Nemesis Rassov’s life felt like a dream: a dream of dancing bullets, and elegant bloodletting, resulting in useful beauty; a dream in which she was the painter, performer, dramatist, and her work was the perfect art.
An art that served the world..
Art that saved the world.
Since her 8th birthday, when they placed the first gun in her hands, she felt she belonged to a special class of people, a skilled class gifted with privilege of cleansing and healing the world around her.
As a toddler, she played with bullets instead of blocks. Smooth , shiny little playmates that made delightful clinking sounds when she ran her small hands through them. All sizes ( which she later learned to call calibers), all shapes, bullets were jewels to her, valuable baubles that tasted slightly oily when she put them in her mouth. She never felt their danger. Never knew their power….she simply loved them.