After She Left

of the past

"Some ancient call

That I've answered before

It lives in my walls

And it's under the floor

If this was meant for me, why does it hurt so much?

And if you're not made for me, why did we fall in love?"

-SYML's "Fear of the Water"

It was as if a cage was lowered over top of him, trapping him in. But the Winter Soldier was not an animal to be caged; he was an animal meant to be released into the world. To be delivered to the doorsteps of those required to die. You did not cage an animal like that – you released him and hoped against all hope it didn't look back at you who once held the leash.

But the cage inside of his mind was not one anyone had a hold over. No one held the key, because there was no door. He felt that cage inside of his mind, holding something inside of him that he was not allowed to access. As he walked down the hallway, his slow staggering steps thundering down because they knew he was here. With no need to be silent, the Winter Soldier had no fear if someone knew where he was. Raising the gun, he fired the bullet into the man who crawled along the ground. He had been pulling his broken body along the ground, raising his hand to beg, to protect himself.

When his finger ghosted over the trigger, when he pulled back on it because he was told to do it, something flashed in his head. A face. Not any he had killed, no, this was a different face.

The house went quiet and there was only the smell of blood and gunpowder. Red painted the walls like an art piece. Hesitating a moment, the Winter Soldier reached for that face again, but it refused to come near when he tried to see it clearly. Then, he holstered the gun and walked back down the hall, stepping over the corpses he created along the way.

A smile.

Green eyes.

Bucky jerked awake in a cold sweat. His nude upper body dripping with it. He held his breath because he knew if he even dared to breathe, it might come out as a scream. The neighbours had already complained once; so he gritted his teeth, grinding them down to contain his rage, his fear, his despair.

The saving grace, Bucky reflected, was that the sun had risen and lit up his room with a dull orange glow. It was early, but it was late enough for him to get up. The nights when he woke up at two or three, it was too early to do much. Four wasn't ideal, but he could go for a run to clear his head.

Reaching for his shirt, he grabbed it from the floor beside him and wiped the sweat from his face and neck. Then, he slid it on and rose to his feet. They were surprisingly steady – when his mind gave up on him, at least his body would do what it was made for. It would carry him, it would keep him going. Even though his heart had no reason to beat, his body still forced it to work. At least in the functional sense.

Slipping into shoes, he opened his apartment door and quietly walked down to the entrance. The spring morning had a bite to it, but it woke Bucky from his own mind a little bit more. As he inhaled the sweet smell of flowers and dew in the morning grass, he began to run. Or rather, sprint. The average person would have done a warm-up, started with a jog, ended with a sprint. But Bucky sprinted. Five miles. Then ten. He wanted to feel winded, he wanted to feel an ache that was separate from the one of loneliness inside of him.

By the time he slowed down, not quite achieving what he wanted but as close to it as he would get before he had to get to therapy, he was back at the apartment. Taking a seat on the steps outside, he looked up to the brilliant sun fighting the cold back. A few cherry blossoms fluttered down from the trees – they had such a short life, but they brought so much beauty with them when they were there.

Bucky smiled at that semblance.

"Please explain to me how you literally have not broken into a sweat," a disembodied voice came from around the corner.

Bucky's eyes darted over to the voice, then spotted the person behind it. She wore her black hair in a bun, strands falling and framing her round face. He had seen her once or twice before since he moved into the complex, but he couldn't recall her name. They'd never said anything other than the odd thank you when one of them held the door open for the other. Or the occasional "nice weather today" while they opened their mailboxes side by side.

He cracked a smile at her, which she returned, though it looked pained.

"Sorry, stitch," she explained, fingers poking into her ribs as she took a few deep breaths. "I only picked up running recently."

"You'll get the hang of it," Bucky said, then looked at his hands, inspecting them mindlessly. He had gloves on, as always, and a long-sleeved shirt. "I have a, uh... medical condition. I don't sweat..."

"Oh, like a dog," she said with a laugh, regaining her breath back.

He'd compared himself to a dog before, but not because of his lack of sweating when running. No, an obedient dog that did what it was told. That killed when commanded to kill. Rising to his feet, he nodded at his neighbour and walked towards the apartment entrance door.

"Have a good one." His parting words weren't supposed to sound so dry, but he couldn't help it sometimes. That was not something he could keep in check – his voice could so easily betray him.

"Did I say something wrong?" she asked, following him inside the apartment foyer.

"Nope," he responded, again with a disgruntled tone. "Just running late."

She said nothing else as Bucky took the stairs three at a time to the second floor. When he rounded the corner of the stairs and his neighbour was out of sight he began to breathe heavy. Not from exertion, but from the void inside of him spreading and tearing him apart. He hurried to his place, gripping the door handle a little too tight. It dented under his metal arm, and then he turned the knob. When the door opened, something that had been leaned against the door slid to the floor with a "thunk".

Stopping, Bucky looked down. Something wrapped in brown packing paper about the size of a book was lying flat on the floor now. He bent down and picked it up. It was substantial – light, but heavy enough to confirm it was a book. His stomach rolled into knots as he held it tight. He wondered if underneath that paper... was the book inside an ugly crimson with a black star on the front?

He heard footsteps behind him, and he knew his neighbour was coming up the stairs. Not wanting to have to explain to her why he walked away, or even just see her again, he ducked into his apartment and locked the door.

With only half an hour before he had to be at therapy, though, he didn't have the chance to open whatever was left on his doorstep with his name and address on it. 

Comment your thoughts, friends!

What do you think is in the package? 

As always, I've started a dedication list. Those who comment and support will be added, because I cannot thank you enough for how you all get me through.