Remember

|1| A Cage Made Of Glass

pov bucky~

The sky is the only thing that remains unchanging in life. Or, rather, it's seemingly stagnant yet is, in reality, ever-changing... this reminds me of myself.

At least the things I remember of myself.

The sky tonight is clear and unwavering, it's stars moving along as they always have... following the same pattern. Well, that's only what we make it out to be, anyway.

In reality, we're the ones moving... at least relatively more so than the stars themselves.

In many ways, the night sky is like a surprise... like a guessing game. Some of the stars we see have actually died a long time ago, leaving behind nothing but supermassive singularities... it just takes a long while for their twinkling light rays to reach our eyes.

I often wonder if I, myself, am just the same as a dead star's ray of light that has taken too long to make itself seen.

All things considered, I suppose they called me a ghost for a reason.

I often do this, sit down in the grass below a web of trees waiting for the day to bleed into eternal night and relate myself to the late-night sky in the most ridiculously abstract and complex way possible. It's somehow calming to me to look out into our little picture of the ever-expanding galaxy. Yet, it reminds me of how insignificant we are. Of how tiny we are in comparison to everything else.

I guess it just brings me back to the same old thoughts I always have about how little information I know about myself. I really don't remember anything about my old life... only the things people have told me. Now I find myself forced blindly back into it.

The only thing that has gotten me through everything is a face... an unnamable, intangibile face that I can't seem to make out completely or shake from my mind. It's more easily related to a feeling. His name and everything about him has been erased again and again to the point of no return, that much I know.

I tell myself that at least I have the invariable night sky to look up at, but even that is simply a lie. The truth is that all these little fixes, all these minuscule distractions, are slowly but surely becoming insufficient.

I long to know who this face belongs to with such a burning passion in my soul, if any of it remains. I feel like discovering who they are will free me from this cage I feel I exist in once and for all.

To me, it's almost like there is a similarity and relevance in both the man's face and the night sky, however, is still unknown to me what they are.

On another, somewhat related, note, there were often times throughout my countless, wasted years that I would feel something other than satisfaction for what I had done, something almost opposite of what I had been trained into feeling.

Like a void.

This something is a missing piece that they managed to forget when forging the new me. It's this sort of curiosity deep inside that's pulling me to connect the last two bits of my humanity, yet there is still a terribly frustrating inability to do so.

I'm stuck inside a glass box - a cage made of glass, if you will - and there is no realistic way out.

All those missed years trapped inside my own head have been torture. I'm in here, in this glass prison, all alone. No one can hear me or see me and I've just become a mindless, faceless, nameless killing machine working for a mysterious, murderous, ruthless group of terrible people who have, seemingly, nothing better to do.

And all I've been able to do is wait.

Wait for someone to come by and look me in the eyes and see right through me... not like I'm see through, like usual, but like it's plain as day that there's something wrong.

Somehow, my eyes have become a dark, confusing tunnel that only HYDRA can make their way through. Yet, the man in the glass box knows the rest of humanity will come to the rescue eventually. He knows better than anyone that there is, in fact, hope for the old me even when I've lost all faith in the world.

I consciously know that it's all, quite literally, in my head and that it's not my fault. But the problem is that it doesn't matter how many times it's said or how many different people tell me that all those murders weren't on me... that it wasn't really me committing all those crimes... that it was Hydra's brainwashed, re-made version of me.

But here and now? I know it was me, because I remember all of it. I remember fighting for my freedom. I remember pushing until I almost died to be free from those demons. Yet, as a result they forced me to remember. They made me a ghost who would have an undeniable bloodlust.

They brainwashed me and forced me into becoming the one thing I never wanted to see myself as.

Unrecognizable.