He jerks up from the lumpy, musty mattress in a sudden jolt – the haunting and familiar sensation of falling – clenching the black tee on his chest in a fist, metal digits pulling at the fabric and threatening to tear in to the thin material. He can feel his heart – pounding hard and fast beneath ribs heaving as if lungs have been suffocating, as if the air had been forced out from a heavy blow to the solar plexus and then himself bodily submerged in a vacuum, unable to take in another breath.
Frantic eyes blink and search the room, landing on a makeshift bookshelf compiled of cinderblocks and planks of wood, towards the erroneous digital clock on the electric stove to his left of which he hasn’t bothered setting, and counting the makeshift shadows of items that clutter the countertop in the kitchen as the mind pieces together his current location and timeframe against the images constantly bombarding his head whenever he’s overcome with the need to sleep. He gasps deep and harsh, almost choking on the air rushing in and out of those lungs in an attempt to calm down while shaky hands push back on long hair clinging to his sweat-soaked face, its ends curling from the dampness.
The muted noises of late night vehicles passing by outside in the street below, as with the hum of the refrigerator and the spinning of the ceiling fan also help bring him back to the present, and back into his own body. The newspapers taped onto the windows block out some of the light pollution coming in from the streetlights and those passing vehicles – and help him to not be seen or noticed. It is also hot and stuffy in this meagre apartment.
Pushing himself up off the mattress with great effort, legs unsteady, he stumbles towards the bathroom and switches the light on, eyes wincing from the change of near complete darkness of the rest of the apartment to the brightness of incandescent bulbs fluttering to life above the mirror, its coiled filaments sparking intermittently and burning white hot, leaving its negative in blinding spots in his vision when its flickering causes him to glance up at them momentarily. He rubs his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of his flesh hand in a futile attempt to get rid of those vision spots, groaning at the headache blooming in his right temple, exacerbated from the lights.
Mismatched hands grip the taps, turning them on and then coming together, cupping the cold water flowing out of the faucet and splashing it onto his face, hands moving deftly, rubbing the excess water down his neck and through his hair, smoothing it back and away from his face all the while refusing to look into the mirror at his reflection. He squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t bear to see his own reflection anymore since he went to Captain America’s museum exhibit and saw the plaque dedicated to one James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, with that face etched in the glass; he is not the person in that picture, he’s just some poor tortured schmuck who happens to have the same exact face that this “Bucky” has. He is not “Bucky”. He is not his “Bucky” – that… that Steve. He’s not Steve’s “Bucky”. That punk bastard needs to leave him the fuck alone.
He turns the taps off and rests his hands against the edge of the porcelain sink, letting it hold his weight as he breathes in slow and deep, head hanging low; droplets of water drip down the curls of his hair, soaking into the collar of his shirt. He is not “Bucky”. He is no one. He is nothing. That’s just the reflection of a stranger – the face of a person who has long since died and no longer exists.
A soft crack wakes him out of his stupor and eyes open; the sink now has a deep crack running though it from his metal hand holding onto it too tight. Shit. He removes his grasp and flexes that hand, opening and closing those fingers in practiced motion, watching the plates of that prosthetic limb shift seamlessly as it whirs gently with each and every movement. That metal arm has its uses – added strength and protection – but it also serves as a painful reminder of what’s been done to him and that he can’t escape it. A hollow chuckle passes through lips that twist into a wry grin at the thought, as if it’s someone’s sick idea of serendipity. Or maybe it’s what he deserves for all of the horrible sins he’s committed; karmic justice.
He flicks the light switch off, sauntering back into the living room with exhausted footfalls, and collapses onto the mattress. Until now, he’s been awake for days on end. He doesn’t want to sleep, because when he does, images of past things he has done, all of the people who have been tortured and killed in the name of Hydra; memories of far off places that seem to come from a different time and from a different life and from a different person, assault him. Even in waking hours, the memories can flood back from something so small and simple and unexpected – overwhelming him – but especially in his sleep.
Always in his sleep.
