On The Edge. | Steve Rogers.

epilogue.

Issac stepped into the abandoned apartment, left unoccupied and uncared for for the past twenty years. Glass crunched as it was crushed beneath his boots from the windows having been shattered. Dead leaves littered the floor and the table, along with debris and pieces of the paint that had begun to peel off over the years. He could see the remains of what had been dinner, interrupted and never returned to. One of the bowls had shattered and the food had long wasted away into nothing but a bit of black and gray dust on the plates. He turned away from the kitchen and living room area, forcing himself not to look at any of the photographs hanging on the walls or resting upright on shelves. Some of the glass in the frames had been shattered, thankfully obscuring most of the images.

He stopped in front of a wooden door that had been painted white, although it was peeling away at the edges and what had once been nice and smooth had begun to splinter and break off in small pieces. The doorknob had dusted and he was sure if he tried to turn it, it wouldn't move. The door had been left slightly ajar and all he had to do was give it a light push and it slowly creaked open, the only sound in the silent apartment. His chest tightened and it felt like someone had knocked the wind out of him with a punch to the gut. His old childhood room hadn't changed, nor had it been touched since he was forced to grab nothing but a jacket and his shoes and flee that night. Things had built up a thick layer of dust over the years, but that was it. His closest door had been haphazardly thrown open and there were several items lying around from when he had rushed to pull out his warmest coat, not having the time to clean up before he was being dragged out of the house. His bed was just as he left it, covered messy and unmade, just as any adolescent boy's would be.

He slowly walked over to the small bed, taking a seat on the edge of it and gently brushing his fingers along the comforter. He let out a small laugh, appalled at the fact that he used to be able to comfortably fit on such a small mattress. His gaze wandered to something sitting on the nightstand. It was a picture of him, smiling widely up at the camera with two of his front teeth missing. There was a woman behind him, young and beautiful with light brown curls falling over her shoulders, slightly blowing in the wind. Her green eyes were bright and full of life as she smiled up at the camera, her arms lovingly wrapped around her son. He remembered this picture but he couldn't remember who took it or why they looked so happy.

"Mom." He shakily mumbled, his voice nothing more than a croak as he picked up the frame with shaking hands. He stared down at the image as tears pricked the corner of his eyes. His mother didn't look like this on her last night alive. She looked scared, not for herself but for her son, who had barely gotten the chance to live his life yet. There was so much she needed to teach him still. So much she hadn't told him, so much she had hidden.

Issac struggled to keep up with his mother's fast strides as she tugged him through the snowy streets, her breath coming out in harsh puffs that were visible in the cold air. They both yelled out in surprise as people began firing at them, the woman putting her body in front of the young boy as they continued to run. He felt warm, despite the temperature being in the low single digits and snow still covering the ground beneath their shoes.

"Issac go!" She cried, lightly shoving the boy in front of her.

He did as he was told, running away from the sound of gunfire and war, his mother's footsteps right behind him. When the noises faded and they were finally alone, they slowed their pace. Issac's throat and lungs burned from the cold as he coughed and struggled to catch his breath. His mother's hands were warm on his shoulders as she looked around, making sure they weren't being followed.

"Come on, keep going." She whispered hastily to her son, urging him to go forward. Something felt off. Her voice sounded odd, tight and forced almost. He turned to look at her but she put a hand on his head, gently turning him to face forward. "Come on."