Memories turn into daydreams; become a taboo
~House of Memories, Panic! at the Disco
New York. What the hell happened to it.
Everything I thought I knew...it was gone.
Brooklyn was a mass of glass and people, all in a hurry to get into the ground. The streets were paved, and they were all holding little boxes, and talking into them.
Damn...people have changed.
Though I didn't remember much, I knew one thing was certain. I had been used for a very long time.
Why I was used, and why I can only remember a few key details is beyond me.
I know I'm supposed to be in Brooklyn, and I know I need to lay low.
The man on the bridge...he made something inside me snap. I knew him. It's a face I had a feeling that I had known for years. My mind hurt just to think about time, as if there was a piece missing and it needed to come back
But the catch was, there were some people out there who knew everything...and they wouldn't hesitate to kill me because of whatever shit I had done.
I made sure to keep my head low as I repeated a few simple phrases in my head.
James Buchanan Barnes
Born in 1917
Best friend of Steven Grant Rogers
The only one to give his life in service of his country
I kept walking more blocks. I didn't know where I was going, but something in my gut told me to be here. I'd know where I'd need to be once I got there.
People passed me by and didn't even look at my face, thankfully. One glimpse of me and anyone would know who I was. I only know this because I looked myself up, and I'm in the top 10 trending topics on the “Yahoo” (whatever a Yahoo is).
More walking, more repeating those simple little phrases until they were embedded in my brain. I almost believed the words. I almost believed that those words were who I was.
Almost.
There was still something missing, and I don't know how to explain it. I mean, how do you explain the feeling of being someone, and forgetting it all and believing you were something else for, oh I don't know, seventy years?
But the more I walked through the streets, the more I felt like I belonged here. I took a subway to Brooklyn, a place I knew I had to go. People didn't really stare at me, except for this one girl who was most likely no older than fourteen.
My sleeve had rolled up just enough for her to see my Vibranium plates.
She gawked at it for a few moments, until I shifted away a bit. She stopped looking at me when she realized I wasn't fond of having metal where flesh and blood should be.
The train stopped, and I hurried out of the train car as fast as possible. I was greeted with less electronic signs than Manhattan, and more buildings that I didn't recognize.
James Buchanan Barnes
Born 1917
Best Friend of Steven Grant Rogers
Only one to give his life in service of his country
James Buchanan Barnes
James Barnes
Bucky
“My name is Bucky…” I whispered. It came back. Something came back. I didn't read that in the museum...that I was certain of.
Don't forget that.
You can't forget that.
But how could I not forget it?
I looked around frantically...until I saw it. A bookstore. I needed a journal.
I could write everything down in it. I wouldn't have to rely on an unreliable memory. I could rely on paper and leather bound together filled with my own handwriting.
I didn't hesitate to cross the street and walk into that store. There was a sign that said “Barnes and Noble.”
“Damn...I've got my own book store…” I muttered. I searches through the whole store until I found a rack with blank journals, just waiting for me.
I grabbed a decent sized one with a simple, black cover.
“Perfect.”
The lady at the checkout counter said hello, but that was all. I handed her the money I had in my back pocket, and she gave me the journal in a bag with the store sign on the bag in pretty cursive.
“Have a nice day!” she called out as I left the store.
I walked further. So many things seemed familiar, and I knew I'd need to write stuff down in my new little journal quickly.
My name is Bucky.
Bucky.
Bucky Barnes.
Repeating that in my head made me...happy, I supposed. Remembering everything else seemed painful, but knowing that I was called Bucky only made remembering that much easier.
At least I had a name.
A name was a start.
I took out a pen from my back pocket of my jeans and wrote on the first page:
James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes.
YOU ARE READING
His Little Ballerina- B. Barnes
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