He can’t run away from the things he’s done now that he’s been out of cryo for so long with no one left to fry his brains out to absolute shit; the memories keep coming back more and more frequently the longer he’s out of the ice, and it’s in these moments upon waking that he’s never wished so badly to be put back in the ice, because at least then there was nothing but darkness, everything a deep state of suspension – a dreamless sleep – even his mind.
Dark.
Quiet.
Nothing.
Now he has to confront those images every single time and it’s so wholly exhausting, the kind where it’s difficult to even move and do basic tasks. At least if he were back in cryo he wouldn’t have to deal with this. At least when his brains were burned with high voltage electricity he didn’t have to deal with this.
If he were dead he wouldn’t have to deal with this.
Go back to sleep.
If only he could just go back to sleep, back in the ice, forever.
The pounding in his head worsens from those thoughts, and he closes his eyes, counting as he breathes, and tries not to think.
☆★☆
He steps out from the forest into a dry, dusty field; its tall grass yellowed and its brush bare. There is black smoke trailing up towards the cloudless grey sky from small fires scattered about haphazardly; something about this place feels familiar yet from another time. His gaze follows the smoke, but he can only look up into the sky for a short moment – it is massive and looming, he could almost reach up and touch it, and yet not – because he is overcome with the sensation that he will get sucked into it if he stares at it for too long. He feels exposed here– it is unnerving and sets him on edge; the world around him seems muted, not only for a loss of colour in the foliage surrounding him, but everything is eerily quiet; something doesn’t seem right. He hesitates, but something else compels him, and he cannot stop his feet from moving his body forward.
Slow and deliberate, he makes his way through the meadow until something crunches under his boot. He moves his foot to inspect what was stepped on, revealing a hand just barely covered in the grass. Eyes follow that hand to a limb, and the rest of the body attached to it. He reels back from the unexpectedness of it; the body is burnt and bloody, with flies buzzing about and maggots crawling and wriggling and feasting on it – and then smell of charred flesh and hair, and excrement hits him and he doubles over and vomits from the stench.
Shaking and weak from the strain of expulsion, he spits out the last of the acidic taste, wiping his mouth with the back of his right hand and takes one last look at the body. The body is badly damaged, but the face is familiar: blonde hair, brown eyes… and a bullet wound in the centre of her forehead.
Yes, he did this. She was a target. They said the words and gave him her photo, and sent him to kill her.
The urge to say something – some kind of words… words of parting – to that corpse niggles in the back of his mind, but he shoves that thought down when he lifts his head back up and sees hundreds of bodies, burned red and black, littering the once empty meadow.
He approaches another body. A man, mid-forties – slash to the neck, with the murder weapon placed in that now cold hand; another target.
Body after body after body, all with the evidence of how he killed them on full display, all in various stages of decomposition, and yet even through the rot he remembers them all. Counting them as he passes each one, there are hundreds upon hundreds of targets – of assassinations – most of them minor fodder compared to the two dozen or so high-profile kills he has committed over the decades of being frozen and thawed and shocked into submission, all with the help of those damned words.
There is a rustling in the grass that pulls his attention, and he turns around from the last body he’s been inspecting to look back out into the field to where he had once began, towards the line of forest far off into the distance.
There is movement. The yellow grass shifts unnaturally when he sees it – sees them.
Those bodies… those corpses… They’re scrambling towards him!
He begins to step backwards when something grabs at his ankle and yanks him off his feet. He lands on his back and his head collides with a rock, sending bursts of blinding, sparkling light into his vision as the air is knocked out of his lungs.
More bodies, reaching – dragging him closer.
He twists this way and that, trying to grab onto grass and shrubs in a frenzied haze as he is hauled swiftly back through the field by his legs; dead hands pulling on his clothes and hair, burnt fingers digging into his face, leaving bruises and streaks of blood in their wake as sharp thorns from the brush cut into exposed skin.
More hands gripping his arms and legs, tugging hard in every direction and ripping his clothes apart. Another hand clenches onto his stomach and sinks its fingers in, tearing into the soft flesh and muscle; the pain is unbearable. Maggots fall off those corpses onto him, and begin to burrow and feast on his body. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out.
