In 1943 Steven Grant Rogers was enlisted to the United States Army.
Everyone knows the righteous, patriotic Captain America and his story. People might have heard of his mother, Sara, who was a nurse and died of tuberculosis. Perhaps some have even...
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He felt dead. Was he a ghost?
And numb, slouched in the uncomfortable chair in the corner of the room.
What was Brooklyn, he pondered. Who was John, he frowned. The room was buzzing with people, speaking different language, they had finished with him for the day, but didn't bother to remove him from the room. He was too out of it, too delusional to do any harm, pumped up with drugs never tested before.
Cookies, good flavored cookies, four were left behind. Apple pie? No. His jumbled thoughts didn't make sense anymore. He saw shapes that were faceless. He knew they were speaking in a bar, a kitchen, street, train, in a field that was thick with smoke. Sceneries changed, but he could not see the faces.
They had brought someone in earlier, but he hadn't bothered to raise his head that was rested against the wall. The coldness soothed his headache. Why was his head hurting? Why was he there? He blinked slowly, dull eyes unseeing as the whirring sound and breaking of bones reached his ears. But not even the hairs on the back of his neck arose.
Cat who looked like a fox, or was it a fox that looked like a cat? A wooden toy, someone gave it to him, but why?
Something happened on the other side, a doctor was being strangled. Serves him right. Where had this thought come from? Serves... serves? Serves the country? Who serves and why?
He raised his head, blinking groggily as he watched the other man toss in the bed, doctors trying to break him down. He frowned, raising up slowly as he got a better look at that familiar face. And suddenly realization dawned, he knew this man.
"Bucky?" he asked, not understanding if that was the mans name, but he looked over to him, their gazes met, and it all came back. But a hard fist made contact with Williams head, and with a loud crack, he hit the wall and crumbled on the ground as the whole world become a mess not for days, not for months, but for decades.
At the same time, in the streets of Brooklyn, Mrs Davis was standing in front of the flat that the Roger boys owned. She clutched the spare key to her chest, taking in the darkness in the house, the empty feeling it emitted, her wrinkled chin trembled as she slid the key inside her pocket. An empty milk bottle caught her eye, she knew William had always snatched them from her, so for a long time, she had been ordering two bottles instead of one. But now... She had no one to give the bottles to. The old woman hugged the empty bottle, feeling a tear run down his cheek. She would keep the key, for the Roger boys would come back. They would one day, they had to. Like mantra, Mrs Davis repeated it in her head for days and nights, mornings and evenings to make herself believe the lie until the day she was lowered in the safe embrace of the Earth.
The Roger boys never came back. The key became a heirloom.
But another century had completely other plans.
Rest in Peace, the soldiers who became faceless shapes in the middle of many,
you are remembered.
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