Hell Bound

Sixteen

It was too early for me to go to bed on a typical night, but I was usually always tired anyway. So I changed into my sweats and crawled into bed. The house was silent at first until I heard the murmur of Graham and Bucky's voices in the kitchen below. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but I could hear their tones. Graham spoke with his usual lighthearted sarcasm and did most of the talking, of course. But every once in a while, I could make out the deep and flat tone of Bucky's response.

I wasn't sure why I even wanted them to get along. Bucky was going to leave again. As soon as he was healed enough to move around with ease, he'd disappear without a goodbye, and I couldn't guarantee I'd ever see him again. I just wanted him to believe that Graham wasn't out to get me. Hell, I wanted to believe it too. Bucky needed to know there were still good people in the world. Sometimes a kid who needed a place to stay was just a kid who needed a place to stay. And in turn, I wanted Graham to trust Bucky. At the very least, I wanted him to keep Bucky secret.

Their conversation didn't last long before it faded away. Then I could hear one of them cleaning up the kitchen. I figured it was Graham since Bucky couldn't move very well and didn't make a sound even when he was injured. And then I heard him bang into the table and let out one of his fancy not-curses, and I knew for sure it was Graham.

I fell asleep to the sound of ringing in my ears and the quiet drone of the TV from far off.

Someone was shouting from far away. I opened my eyes to a brick wall. I was shaking as I fought the urge to follow the voice. I was sure it was someone I knew and cared about. I also knew I was going to kill them. My feet moved forward anyway, following the frantic cries for a medic. I wasn't sure what led me to them. My instinct to heed that call, or if something much darker was pulling me forward.

This wasn't right.

I made it to the courtyard, where Lieutenant Jimenez shouted for me. He had a little girl propped up against a crumbled brick wall. She was bleeding from the stomach, and he was doing everything he could to keep her alive. She needed medical attention. My attention. But my hands trembled as I lifted the heavy rifle. Jimenez hadn't spotted me yet, but the girl did. I saw her eyes shift to my face as I approached him from behind, raised the gun, and stopped.

This wasn't real.

Jimenez didn't die here.

My fingers shook as I lowered the weapon in confusion and looked down at the little girl. She didn't say anything, and I couldn't tell what she was thinking, but he finally noticed the direction of her gaze and turned around to face me. He had no idea that just seconds ago, I was debating my ability to change his fate.

What if I could save him instead of kill him?

"Stay with her," he instructed. He stood, squeezed my hand, and then took off at a run. Off to chase his death somewhere else.

I felt relief flood me when he was gone. Maybe I could fight this urge. Maybe I could win. Maybe this wasn't real.

I dropped to the girl's side and pulled out my medical pack. I clutched a piece of cloth to the bleeding wound on her stomach and tried to think of something I could say. I didn't think she'd understand why I almost killed Jimenez. She didn't understand what they would do to achieve their ends. But I remembered her death. What I said wouldn't matter. Because I couldn't change a thing.

"You're going to be okay," I lied anyway.

"Grenade!" someone shouted from another alley. My heart dropped, and I had no time to react before the explosion hit.

I came to halfway across the courtyard. I took a moment to recover from the blast. My brain felt fuzzy, my ears were ringing, and blood slipped out of the one on the left like a warm, wet snake. My face stung from burns and scrapes. The little girl was resting half-buried under brick and ash just yards out of my reach.

I pushed myself to standing and stumbled to regain my footing against a crumbling wall. Captain Russell was the first to run into the courtyard. Our eyes met when he came to a stop beside the desecrated church. I knew he was thinking about how I'd killed Tran. He probably already knew about Robinson. Maybe he even knew how close I'd been to taking out Jimenez.

I expected my hands to reach for the gun again. Like they did in my memory. But I didn't. I watched Russell lift his gun in my direction. There was only a brief moment of pained hesitation before he pulled the trigger.

My shoulder ached when I woke up. I bolted upright and clutched at the old wound. Right where Bucky said it looked like I'd been shredded. I hated these new dreams. I'd seen that day a thousand times in every nightmare and intrusive thought. But it was never like this. They were different now, and I didn't know if it was my brain's way of making sense of what happened. Or if I'd really killed them. Was it survivor's guilt? Or was my mind just finally free enough to remember correctly?

I used to ask myself why the shooter hadn't killed me. He knew I was armored. He knew a shot to the shoulder wouldn't be fatal. He could have aimed for my face, but he didn't. He chose to let me live. Because he never wanted to kill me at all. Because I was his friend.

The house was quiet now. I could no longer make out the sound of the TV or anyone in the kitchen below. The neighbor's porch light had shut off, so my room was dark and shaded. I climbed out of bed and tiptoed toward the door to pop it open. The door across the hall was shut, which meant Graham had probably already gone to bed too.

I crept down the hallway and down the stairs. Bucky was lying on the couch on his side. He had his arm propped up under his head and a blanket resting at his hips. The streetlight shimmered through the blinds in the window behind him. Stripes of green light lay scattered across his body. For a moment, I thought he might be asleep. But then his eyes opened, and he looked up at me.

"Can't sleep?" he asked. I shook my head.

"No."

"I have them too." He moved his hand. The metal reflected in the stripes of light and shadows as he pushed the blanket down off his hips. Then he scooted back against the couch, making room for me in the tight space.

I went right to his side and laid down beside him. I had my back against his chest, and he moved his arm so that I could rest my head on it like a pillow. The blanket came down over both of us, but he'd pulled it up to cover my shoulders. I closed my eyes, feeling him breathe against the back of my neck. I felt pathetic for wanting this so badly. For wanting to be held. For not being able to spend a night alone.

"Do you ever see things you thought couldn't be real–but you're starting to think otherwise?" I whispered.

"Every time," he replied. I could feel his voice rumble through my back, and I wanted to roll over and listen to his heart beating.

"How do you deal with it?"

He didn't answer. His metal arm came to rest around my body. It wasn't heavy, which meant he was making sure he didn't put too much weight on me. And even with the metal, his body made me feel so much warmer than I'd been in my own bed. I almost didn't need the blanket anymore, but I wasn't going to ask him to move. I couldn't hear his heart, but he had his arm around me, and that was enough.

"If I figure it out–I'll let you know," he said.