Lost
Bucky turns the knife around, tip over hilt, in his hands.
It’s been a bad run. He knows it.
Who was he kidding, thinking he could ever be a person? Someone with a life, someone people cared about.
Everyone talks about how bright the future could be. Friends. A partner. A career, not necessarily as an Avenger, but as whatever he wanted. They talk like he could be anything but a killing machine. Like he could just be forgiven for all the terrible things that he had done. Steve might say it wasn’t him, and Bucky knows that. But he still did it. He’s taken so many lives, ruined countless others.
All the pain and torture he went through with Hydra is the least of what he deserves for it.
He turns the knife, watching the light glint off of it. He swallows hard, tears prickling at his eyes.
Steve wasn’t here right now. He had gone on some Avengers thing that Bucky couldn’t remember exactly what it was. Just that it was a pre-planned thing, and Steve hadn’t wanted to go. Wanted to stay with Bucky.
Bucky had laughed and kissed his cheek, sending him out the door. As soon as he had been sure Steve was fine, he allowed his smile to drop, his shoulders to slump, and his whole being to sag.
He waited three days. Because that's a rule somewhere. He talked to Steve, brushed off inquiries about his own day. On the fourth morning, he had grabbed a knife and closed their bedroom door. He walked into the guest room and sat on the bed.
Now he sits here, watching the knife gleam as it turns. There’s still daylight outside, although the sun is going down now. Bucky has been staring at the knife for hours.
It would be a relief to use it. No more pain, no more fear. No more would e fail and disappoint Steve. No more future.
All Bucky can ever do is disappoint, it seems.
And he’s tired. Tired of pretending to be okay. Of trying to be a real person. Of acting like he cares what happens to him. He’s tired of trying.
A car door slams outside, and it startles him out of his thoughts, away from the hypnotic gleam of the knife in his hands.
He takes a deep breath, and lifts it to his throat. Pressing it in slightly, but just holding it.
Steve will miss him, he’s certain. But he’ll eventually realize that without Bucky around to drag him down, he’ll be much better off. Every bad thing that’s happened to Steve Bucky could have prevented, had caused, and it’s time he set things right.
He closes his eyes and takes another deep breath. A tear escaping his eyes.
Bucky hopes that dying really is like falling asleep. That he isn’t about to curse himself to wandering the earth forever. Although it would be deserving.
He hears someone open a front door. The neighbors getting home, presumably.
He presses the knife deeper, and feels a drop of blood roll down his throat.