Who Am I? » [Stucky]

32. Sorry

Steve pummelled the solid flailing punching bag before him, furiously throwing his tightly balled and strapped fists at the dangling sack, making it twirl frenetically and fly about flippantly. He grunted gutturally with each violent audible smack he threw, his gritted teeth bared in a horrendous pained grimace on his strained angry face.

Who the hell is Bucky?

He thumped it vigorously, glistening beads of anguished sweat rolling down his wrinkled forehead, dripping down his ripped chest and running down his muscular back, his suffocating stuffy beige shirt stuck tightly to his colossal body. His blond hair was a ruffled ruckus strewn across his puffy sweat-glazed reddened face, stuck to his wet forehead just above the brow, damp and unruly.

You're my mission!

He growled ferociously as he packed punch after enraged punch at the offensive bag, smashing the life out of it with his overpowered fists; now aching and bruising colourfully with the constant battering they were taking as they came into contact with the hard surface at the devastating, bone-breaking speed that would tear apart the hands of any normal mortal.

Shut up!

His arms burned with unspeakable pain and as did his broken heart, every inch of his exhausted sweaty body ached but he had too much rage to calm down and stop. His livid and determined narrowed eyes were focused on the dead weight before him.

You hide me away like some shameful secret!

He hurled a final devastating punch and the sack flew off the rusty hook and smashed into the dented wall, breaking open on impact and spreading sand everywhere; cascading across the floor in a large pile.

Steve sobbed into his hand as the tyrannous uncontrollable anger left him and was replaced by crippling grief that was tearing him apart from the inside, out. He sauntered tiredly over to the corner where he picked up the broom to clear up the destructive mess he had made; tears still spilling down his slick cheeks.

His shoulders shook as he sobbed quietly, cleaning up the mess as a distraction, trying to train his wandering mind on a new stimulus. She shovelled it away begrudgingly with the head of the broom in long arduous sweeping motions until it sat in a pile in the corner of the room with the old sand.

Still crying softly to himself, he picked up another punch bag and hung it on the hook. His weak whimpers and cries filled the room and the sound of his own torment echoed in the room and filled his ear canals.

He riled himself up again, stretching and flexing his tense fingers in his tingling and aching injured hands; readying the tough skin for another rough beating. He started swinging his powerful arms again, the frenzied strokes becoming harsher and harsher as he punched the bag.

Tears were running down his face as he thumped away, staring right through the view before him, staring into space and staring off into the void. He dwelled on the past.

Sometimes I think you like getting punched.

Remember that time I made you ride the cyclone at Coney Island? Yeah, and I threw up? This isn't payback for that is it?

Punk.

The sobbing overtook him and he couldn't muster the strength to carry on. The crying took complete hold of him and he pressed his head against the punch bag weakly with his eyes screwed shut - just crying to himself, unable to hold it in anymore. There was no one to be brave for, no one to conceal it for; he could let it all out in good faith that no one was going to see him.

There was a pitchy squeaking and rusty squealing as the ancient crooked lift lowered itself into view, with Bucky's silhouette situated inside of it, standing there, watching as he drifted into the room.