Just Him&I: In a Universe of Cruelty

Part 13

— Where is James? — this question clearly surprised Steve, who clasped his hands together and furrowed his brow, breathing heavily. He's been coming to see me for three days now, helping me walk and bringing me food. Natasha comes rarely, only when I need a change of clothes or to go to the bathroom. After all, I still don't walk very well, and the gunshot wound hasn't healed. It was nice to know that at least someone would come visit me; they could have just spit on it and forgotten about me.
  But as Steve says, "James's friend is my friend." Although we're not really friends—at least, I consider him a friend, but as for him, I don't know.
Outside the window, the first snow began to fall, and I felt joy like a small child. I begged Steve to take me outside to see it. Although I don't celebrate Christmas, which is coming soon, I adore winter and everything associated with it.
 
I'm enchanted by the decorated houses, shops, and streets, all waiting for the holiday.
 
He grumbles something like, "You haven't fully recovered yet; you shouldn't go out," but I'm confident that not even James could resist a few puppy-dog looks.
 
Now, here we are, outside, just like yesterday. We're walking close to the hospital, to the nearest store. He's holding my arm as we go. We stop only so I can rest, since walking is still a bit hard for me.
 
I warm my hands in the cozy winter coat Natasha kindly brought me, watching each new snowflake as it falls. Some land on my eyelashes, obscuring my vision, others on my dark hair, which peeks out from a gray, warm knitted hat.
 
I'll be discharged in a few days; I'm so happy about it, but I'll still need supervision. I don't yet know where I'll go, but I'm only interested in the scene outside right now.

— Sorry! I can't tell you that — I tensed a little and continued watching the flashing lights on the house across the road. Beautiful signs read "Merry Christmas," with small decorated Christmas trees and even a Santa Claus sticking out from a window, climbing up with a sack of gifts.

— What are you hiding from me?! — I let out a breath of air, angrily looking at him. Pulling my hands out of my pockets, I crossed them over my chest. I was making it clear that I wasn't going to let him off and that I wanted the truth, whatever it was.

— He asked me not to tell you — so, he knows I'm in the hospital and is even hiding something from me. But on the other hand, I'm nobody to him, so he doesn't owe me an explanation. Yet I still worry about him and his safety.
 
I glanced at him once more and turned the other way, showing that I was mad at him. A young couple stood by the road, sharing something funny with each other. I couldn't help but smile at the sight.
 
I needed warmth—in the figurative sense of the word. I wanted to build a relationship with the man I loved. Without that illegal world, to leave it behind like trash in my memory. Where all the memories connected to Pierce lie. Finally, to breathe freely, not worrying about myself, someone's life. Just to live, not just exist. Or survive.

— Bucky is now behind bars — he called him Bucky? It sounded very strange but also pleasant from his lips, and then I grasped the meaning of his words. I nearly fainted. Steve was right there, lightly catching my arm. My temples began to pound, and I could hear fragments of phrases.

— Hey Maria, are you okay?! Mia! — until I finally came to and looked at him in surprise. Sadness and disappointment were written in his eyes. He was as hurt as I was.
 
No, this can't be; he's been tortured so many times, and now he's in prison. An innocent person is behind bars. Damn it.

— Mia, are you okay? — I was silent, recovering from the shock. That's why she acted so strangely; she was hiding it. He didn't want me to find out. My eyes felt frozen in the cold, like tiny ice crystals.
 
He took my face in his hands and turned it toward him; his cold fingers stung painfully. I focused on him, as he'd asked.

Two little boys play with a ball in the yard. Everything seems so dirty and gray, almost nauseating. The brunette is dressed in a loose, long-sleeved shirt adorned with a large rectangular collar and short shorts. He passes the ball to the other.
 
A slim blond boy, around seven years old, can't keep his balance and falls, scraping his knee. Blood runs in a crimson stream down his leg, mixing with the dust and dirt of the yard.
  The brunette runs up to him and kneels, trying to stop the bleeding.

— Sorry, Steve, I didn't mean to! — he apologizes as best he can. Fear and despair are reflected in his deep, blue eyes.

— It's okay, Bucky — he says these words with gentleness, patting his friend on the shoulder, smiling to lighten the mood.

— It's okay, Bucky — he continues — it's okay...

— So...how is he...?! — my voice trembled, and my eyes darted to the dirty footprints people left on the snow. It was as if they didn't see us, as if we weren't even there.
I tried to act like nothing happened, like I didn't see anything, just like those people passing by. But I saw everything, and this was just a small piece of what he mentioned and thought. Yet I managed to hide it, for I was no less shocked by James's imprisonment. Truly, I was furious and deeply moved by what I'd heard.

— Come on, let's sit in the room; I have a lot to tell you. — I followed him without question. He held my hand, still worried that I might not be able to stand on my feet. Not only because of the shock, but also because every movement caused pain somewhere in my body.
 
Whether it was the spot where the bullet hit, which hurt whenever I took a deep breath—and now, I do that very often, trying to keep myself together, to calm down, and not be afraid to cry.
 
Or the cut on my hand, which burned mercilessly whenever I held a glass or some other item, no matter its size or weight.
 
This really annoyed me, as did the fact that they hadn't told me everything right away.

We walked through the white corridor with many lights. People, doctors, nurses—there were many, and I looked around, examining each one, every movement, element of their clothing, everything that seemed suspicious.
 
I involuntarily thought of Brock, still not having asked where he was. Maybe he doesn't know himself, or maybe he's awaiting trial, or he's already dead. I don't care about him, but I'm equally scared for myself and not just for me.
 
All the faces blurred together into an indistinct smudge, where I could no longer make out facial features.