He looks up through the grass into that grey sky, tears streaming down his face, wishing that he could get sucked into it.
The sky just stares back.
He wakes up screaming.
☆★☆
“Sa nu devina agitat, prețios, eu sunt aici.”
Lowering the newspaper he is reading, he lifts his gaze to the right to see a woman consoling her upset toddler in the stroller just a few feet away, watching her sooth and dote on her child as she gives the babe a pacifier.
”Mergeți înapoi la somn.”
It makes him jerk up from his seat, knocking over not only the chair he was sitting in, but the small table as well, spilling his coffee as the mug lands on the cement and breaks apart. The other patrons sitting outside the small café all turn to look where the commotion is coming from. Fumbling, he grabs onto the overturned patio furniture, but his hands are shaking too much to get firm grip on them and he drops them a few times.
One of the patrons approaches him, “Ai nevoie de ajutor?”
“NU!” He thrusts his hands outwards to stop the young man from coming any further as he finally manages to set the chair and table right, and starts picking up the shattered pieces of the coffee mug, wrapping them in the newspaper, and places it on the table top.
Passersby stop and stare at the scene, and he pulls his cap further down his face – blood pounding in his ears as his heart starts racing and his breathing picks up. He sees one of the hostesses through the café window speaking to someone and looking back at him from inside, and he frantically reaches for his wallet, pulls out a handful of notes with his gloved left hand and slams it onto the table – his nerves getting the best of him.
Unfortunately, the wire framework of the table folds together – a Venus fly trap ensnaring its unassuming victim – from the force of his fist as if made of paper. He can only stare at it, his brain not registering what has just happened.
“Domnule,” the hostess calls out towards him from the entrance of the café, breaking him out of his daze.
He wrenches his hand free from the collapsed table, dropping the money on the ground, “Eu sunt atat de rau!” And runs downs the street.
Footfalls pound on pavement and cobblestone as he’s running across streets and sidewalks, images of people and old buildings blur as he narrowly misses oncoming traffic – some people honk their vehicle’s horns, shouting with indignation as he scrapes by – and darts into an alleyway, away from the noise and the people.
He collapses next to a dumpster, ass hitting the ground as he brings his knees up towards his chest – all of the nerves in his body shaking and vibrating, and it brings him even more discomfort. Lungs heaving erratically and heart palpitating from adrenaline churns his stomach into knots, his muscles tense painfully as bile threatens to rise up his throat. Clasping hands over his mouth, he suppresses the urge to dry-heave – too much noise leads to discovery, and too many people saw him already; he won’t be able to go back to that part of town anymore.
Go back to sleep.
He stays there, unmoving, back pressed against the dumpster in that alley until nightfall.
☆★☆
Trudging up the stairs, coming back after purchasing food supplies in another part of town, he stops a few feet outside of the door to his apartment.
There are voices inside – muffled – but distinctly voices. Moving with practiced silence, he sets his bag down onto the floor and gently presses his ear against the door and listens, but he cannot make out anything that’s being said. The voices are too quiet – only whispers. He swears those voices were louder just moments ago. Maybe they know he is there, but that’s impossible, he knows how to move so nothing can hear him. Inhaling deep through his nose, preparing himself for a fight, he fingers the knife strapped to his back beneath his shirt with his metal hand as he turns the door handle with his right, and swings the door open so hard it bangs against the wall as he bursts through the doorway, knife poised and ready to strike at the intruders and shouting, “Кто там!?”
It is empty.
It takes his brain a minute to register that fact; there were voices coming from inside, right where he is now standing. He scopes out the rest of the apartment but it is void of people except for himself. There is nothing out of place, so he sheaths his knife, and goes back to pick up his bag of food and put it away, inspecting the door hinges – still intact – before closing it. He doesn’t know how to feel about any of what has just happened.
Go back to sleep.
Taking his notebook from on top of the fridge, and a pen laying on the counter, he walks towards that lumpy mattress and sits down, flipping the book open to the next blank page.
