Just Him&I: In a Universe of Cruelty

Part • 2

I feel — although I don't often feel this way — that I'm not outside.
But I clearly remember losing consciousness after the blow, seems like a test tube broke.
And yet, I'm not in a hospital — this looks like someone's home. Maybe an apartment.
A man's apartment, enveloped in mystery and intrigue that penetrates every corner.
The walls of the apartment are painted in deep shades of black, dark gray, and amber, reflecting a nighttime atmosphere.
A large TV in the corner of the room grabs my attention.
This is definitely not a bedroom, more like a living room. I'm lying on a hard, dark brown sofa, covered with a sheet that's slightly thrown off.
Sharp pain keeps me from moving, paralyzing me for a few seconds. I get up and look around for the owner.
Something is squeezing my stomach, and I head toward the closet. What are the odds that there's a mirror in there?
Maybe zero, judging by the house's setup, I can tell he's not very sociable.
But then again, how can I know — it's just my guess. Maybe his influence makes me see threats everywhere.
Finally, I pull the closet handle, and there really is a mirror. I glance at myself, noticing a small scratch on my forehead, elongated and red. My hair, black as coal, is tied into a ponytail, although I remember it being down. It wouldn't have bothered me, it's too short.
I remember I always braided five, maybe more braids — it was his requirement so that my hair wouldn't get in the way during training.
I finally shift my gaze to my eyes, which remain the same bright green they've always been. It was just a hallucination. Yet I had seen shades of blue and brown in them. My face seems too thin and sickly, with sharp cheekbones clearly visible through the skin.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice I'm not in my own clothes. It seems to be a man's oversized t-shirt, and I'm not wearing anything below. Due to its size, it covers me down to my knees.
My hands are trembling, and I touch the hem of the shirt. It's very soft to the touch and smells like men's cologne.
I lift it slightly but not as high as I would like.
The bandage slows my movements, and the list of discomforts is completed by the burning pain. My ribs are visible, I'm so exhausted. And there's an elongated tattoo of a snake stretching from my chest to my pelvis. It seems alive, writhing on my body. I got it for my 16th birthday; it symbolizes resistance to his desire to make me kill with my own hands.
I remember getting punished for it back then, but it's stayed with me until today.
From the touch, I can tell through the white bandages that there's probably a stitch.
Maybe they removed those damned serums from me. For that, I'm grateful, but why did he do it? What's in it for him?

— «You can't trust anyone. You have to take advantage of them all!» — His words echo through my mind, clouding my thoughts.
"No, enough, he's dead, he's dead!"
I shake my head.
A wave of tingling rushes through me, and I finally decide to explore the apartment completely.
I step barefoot on the dark cold laminate. The apartment is so silent, I can barely hear the sound of my skin against the floor. A light breeze passes, and I frown slightly. Somewhere, a window is open.
There's very little furniture, so little that I could think no one has ever lived here.
In the kitchen, there's a small ash wood table, two chairs made of the same wood but with metal inserts.
Without ceremony, I open a few drawers to see what's inside: an open pack of coffee and two sets of utensils.
In the lower drawer, a few plates.
Seems like he doesn't eat here. Everything looks so sparse and sad.
I notice the front door and rush to it, eager to check if it's unlocked. The cold metal burns my fingers.
I pull the handle, but it doesn't budge, no matter how hard I try.
I hit it with all my might. A dull thud echoes through the apartment, breaking the eerie silence. What else could I have expected? Pushing away different thoughts, I keep looking around. I don't know when he'll return, so I need to examine everything to know how to act if he wants something from me.
I end up in the bedroom. It matches the style of the other two rooms — just as dark and gloomy. A double bed stands right in the middle, untouched, as if no one has ever slept in it. There's even a light, almost invisible layer of dust on it. Beside it is a wooden oak nightstand, and that's all.
The windows are draped with pastel gray curtains, making the room seem very dark.
I flinch slightly when I hear sharp, loud sounds repeating over and over. Then I exhale with relief as I open the curtain and see that it's raining.
I notice the sun is setting outside, and the sky is glowing with pastel yellow colors.
This must be the fifth floor, at least. Jumping out isn't an option, unless I want broken bones. And there's no way to climb down — the building is too old.
I walk back to the kitchen. I scan the room again, searching for something else, and I spot a notebook I hadn't seen before. It's lying on the shelf, looking like it's about to fall off.
I glance around unintentionally to make sure no one is watching. But I reassure myself that I'm in a locked space, and no one else is here.
I stretch my hand, barely reaching it. I take it and gently brush off the dust with my hand.
It looks leather-bound, but given the apartment's setup, I doubt it's real. I open it and start skimming through the letters.
"Captain America" and a magazine clipping with a photo. At first glance, it looks like a child made it. There's even a newspaper clipping.

Captain America, real name — Steven "Steve" Rogers — superhero.
Captain America was the alter ego of Steve Rogers, a sickly young man who was enhanced by an experimental serum to peak human perfection to aid U.S. military operations. He wears a costume and shield.

I know him; he often talked about how he was the number one threat.
I never believed him.
Steve is a good man, a great man, not a threat to humanity. I secretly read about him on social media. He had a friend, "James Buchanan Barnes."
He was his project, called "The Winter Soldier."I remember him well, even though I was barely thirteen.
I tried to remind him who he was and tell him to escape from here, but they kept erasing his memory, and I was under guard even at night.

***
— Full report — he just stayed silent. I trembled at his tone, I was only twelve, and they brought me to a killer.
No, he wasn't a killer — my father was the killer.
I was already training day and night. He began growing a new assassin. No, I never killed anyone. But I was supposed to, one day.
I dealt with transporting serums, drugs, documents, and much more.
Behind me stood a guard, and it seems Brock Rumlow was there too. He smiled and winked at me. I looked away with a nasty feeling. I felt nauseous.
He hit him.
James didn't even change his expression, looking somewhere far away with empty eyes. He continued to stay silent.
— Wipe him — he shouted and stepped back.
They put a muzzle on him. He started screaming, it hurt him, and I could feel it.
— No, don't do this! I beg you! No, stop, I'm begging! — I screamed, as if not in my own voice.
The fact that I couldn't do anything killed me from the inside. My heart ached.

That's when I realized he wasn't my father — he was a stranger to me.

Rumlow dragged me away. I fought back, bit, screamed, cursed them to let him go. But they didn't listen to me. He emotionlessly dragged me out. And the real killer stood there, smiling. I'll never forget his most disgusting smile of all, bloodthirsty and full of cruelty.