From Darkness

Thirty-Four

Bucky gave it a month. He said longer would have been better to wait for the heat to cool, but after a few weeks, I was starting to lose it.

It wasn't that living with him was difficult or anything. In fact, I was rather enjoying it. When he was home, and it still felt weird calling it that, he'd try to teach me how to read Romanian on the back of boxes while we cooked dinner. We'd sit in bed at night talking about the things he'd missed out on, having long-overdue conversations. Asking questions that shifted from, "What foods do you like and dislike?" to "How old were you when your sister was born?"

It was nice having him around all the time, knowing that when he left in the morning, he would return. That I wouldn't wake up one day to find him gone without a trace. When I inevitably woke up in the middle of the night, he was there to pull me into his arms. To whisper words of comfort and safety. And yes—we did have a hard time keeping our hands off of each other. And really—well, we actually didn't even try.

And that was wonderful too. The moments when we'd bump into each other in the kitchen, smile, and be on our way. The times he'd follow me into the shower, only for me to end up pinned against the wall with my legs wrapped around him. And those moments we'd lie in bed being lazy with nothing to do. I'd rest my head on his chest, he'd run his fingers through my hair or over my skin, and he'd translate the books he'd picked up for me.

But he wanted to find work immediately, and there was no reason for him not to. He could blend in easier. His accent was flawless enough so that people didn't even question it until he spoke to me in English. So he'd leave during the day, sometimes early and sometimes later, and then I'd be left alone. With the silence. The gnawing anxiety.

Elena was ever-present. I saw her at least once a day. She didn't think it was healthy for me to be locked up all the time, but she never questioned why. At least not to me. She just always seemed to find a reason to talk to me after Bucky left. The first day she insisted she had arthritic hands and needed help cleaning her kitchen. But when I got there, I ended up only washing the dishes while she did everything else. Without a single complaint about aching hands.

And then, very suddenly, she'd yanked my hair back and demanded to know why there were bruises on my neck. It took her a moment to realize they weren't really bruises at all. And the few that were—were undoubtedly teeth marks. Then she stopped in the middle of her rant, half in English and half in Romanian, and said, "Oh." I flushed with embarrassment and tried to assure her that it wasn't what she thought. I left out the fact that when I'd gotten those bruises, I was flat on my back crying out for more. But it was implied. I went back to furiously scrubbing dishes when she leaned over as if we'd be overheard in her empty apartment, and said, "You like that sort of thing?"

My eyes went wide, and all I could do was nod. Because yes. I had enjoyed it. A lot. Then she bobbed her head as she thought about this. "If my husband had looked like Iacob," she said. "I would too." Then she returned to her task of peeling potatoes as I tried very hard not to snort with laughter.

When Bucky got back, she pulled him inside as if some sixth sense told her he was coming. She forced him to sit at the table so we could eat, and then she'd reached over and yanked the collar of his jacket down. He looked startled for half a second before he realized she wasn't looking for signs of metal. But instead, teeth marks. "Hmm," she said when she spotted what wasn't a bruise, but obviously a mark I'd left on him. "You should aim lower." His eyes moved to mine, and I motioned toward my neck to explain.

After that, he kept it below the neck. Most of the time.

He managed to find work fairly quickly. He wasn't looking for a career or anything he could do long-term. The jobs changed frequently enough that he couldn't make lasting attachments. I never asked questions, and he never elaborated. But every day, he came home with enough money to keep the gas on and buy necessities. That was all we really needed.

And after the first month, he decided I should do the same. If only to save me from Elena and the crippling loneliness in that place without him.

So we started the morning with Elena's leftovers. Bucky had brought me a bunch of clothes a few days before. It looked like he'd raided a thrift shop since nothing was tagged and everything was clearly used. But it all fit. And it was nice to have clothes that were mine again even though I was trying to put weight back on.

After breakfast, we headed out into the city. It was noisy with life, and the sun was bright but cold. He wore a cap and insisted I keep my hood up, just in case.

