I'm Here | ✓

49 - Repression

I watch as the sky morphs into a gorgeous palette of oranges and pinks, the sun's sinking rays still shining above New York City's skyline. It was half shrouded by leaves and the serenity was broken by the noises of harried traffic. Regardless, I couldn't help but stare, thinking about how much Steve would've loved this.

I glance down at the napkin I snagged as I passed a cafe earlier. I click the pen I had found by a fountain and begin gentle, sweeping strokes on the paper, trying to mimic how Steve draws. Every now and then, I glance up, eyeing the shape of the trees conflicting with the rigid lines of the buildings. My back is pressed against a small oak and I'm acutely aware of how cold it's getting, but I have no idea where I am and no plan for where I'm going to stay. Or how long I plan to stay away, because I can't go back, not for a long time.

The napkin tears along the edges a little, so I decide I'm finished. I hold it up to the sky, comparing the graceful arcs of the trees to the miserable, unshaded, half-finished drawing I did. I sigh and let the napkin escape my fingers, fluttering in the wind. Steve could sketch the most beautiful photos and make you believe you were there. I had loved to watch him work, slim fingers twirling a pencil, drawing me or the cafe down the street or the view from his window or the pier at Coney Island. Even in the '30s, right after we had lost everything, he'd scribble on the back of receipts and up his arms. It was an escape for him, a distraction.

There's nothing to distract me from the fact that all I do is try to outrun my problems. My top speed is 36 miles per hour, but it's like my fears are tied to me; no matter how hard I try, they always catch up.

I wipe my nose and tilt my head back against the tree. "Shit, Steve, I'm so sorry," I whisper to the impending darkness, the brilliant array of colors already giving way to the sky's grayish hues. My heart weighs heavy with guilt and I want to go back, I really do. I want to curl up next to Steve in bed tonight, drawing the blankets tightly around me while he kicks them off. I want to wake up and smile at his messy hair and perfect smile when he wanders out into the kitchen. I want to hug him around the waist, tilt my head next to his ear, and murmur, "Everything's going to be okay." I try to tell myself that. Everything is going to be okay. It's all going to turn out fine. But no matter how many times I repeat it in my head, I can't bring myself to believe it.

I'd bet any money Steve's feeling the same way right now. He's confused, alone, hurt, and abandoned.

God, I've got to be the world's worst boyfriend.

Roses and chocolate and fancy drawing pens won't fix this mess I've made. Even in the dim light, if I tilt my hand just right, I can see dried blood discoloring the gold lines of my arm, and I hope I got the rest of it off my face. I looked like I walked straight out of a horror novel before. Now, my hair might be a little tangled and I might be fiddling with the only pocketknife I didn't abandon, and I might look a little crazy to somebody walking by, but there were five other homeless people sitting in this same park, hats drawn low over their faces, and I decided I didn't look that out of place.

Really, Barnes? In a time like this, you're thinking about how you look.

God, I'm so conceited. I close my eyes and sink back against the tree, trying to escape my reality. I wrap my jacket a little tighter around myself. I did this once before, in Greece, after the whole D.C. situation. That was about a month before I made it to Bucharest, I think, but it all blends together now. No money, no food, just fear. I've done this more than once before. I can do it again, right?

Do you want to?

I don't know what I want anymore. I don't trust myself enough to want anything. After I fled the apartment, I've slowly been feeling the Winter Soldier seeping out of my head. That doesn't mean he's gone, it just means he's retreating, growing smaller and smaller, hiding in the back of my mind until the need for violence arises again. Right now, I'm more Bucky Barnes than I have been since the fight, and I can finally think for myself, which also includes paying for my actions and facing the consequences. Even if the Winter Soldier only inhabits my body sometimes, it's still my body when I come back around. I've still done all the things the Winter Soldier has done, and even if it's not me me doing those things, that's not what everybody else sees. The look in Steve's eyes on the rooftop haunts me. I can't go back and face that again.

I don't want to fall asleep tonight. I don't know how many more agents are out there, and I just killed their leader less than seven hours ago; they'll be wanting revenge. At the same time, I just feel so heavy and yet so drained in the wake of today's conflict, and as much as I try to fight it, my eyes drift close gently, sleep clouding the edges of my vision. A single tear drips down my cheek, a silent apology and a promise that maybe one day, I'll come home. I want to be home, I want to be in Steve's arms, but I'm wishing for too much and I know it.

I'm slumped against the tree as the first few stars begin to poke their way out from behind the cloud. In my head is just the faintest whisper of words, not the Winter Soldier's but my own.

Please, somebody, save me.