because I'm older."
"That's not fair!"
"Of course, it is. The watermelons are mine, like the carbine, this place and everything else that is inside this property. Also, don't forget that you are my granddaughter, as well."
Natalia fell into her bold silence; but she didn't lose her smile or her naive stubbornness.
The old man leaned against the frame, laid his cheek on the stock and stared into the scope.
He blew out a sigh, took a deep breath and finally pulled the trigger.
A crash sounded with that well-aimed shot; but the caliber was not high enough to do so much damage to the target.
"Cool!" she pondered, smiling. "Really cool!"
Charles laid the rifle down on the porch again and reached for the weapon, saying:
"It's your turn now, innit?"
Natalia nodded, up and down, unable to contain her sudden excitement. She knelt and leaned against the frame, laid her cheek on the stock — in the same posture as her grandfather — and peered through the scope with her right eye.
"Hold your breath", she muttered. "And pull the trigger."
Charles raised his eyebrows, impressed. Good posture, even for a ten-year-old. She had a firm grip even with such small hands.
And that's what made him stop her for a moment.
"Natalia," he interrupted, touching her shoulder. "Dear, I need you to hear one last thing, okay?"
The girl ceased her focus and returned his gaze.
"See what you're holding?" he said, pointing to the gun in his hands and in a serious tone. "Under no circumstances should you point this at anyone, is it clear?"
"Does it hurt a lot?"
"It hurts a hundred times more than your knee," he explained.
Natalia almost took two steps backwards at that. She knew that a hundred times something was a lot of times something — even with a "F" in math.
"Natalia, I just want you to promise me that you'll never point this out to anyone. Even when you grow up, don't point it up to anyone unless they threaten you or whatever is dearly yours, like your family."
"I promise, grandpa."
Charles smiled, clenched his fist, and held up his thumb.
"I trust you," he said, weaving a sweet glee in his face. "Now finish the bastard."
And the target met the girl's gaze again.
"Three."
She put her finger on the trigger.
"Two."
And she hesitated, remembering that hundredfold pain.
"And one."
The loud snap of the shot sounded and the projectile stuck right in the middle, almost with her grandfather's precision. An almost perfect shot. And she didn't even forget to pull the bolt to clean the chamber.
"Impressive," he said, clapping his hands.
"Girl, you should compete in the Olympics, you know that?"
"Of course, I should!" She was proud of herself. "I'm the best!"
"But don't lose your humility, eh?"
Charles thought he could've had made a mistake; but evil had no place in a child's heart.
"Will mommy and daddy praise me too?" she thought.