TOXIC ~ STEVE ROGERS [1]

Chapter Twenty

I'd thought maybe I'd be able to get some sleep, but my nightmares had other ideas.

I am lying on my stomach, something thin covering my body as my back rises and falls with every breath.
Every breath is agony. My arm is hooked into an IV, and the slow steady drip of whatever liquid is in there booms in my mind. I feel fuzzy, like my whole brain was full of cotton wool. I try to talk, but my throat is dry and raspy. There is no way for me to move. I must stay in this position until the wounds heal, I tell myself. But it is torture. Every breath, every single movement sparks flames across my back and over my shoulders.
I do not know if I want to live or die.
People are talking beside me. They do not realize I am awake, and their voices are hushed whispers, and I wonder if I should be hearing this conversation at all.
"We will find whoever attacked your daughter," one voice says, it's tone determined and strong.
" You do not understand, Fury. It was him." My father's voice is weak.
"Him?" Fury asks, his voice lower now.
"The Ghost," my father's voice hisses, and I begin to fade into a dark place, where I see him.
His eyes are dark, black smudged around the edges. They pierce me, the coldness in them freezing me. He raises his whip, and I am spiralling out of my mind, into nothing.

I woke up, sweaty in the thin sheets that covered me, the tank top and shorts that had been left on my bed drenched. That memory was something I hadn't dreamt about before. In fact, I hadn't even known that conversation had happened until now. Maybe, my new found ablities were bringing out old memories of those days, 8 years ago.

But I didn't want to remember. Those memories were too painful, to full of things I didn't want to know. The scars on my back were a constant reminder, and I didn't need any more.
I sat up in bed, and braided my hair carefully, the feel of it soothing. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, and stood up, a bit unsteady on my feet. I needed to punch something, or someone. My mind flicked back to that night in my apartment, when I'd fought with Bri. I smiled at the memory, just thinking of Bri's face and her paint covered pajamas. I had no way of knowing how she was, but I prayed to whatever God was up there that she was fine without me.

Opening the door, I slipped from the room and wandered through the hallways. Surely, I thought, a ship full of spies would have some kind of training centre, a gym of some kind?

As it turned out, a few doors down from the sleeping quarters was a large gym room, with boxing bags, weights and all other kind of exercise equipment you could think of. I went straight to the boxing bag, and without wrapping my hands or putting any shoes on I began to punch the bag with all my strength, which I found was immense. The boxing bags were the strongest and best ones money could buy, and still they swung dangerously around the space. I round housed the bag, feeling the satisfactory burn of my muscles as they moved. I pretended the bag was him, the one who haunted my thoughts, his blurry face looking over me. With every punch, his face got smaller, his ice eyes burning. I closed my eyes, letting instinct and anger guide my body.

"Can't sleep?" A voice shattered my focus, and my eyes flickered open. Stark stood, leaning against a treadmill with his arms crossed, his arc reactor glowing through his grey tank top.

"Obviously," I said, continuing to hit the bag.

"I could hear you from next door," Stark commented, making his way towards me. I stopped and stared at him.

"Hear me?" I was confused. Stark nodded his head.

"Yeah, you were yelling," he said. I stared.

"I, I didn't realize I was doing that," I said quietly, and Stark's eyes narrowed in concern.

"You kept saying 'I'm gonna kill him'. Who were you talking about?" Stark seemed genuinely concerned about me, and I felt somewhat compelled to tell him. Maybe it was our, I admit it, similar personalities.