Hell Bound

Thirty-Two

I was already exhausted. It was probably the combination of constant cleaning and everything else that happened during the day. I just wanted to shut down. So after dinner, Graham went back to his book, and Bucky returned to his quest to decode Russell's book. But he set it on the arm of the couch, and when he noticed me looking sleepy, he motioned for me to lie down. I rested my head on his lap and shut my eyes.

"You should go to bed," he said, since I didn't appear any closer to sleep.

"I would if I could shut my mind off," I explained. But then I sat up and rubbed my eyes. "I think I'll just take another shower or something. You can join me if you want."

"Gross," Graham muttered.

"Oh, shut up." Bucky glanced between the two of us.

"I'll be up in a few minutes," he decided.

"Do you need help up the stairs?"

"I think I can manage. It's getting easier." I stood up and headed toward the stairs.

"Should I get the MP3 player?" Graham muttered. I knew he was joking, but I shot him a glare anyway.

"Probably," I admitted. Then I headed up.

"Disgusting," he whispered.

I'd already taken a shower that morning, but I didn't want to just sit there and watch TV. I was too exhausted to keep cleaning. There was nothing else to do. Maybe I just wanted a few minutes alone. So I turned on the water and climbed in. Then I sat down on the shower floor and wrapped my arms around my knees.

I had to remember something.

Three days, Bucky said. Three days between the day I killed my squad and the day they operated on my shoulder. Waking up from surgery was a sharper memory. Russell was with me. He told me that no one else made it back. We were lucky to be alive. I didn't even know they were dead, let alone that I'd killed them.

My memories were still hazy. I could recall the memories I'd had before, but not with the same clarity. I knew I'd seen Jimenez take a bullet as he ran for me. Initially, I saw it strike him from the side. I saw his head snap in that direction. He was dead before he hit the dirt.

But now I remembered something different. I still saw him running for me. But this time, the bullet came from the front and hit him in the forehead. He fell forward from the momentum of his run. I didn't want that one to be real. If the bullet came from the front, it meant it was mine. But Bucky said there was no record of friendly fire at all. No record that I'd ever been taken into custody.

And what about the rest of the team? I'd only seen three of them die. But I was convinced I'd killed the others too. I just couldn't remember how or when. There was nothing passed the memory of shooting Jimenez.

I rested my head on my knees. The water hit me in the back, but it dripped into my face and made it hard to breathe. My instinct was to jerk back up, get away from the water, and spare my lungs. But it felt so familiar. And not the one memory. The one I knew for sure was real. The taste of dirt and soap. It was a different memory. A different taste. Something connected.

I remembered water in my lungs. The taste of blood in my mouth. Fear. Pain in my shoulder. Fingers gripping the hair at the back of my head.

Someone knocked on the door, and I jumped. My heart leaped, and I sat up but kept my arms around my knees, breathing in sharply. I had to remind myself that it wasn't real. I was okay. I was safe. No one was forcing my head underwater.