James Buchanan Barnes isn't a killer. He isn't merciless, or cunning, or evil.
But something in him is.
*****
A wrapper crinkles, fabric shifts, and a small, open hand jerks in front of my face. The smell of powdery chocolate and oats meets my nos...
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It's cold in my room again.
The same way a closet turns dull and frigid after a day of disuse. The same way a dead man's house veils itself in a crisp, eerie bitterness after its owner's passing.
It's cold in my room again.
My eyes trace over the blurriness of the speckled ceiling in the darkness. My arms are spread over the blanket at my hips, and a loose, maroon tee hugs my torso in an embrace I don't think I'll ever truly feel again.
This isn't what I wanted. This isn't anything like what I wanted.
Maybe some things are meant to stay broken.
Maybe they are. Maybe Steve made a mistake bringing me here, or maybe I made the mistake of agreeing to come.
I saw you.
My chest rises and falls beneath my chin, and my skin crawls as ice trickles like rain over top of it. The light from an uncurtained window at the centre of a faraway wall dances over the ceiling in squares. It bends as it meets a wall and creeps over the dark, black wooden doorframe.
My chin shakes, and the steel of my jaw vibrates with it.
It's cold in my room again.
I need to see her. One more time before... before whatever happens next happens. I need to see the bite of her beryl eyes as they rove over me. I need to hear the crisp sureness of her voice as it banters with mine.
I need her.
My eyes drop a fraction, and the world grows shorter by a foot. Something pricks against my chest but I don't move my eyes away from the ceiling. From every tiny dent in its otherwise pristine surface. Why aren't those grooves smoothed out when it's built? Why do builders leave such a blatant imperfection?
My vision shortens by another foot, and the question leaves my mind.
Snow patterns over the exposed skin of my neck, and memory floods my skull. Memory of the war and everything else that came in tow. Memory of fire, and bullets, and red. Memory of masks, and leather, and a cold, unyielding metal.
It's cold in my heart again.
My vision blurs and my senses slowly begin to dull. I feel sleep greet me like an old, abandoned friend. It crawls and slithers over my form like a wave that tumbles mercilessly over sand.
My mind fogs, and that small something pokes at the space above my abdomen again. Right above where my heart is supposed to be.
I laugh dryly as I wonder if it's still even there. My heart, that is. I wonder if anyone's ever checked.
My eyes fall nearly closed, and I look at my surroundings through the tiniest crack between my lids. Everything is blurred, and greying, and blank. So horribly blank.
I almost blink as the barest flash of green fizzles from somewhere to my left.
My arms feel numb, and as I move to stretch out a finger, my palm is met with nothing but a tingle of sensation.
My eyes drag down completely, and the world frays in darkness. My senses blank and within moments the irritatingly soft plushness of my mattress disappears.
My limbs fade into nothingness soon after.
Then the quiet bubbling of my breaths.
Another few seconds and I can't feel or see or remember.
As my mind ebbs to emptiness, and the rhythmic thumping of my heart dulls to a light quake, I can't bring myself to think of anything but one, mere thing.