He spent the morning showing me around the city before getting down to work. He translated things and showed me the markets. He took on a different demeanor when he talked to people, and it was strange seeing this side of him. One that was smiling and friendly. People laughed at the things he said or clasped his hand. It felt almost normal following along, holding his hand, and watching him melt into the city. But once we'd turn away, his eyes would search for danger. He'd watch strangers as they walked past us. Always alert. Except for those few rare moments when he'd glance at me, and his expression would soften. It wasn't forced friendliness or wearing a mask to blend in. But genuine. And my heart would leap, and I'd smile back.

We were on the bus when it all went to hell. Bucky wanted to take me to the center of the city to see if I could find work. He knew I couldn't communicate well, so he was looking for something that wouldn't require much of it. He thought I might have more luck in more populated areas. Where people were looking for quick work to pay under the table. The bus was crowded. Bucky stood in front of me, holding onto the bar above his head to keep himself upright, and I stood on the other side doing the same.

There were people squished on all sides of us. So that it was hard to move without touching someone. Bucky chose to stand across from me so he could watch the bus from where he towered over their heads. Occasionally someone would bump into me, and I quickly learned to brush it off. But every once in a while, I got really uncomfortable by the closeness.

Like when I felt the undeniable sensation of a hand on my ass, for instance.

It took me approximately three seconds to determine it was deliberate. And four more to act. Something flooded inside me: rage and anger. But more than that, fear. The hot violent fear of violation.

The next thing I knew, a metal hand had gripped my wrist in midair. My fingers were arched like claws, and my other hand was seized in the front of a stranger's shirt. I'd apparently done this after slamming him against the window, where I still had him pinned. He was looking at me with terror in his eyes.

"Jo," Bucky warned as I regained my sense of self. "Don't."

My skin was hot. Not with anger. With fire. As if something was moving inside me. Like a flame burning from my core as it spread to my extremities. I looked up at Bucky standing beside me, holding my wrist in a tight grip. His eyes moved to my hand. He saw it too. The way the Darkness crawled under my skin for my fingertips. Panic flashed in his eyes before he looked back at me.

"Jo, stop," he said.

"Monstru," the man said. He undoubtedly saw it. I didn't need the word translated. I opened my mouth to speak, to tell him that I couldn't stop it, that I was afraid, but all that came out was a strangled gasp.

"Move. Now," Bucky said. Then he yanked me away from the man and pushed through the crowd for the nearest exit. He pulled the cord to alert the driver that we wanted out. I stayed staring at my hands, at the darkness lingering in my fingertips. Panic was coursing through me. My blood was hot. I couldn't breathe.

The bus stopped quickly. Bucky pulled me off as soon as the doors were open. We hit the pavement hard, and he was immediately on the move, desperate to put distance between us and the bus.

"Bucky?" I whined as I struggled to keep up with him.

"I know," he replied.

"What if I infected him? What if I killed him?"

"Don't do that. Don't think like that."

"Bucky—stop—please."

"We have to keep moving."

"I can't—I'm bleeding." He immediately stopped and let me go. I brought my hand to my lip. I'd felt the hot blood hit my skin as we walked. I could feel it dripping off of my chin and dribbling down my throat to soak the front of my shirt.

"Shit," he whispered. Then he paused, looking off past me. The bus had stopped unexpectedly in the road.

"I infected him," I said through the blood gushing down my face. The bus doors opened with force, and people spilled out onto the street, screaming to get away from something I'd left behind. "What if I infected all of them?"

"Don't think like that. Let's just get out of here."

He grabbed my wrist again and pulled me forward, this time forcing me to jog to keep up with him. But my feet were getting sloppy. I could feel the Darkness creeping at the edges of my vision. It had already taken over my body, and now it wanted my mind too. I tripped when we got to the next street, and he had to keep me up by my arm to stop me from hitting the ground.

"No, no, no, no," he said. Then he spun around to wrap his arm under mine to hold me up.

"I'm sorry," I said. But the Darkness was growing, taking my vision with it. My head was too heavy to carry. He held me up as my knees gave out.

"Hold on, baby. Stay focused," he said. But it was already too late. I slipped away into the Darkness.