Liliia and the Russian Sniper

The bombing sirens were deafening inside the city. As she came to the edge of the building, she peered around the edge. There was a lull in the shooting. She was 15. Her name was Liliia. She loved her name. Her mother had taught her it meant purity, beauty, and renewal. Her mother would say, "You're my little flower."  
 
Liliia put away her thoughts and ran toward the government building across the street where she knew there was a bomb shelter. She felt the power of her lanky legs, accustomed to running and dancing in school competitions. She pictured the trophies in her bedroom until the sound of a rifle filled the street. Bullets struck close to her feet spraying her ankles with stone shards. The pain reminded her of wasp stings she’d gotten in high grass behind her home when she was seven.  
 
Just as she thought the building was in reach, a violent pain struck her thigh. Her leg gave way and she fell as an expanding bullet ripped into muscle and bone. The gunfire stopped and she lay still. I was a dancer, she thought, feeling the burn in her limp leg. Will I ever even walk again? she wondered.  
 
Maybe the soldiers thought she was dead or stopping her had been enough. They’ll see the rise and fall of my back, Liliia thought as she gasped for air. She tried to hold her body very still. In that moment of quiet, she thought of the single time she’d had sex. It had only been three weeks before. Her mother had been angry when she found out, but the next week when the boy died in bombing, she never spoke of it again. Will there be another love for me? she thought.  
 
Liliia was startled from her thoughts when single shot smashed into the road close by. She jumped instinctively. “Dammit,” she whispered. Why did I move? she thought. Just then, a second shot sliced into her hip, and she writhed up in pain knowing all that she’d ever been was being stripped away in these moments. Before she returned to the ground, another bullet found the center of her back, throwing her head hard against the road where she immediately lost consciousness.
 
Within moments, the sniper appeared, approaching her body slowly while scanning the area. All was clear. Citizens were inside the shelter, and he doubted they’d be shooting anytime soon.  
 
Her back was a thin hourglass shape underneath her t-shirt. Her palms were planted on the street with fingers still spread as they'd been been when pushing up in pain after the shot to her hip. Her elbows and bony arms were now folded on either side of her shoulders in perfect symmetry. Bullet wounds stood out against her white shirt and skirt. Her legs jutted out from her summer skirt pale and thin, twisted awkwardly like uncooked pretzels waiting to be shaped.  
 
The soldier turned her over to her back and shook his head. “I’m sorry for you,” he said. “I was told not to let anyone pass across this street. Why would you run into the street?”  
 
He looked at her as if he expected an answer. Even with dirt and scraps, her face was that of an angel he thought. He felt of her neck. At first he thought he felt a pulse but then there was none. She was dead. He glanced around and then dropped his hand to her breasts. They were small but firm and still warm. “Such a waste,” he whispered before standing to walk away.