Ch 31: A Mark of Her Own
The room was concrete and cold. It smelled of oil and metal and something chemical. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh white glare. At the far end, paper silhouettes waited—faceless, anonymous, already full of holes.
At the shooting bench, Kazimir busied himself with preparation: ear protection, targets, then a black case clicked open to reveal a gun. He looked up when he sensed Elena watching. He smiled lightly and held out the gun.
Elena hesitated for a moment but took it. The metal was cold with sharp edges. It was heavier than she expected. Her fingers wrapped around the grip, testing the weight. This was a tool. A machine. Designed for a purpose she had spent her whole life trying to escape.
Kazimir moved behind her. His chest brushed her shoulders. His arms came up on either side of hers, hands covering hers. "This is a Glock 19. Sixteen rounds total."
She nodded, her heart pounding now from the rush of adrenaline.
"Feet." He nudged her stance with his knee. "Shoulder-width apart. Weight forward."
She shifted.
He hummed approval. "Good. Now raise it. Both hands. Firm grip."
Elena lifted the gun.
"Front sight. Rear sight. Target. Line them up."
She tried, but her arms shook. The front sight wavered.
"Breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Let the shot happen between heartbeats."
She breathed. Eventually, the sight steadied.
"Whenever you're ready," he whispered.
Elena's finger rested on the trigger. She looked at the target. At her own hands wrapped around the gun. Kazimir's hands rested over hers, but she was holding the weapon. She was choosing.
I am choosing to fight.
She squeezed.
The gun roared. Recoil slammed through her arms. A gasp tore from her throat—but Kazimir's hands were firm over hers, absorbing the shock, steadying her.
Kazimir's hands squeezed hers. "Good," he said. "Look."
A hole had appeared in the target. Low and left, but on the paper.
On the paper. Her eyes widened. She had done that. She who flinched at loud noises, who hid in corners, who had spent years making herself small—she had made a mark. Wonder bloomed in her chest. I hit it!
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Kazimir turned her gently, his hands sliding to her shoulders. His grey eyes were warm.
"Again?"
Elena nodded firmly.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The first magazine was clumsy. Shots went wide—one into the ceiling, two into the floor.
Kazimir corrected her. A nudge at her elbow. A hand on her hip adjusting her stance. His hands were always there, steadying her after each recoil.
By the second magazine, her shots began to group. The scatter tightened. She felt the adjustments—the way her stance needed to be just so, the way her grip needed to be firm but not desperate. The rhythm became meditative: breathe, aim, squeeze, reset.
By the third magazine, she hit center mass. The hole appeared exactly where she'd been aiming. Dead center.
Elena froze, staring at it. That small, perfect circle in the silhouette's chest. She had done that.
Kazimir's hands squeezed her shoulders. A wordless acknowledgment.
She looked up at him. Her chest was tight with gratitude. 'Thank you,' she mouthed.
His eyes softened. He took the pistol from her hands and set it on the bench. Then he pulled her into his arms. His face pressed into her hair, his breath warm against her scalp. She pressed her cheek into his chest and held on.
When he finally pulled back, he tilted his chin toward a stone bench in the corner. "Go rest. You earned it."
She nodded and headed over to the bench.
That was when something caught her eye. She stopped. Hanging on the concrete wall was a smudged mirror. It was ancient, spotted with age—its surface clouded and dull.
Her eyes were drawn to the stranger staring back. Hair disheveled. Cheeks flushed. Eyes bright and fierce—not dull and vacant as they'd been for so long.
Is that me?
Elena raised her hands and examine them. Raw palms. Sore wrists. Fingers that had learned to fire a gun. She curled them into fists, testing their strength. When her fingers unfurled, she realized—with quiet wonder—that they were still her hands. Still small. Still scarred. Still marked by everything she had endured. But no longer empty.
In the mirror, the girl with her face watched. She was livelier than Elena remembered. Radiant. And those eyes—they were different now.
'Who are you?' Elena asked silently.
The girl stared back. She said nothing.
But slowly, Elena understood. Her old self—the one who hid, who flinched, who made herself small—was nowhere in this glass. There was only this woman. The one with calloused hands and fierce eyes. The one who had chosen to stay. The one who had pulled a trigger and hit her mark.
The woman in the mirror was her. Who Elena was becoming.
Elena pressed her palm flat against the cold glass. The woman on the other side pressed back. For a long moment, they stood like that—face to face with the person she had decided to be.
I am not that girl anymore, she thought, letting her hand fall. I will never be that girl again.
When she turned away, she did not look back.
She was still afraid. She would probably always be afraid.
But fear was no longer the only thing she carried.
Last edited by Feiya Phia 5/8/26