Dawn | Bucky Barnes ✔️

14. Moral of the story

W I D O W   S E V E N T E E N

Dear Diary,

Here's the thing: I never truly thought of the idea of death. To me I think it is scary to be ready to die at such a young age. Which in my case, I am. It scares me that I am ready to die. I'm not obsessed by any means but I always wondered how i will leave this earth.

Whether it was something as mundane as a car crash or getting electrocuted by thunder.

But I knew for sure that I would leave this place with people behind that would hopefully miss me.

It didn't matter because I wanted to end it all. I was trapped in a living nightmare. My memories haunting me everyday since they had came back. It's stressful and overwhelming dealing with all this shit.

Now I know what your thinking don't be dramatic Seventeen but I'm not, it's true.

I can't deal with this... torment anymore. I'm tired. I just want it all to be over but I want to live. I'll try with everything I have even if it kills me in the end.

Like I said before this is a battle I'll surely won't win but I will try with everything in me even at my dying breath, I'll fight.

"Okay that seems like enough, I'm done" I chirped, jumping up to my feet. I walk along the roof top of the Stark building before throwing it off it. I watch as the book goes flying, the pages turning violently due to the November winds.

I hear a choked yelp but shrugged my shoulders as I sigh into myself when I watch the scene before me. "Raynor is right, that was a reliever" I said, turning around before walking back through the double doors that leads to the lounge area. 

Whistling into myself I walk towards the fridge, grabbing the milk before placing it down on the countertop. I turn around on my heel, standing on my tippy toes as I opened the cupboard to get the bowl. I continue to hum into myself as I started to gather the rest of the materials to make my cereal.

Jumping up on to the bar stool, my eyes scanning the papers on the counter. I reach towards one as the elevator door erupts open with a frantic Sam darting his eyes everywhere. I see a gash on his forehead, blood oozing out of it.

Did you just say oozing?

Don't even start with me, subconscious

I told you to call me Princess rainbow kittens from sprinkle clouds

I am never calling you that.

why.

Because I am not talking to myself, I'll feel like a fucking psychopath.

stop talking to me then

Oh yeah that is a wonderful idea why didn't I think of that.

I'm starting to not like you anymore, your sarcasm isn't healthy for this relationship. It's not me it's totally you.

Thank you, gimme the divorce papers

Fine!

I roll my eyes dramatically into myself of this argument I am having with myself. Does this classify me as a sociopath or psychopath?

I shrug my shoulders to look over at Sam again who is damping his bloodied forehead with a cloth from the sick. "What happened to you?" I questioned, scrunching my nose up in distaste.

"It's the weirdest thing. Ten minutes ago I was down stairs looking deep into a pretty woman's chestnut eyes." Sam exclaimed with a starry eyed look. "I lean forward, about to make my move, when some yahoo throws a book of a building as it lands on top of sausage cart umbrella before it bounces on to my head!" he screeches.