I'm Here | ✓

17 - Updates

I'd been having so few nightmares - no, bad memories - lately that I almost forgot that sleep isn't blissful. Not for me, anyway. Not after what I've done.

The water was freezing, but I didn't mind. Years, decades in Siberia made the cold of the Potomac River almost refreshing.

I saw it. No, not it, him. I surprised myself with this realization that this was a person, not a target. No, he is a target. Was a target. Whatever he is, I need him alive. He made me remember, if only for a split second.

My metal arm drags me down, and I reach towards his sinking figure. For once, eliminate isn't the only word on my mind. I know what I should have done, but this time I had to save this man.

I grabbed a strap on his suit. For some reason, it looks familiar; even in the murky water, I can't put my finger on it. The blue and white, the star on the chest, maybe that once meant something to me, but maybe it wasn't the suit, maybe it was the face. I twist around and start kicking to the surface. Rays of sunlight pierce the river, and I realize I've never noticed that before. Why not?

Because it is a distraction. Return to Pierce and secure his position immediately.

Wait. No. That's not me thinking. I break through the surface and take a deep breath. I pull the man's head above the water and it lolls backward. He was unconscious before ever hit the water.

I drag him to shore and lay him in the sand, unsure of what to do for the first time. I always had a purpose, but right now, I have nothing.

The man tips his head a bit and water dribbles from the corner of his mouth. Good. He's breathing. I eye his gunshot wounds. I did that. Wait, was that me? Physically, yes, but something isn't right in my head.

I've seen this man before. He has acquaintances. They will look for him, and they will find him here, but I am their enemy. I need to leave.

I turn, holding my throbbing flesh arm. Pain is no stranger, but this feeling? This helplessness, this internal conflict, this confusion. I don't know what to do with it. I don't a direction or an order to follow out, now. This isn't freedom, not yet, it's just fear.

I leave the man lying on the shore.

My eyes fly open. I'm breathing hard, breathing fast. "ебать," I whisper. Steve's nearly lifeless body lying limp on that shore is a memory I'd rather not relive.

Something behind me is beeping crazily. I turn too fast to look at it, and see a heart rate machine. It reads 164, and I try to take slower breaths. After a moment, that number starts to shrink. I lay my head back on my pillow and sigh.

Right. The hospital. Natasha. The fire.

"Hey," a familiar voice whispers. I glance to my right and spot Steve on an identical hospital bed a few feet away. He has an oxygen tube wrapped around his head, but he's smiling gently at me.

"Hey yourself," I whisper back. My voice sounds weirdy gravelly and unnatural. I clear my throat and grin back at him, happy to see him here. At the same time, guilt starts to eat at me. If I had been more careful at the safe house, more attentive, worked harder to open the door, he wouldn't be here at all. I hurt Steve.

He saw my dejected look and cocked his head as best as he could while lying down. I looked away. I caused all of this. I thought we would be safe there, but that was stupid. 

"It wasn't your fault," he said quietly.

"Maybe not, but I could've done more." I sighed. And other people always pay the price.