For my very own
James Buchanan Barnes.
Be careful what you wish for.
I feel weightless, like the air I desperately try to pull into my lungs, and yet as heavy as a rock in free fall, with no hope of finding something to hold onto. Powerless, yet as strong as every storm that has ever raged on this earth. Too weak to lift a feather, and yet strong enough to move mountains with sheer will. I feel as if I am drowning, but I am the one who can tame the sea. Frozen like ice, I shiver all over, even though I carry the brightest fire within me, a blazing inferno.
My whole life is a construct of stories, and I have almost none of my own. I haven't the faintest idea who I am, where I come from, or what really happened. No memory of past days truly belongs to me. All I can remember are the last two years. They say my parents died in a car accident in 2012, which I barely survived with a severe head injury. This is supposed to be the reason for my memory loss. The rest of my family apparently didn't want to take me in, and I wouldn't even know who they are. The hospital where I woke up after my supposed accident told me that they were unable to locate any other relatives, but even then, I recognized an obvious lie when it was right in front of me. Yet, I still wondered where I came from and where these people were, the ones I should have called my family.
What did my childhood home look like? Did we have a garden? What did my room look like? Where did I go to school? Did I ever have people in this miserable life that I could call friends? I don't know any of it. One thing I am sure of, though: I am different. If I ever forget this fact for even a second, the world does everything to remind me.
I've been alone for the last two years. Often, I didn't even sleep under a roof. I never really fit in. No matter where I went, I felt like everyone could look directly into my soul, eviscerate it, and see me as the danger that I truly am. As long as I can remember, I've had neither friends nor real enemies. There were two types of interpersonal relationships: those who didn't even deem me worthy of a glance and simply ignored my existence, and those who didn't bother to hide their disgust, fear, or scientific curiosity, tormenting me with their gaze. No matter how much I tried to change my outward appearance, I simply can't change what I am, no matter how much I might want to.
No one ever could or wanted to give me an explanation for where these powers come from, and I don't even dare to try to understand them myself. Being reminded every day that I'm different eventually drove me almost insane, and the loneliness took its toll as well. I spent most of my time in nature, slept under the open starry sky, and wandered around. I never stayed in one place for long. I was rejected by everyone and cast out by my own flesh and blood. I started talking to the wind, which whistled back to me. I guided it through the leaves of the trees, and it brushed the hair from my face. I learned to shape the earth, making small hills rise up. I kept wondering what I might be capable of if I stopped holding back. What could I create? What could I destroy?
I spent a lot of time by lakes, often went swimming, feeling the water on my skin and making waves rise in the calm waters. Sometimes I wondered if I could burn myself with the flame I created on my hand, if the dagger-like spikes I formed from water and turned into ice would eventually turn against me and pierce my heart, if one day a bolt of lightning that I called down from the sky would strike me, if I would lose control.**
Would I one day become the death sentence that everyone saw in me? Would there ever be anyone who didn't look at me as if the blood in my veins wasn't just as warm as everyone else's? At night, I often can't sleep, haunted by dreams. Not bad ones, for the most part, but still, I wake up drenched in sweat again and again.
A young man, short brown hair, sky-blue eyes, and a smile that makes my whole body tingle. I've never seen him before. We are friends, lovers, married. A time when I did not live. The Second World War. Places I've never been, yet the images are vivid. Where do these dreams come from? Who is he?
Time flew by, and with each passing day, I spent more time wondering why I was still fighting. Who was I still fighting for? Nothing will ever change about my nature, so why do I get up every morning? What keeps me going when the whole world weighs on me? I have no answer for that either. This only leads me to believe that I have finally lost my mind. The idea that my entire life could change and that I would no longer just be the shadow I had become over the past two years seemed like a bad joke to me. I would have thought anyone who said that to me was even crazier than I am. Then Natasha Romanoff came and changed everything for me. Just when I thought I had my life under control, I saw him, the man from my dreams, but now he's different, and my whole life was thrown off balance again.
YOU ARE READING
Who the hell am I (english version)
FanfictionUPDATES EVERY DAY AT 5 PM! She remembers nothing. Where did she come from? What happened? How did she get here? Where is her family? In short: she doesn't know. For two years, Elora has wandered, never staying in one place for long. Always searching...
