Crying
Bucky’s still naked when they toss him back into his cell.
He scrambles as quickly as his aching body will allow him to the corner of the cell.
The guards laugh.
He presses his back into the corner, bringing his knees up like a shield. He wraps his arm around it, lifts his stump to press into his head.
The locking of the door is almost a relief. At least he knows his tormentors are locked out. For now. Until they want him again.
He shakes with silent sobs.
There’s blood between his legs, and the feeling of phantom hands all over him. He’s filthy. Even if he had a chance to bathe, he doesn’t think that he could ever rid himself of the feeling.
“Steve,” he whispers between sobs, although this time the name brings him no comfort. Bucky doesn’t want Steve to see him violated and broken and disgusting. Steve could look past a missing arm, maybe, but there’s no way he could look past this.
Bucky hadn’t been able to keep track of how many people, how many things, had violated him. How many had pulled on his hair, cut into him, snubbed out cigarettes on him as they used him.
His stomach revolts, as the event plays and replays. Kneeling to the side, his stomach tries to empty itself. But they hadn’t fed him today, and he’s grateful for it, even as he spits out bile.
The horror and fear and loathing he feels turn his head. He presses himself back into the corner.
And he can’t stop crying.
He should have fought harder. He had let them take him out of the cell. Should have struggled more as they chained him bent over a table.
All these thoughts swirl, making him light headed. He tries to push them out. He doesn’t want to think about it.
About their hands and their teeth on his body. About how more people came in, only to join in. About their laughter as he begged. About any of it.
He tears at his skin, trying to get the feeling of them off. He leaves bloody trails all over his body, but the feeling doesn’t go away.
Bucky sobs, wishing for death.