☆★☆
He tears into the packaging of a new toothbrush, recently purchased along with some other basic toiletries, squeezing toothpaste onto the brush and shoving it into his mouth awkwardly, scrubbing at his teeth with its bristles, spreading the paste and creating foam. There is too much paste, and too much foam. He dips his head and spits it out into the cracked sink, rinsing his mouth out with water; the tingling sensation from the paste is different but not unpleasant. Opening the cabinet behind the mirror, he deposits the toothbrush and tube of toothpaste inside, and accidentally sees his reflection upon closing it – but that’s not the only thing he sees in the mirror, and he freezes, eyes widening in shock. How is this possible? No one can sneak up on him.
“Oh, how domestic,” the man says, patronizing, “It’s been difficult, but I’ve finally found you,” his smile enhancing the wrinkles around his mouth and blue eyes.
“You think you can ever be normal? Doing these things? After all that you’ve done?”
He can’t look away from that man in the mirror – as much as he wants to.
“Come back. You know I’m the only one who can truly protect you, and keep you safe from everyone. I can even save you from yourself. All those memories that haunt you, I can make them go away – permanently, forever. You want that, don’t you? To be able to go back to sleep? No dreams. Nothing. Just peace and quiet.”
He wants to speak up – you’re dead, you’re dead – he wants to say, but he can’t, his body remembers the consequences of speaking without permission in front of this man; his mouth remains a hard line though his eyes narrow just slightly.
“So, what will it be?” the man says, looking straight into his eyes, challenging, “Stay here, in hiding, an international criminal, and be plagued by the awful things you’re sure to remember now that you’ve been awake and unfrozen for so long? Or come with me, and be safe and found, and be able to have the peaceful and restful sleep that you so deserve, with no more ghosts of the past tormenting you?”
No, no, he can’t… it’s a trick. It can’t be.
He cannot move. He wishes he could put his fingers in his ears so he wouldn’t have to listen to that man anymore but he can’t, that voice has immobilized him – it’s almost hypnotizing – and now that man is chanting, “Go back to sleep. Go back to sleep. Go back to sleep. Go back to-”
“Стоп…” he whispers, throat tight, his tongue feeling too big and heavy for his dry mouth. Fear wracking his body; he knows the consequences, and he squeezes his eyes shut – consequences be damned.
Suddenly, the man’s voice is booming in his head and all around him, angry and threatening, “Go to sleep! Go to sleep! Go to sleep! Go to sleep! Go to sleep! Go to sleep! Go to sleep! Go to sleep! Go to sleep! Go to sleep! Go to sleep! Go to sleep! Go to sleep! Go to sleep! Go to sl-“
“Заткнись!” he cries out, anger towards that man and all that he has made him do rises up, boiling his blood, and he punches the mirror with his right hand.
The glass shatters into a web, its broken pieces cutting the skin on his fist while others fall into the sink as with drops of his blood. Eyes open and glance at the now broken mirror. Tears are streaming down his face, but that man is no longer there.
That man is dead, no longer able to control him. He saw the news reports that Alexander Pierce had been killed – bullet wounds to the chest. But the man was just right there, it felt so real.
He looks down at his flesh hand, at the cuts on his fingers, and an image floods into his mind of a scrawny young man, with hands, a head, and a nose too big for his body, and a voice deeper than one would expect from someone that small and frail-looking. ‘I can do this all day.’ With blond hair and deep blue eyes, a defiant grin, with cuts and scrapes and bruises all over those big hands and nose and face. Another image: there is also charcoal and sometimes paint on those hands. Of sketchbooks and paintings. And another image, of that same face of that same scrawny little punk, but on a body that better fits those big hands, and head and nose. A body no longer sickly and prone to illnesses; big and strong and healthy – but the same face, the same person deep down inside.
A sense of comfort and familiarity washes over him.
He wipes the tears away with his right forearm, collects the broken glass with his left hand and deposits the pieces into a bin before washing the cuts on his right hand – holding it under the water until the blood stops. The cuts aren’t that deep and will heal in less than an hour.
Walking to kitchen, he picks up his pen and notebook, opens it and writes that memory down, along with a name: Steve Rogers.