She is 4 years old and running as fast as her legs will allow down a corridor, the sound of gunshots behind her. Her legs are burning from the effort and her breath comes out in gasps. Moments before she was on stage, dancing. Twirling around in pirouettes unheard off from someone her age. She's dressed in pink, the ruffles in her tutu and the ribbons dangling from a bun of fiery red head. And a mere hour ago, her papa and her mama smiled proudly as their only daughter danced, leaving everyone in wonder. Up there, twirling to the sound of the music, she was happy.

But now she is confused and tired and scared. But still, she runs down the hallway, encouraged by her mother's screams "Natalʹya rabotatʹ ... moya Natasha ne oglyvaytesʹ nazad!"

Run, Natalia …..My Natasha, don't look back!

But as one more gunshot resonates through the deserted hallways and she can't hear her mother anymore, she turns around. A gasp escaping her as she sees her mothers crumpled form in the floor, a puddle of deep red blood growing larger by the second.

"Mama!" She screams, and runs back to her, drapes her little arms around her body. It convulses once, blood sputtering from parted lips, before going limp. "Net….mama…" Natalia's tears break free and stream from her green eyes like the waterfalls papa took her to see yesterday. She may be just a child, but the red blood drenching her pink leotard and her mother's wide open eyes, break her. Natalia knows her mother is not going to wake up.

She's too immersed in grief to notice the man that appears behind her, one of the many they were running from. He grabs her by her upper arms, ripping her from her mother's body. She's too weak to fight as he throws her over his shoulder, and carries the wailing child out of the house. She can't fight or resist as she is violently thrown into the back of a black van and a new life. Her hair came out of its place and now wild red curls frame her face, the tutu her nana embroidered is ruined and mama's blood is still dripping from her hands.

When she's older she will still remember this, the first time she watched someone die. Even though the someone will be hazy on her mind and after everything she's not entirely sure it happened at all. Still, she will sometimes dream and when she wakes up, remember. The clapping and the lights, the music and the smiles, the blood and the misery, and looking down and seeing little hands stained with bright red blood the color of her hair.