Possessed - Bucky Barnes x OC

Part 21

A/N: PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION!

This chapter is incredibly graphic and violent.

If you do need to skip it, I promise you won't miss anything major to the story line. It's simply a glimpse into just how fucked up James was when he was in prison.

Stop reading after the ~ if you want to avoid the violence.

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The second Maggie hung up on James— he snapped.

Crushing his phone in his hand, shards of glass stinging his palm. Desperately trying to curb his sociopathic instincts to go take his anger out on an unsuspecting pedestrian. He instead destroyed his living room. He picked up chairs from his dining room, sending them flying across the space, smashing to pieces from the impact of the wall.

Letting out roaring screams through his clenched jaw.

After ruining nearly a million dollars of furniture, he settled on the floor of the hallway. Clutching a bottle of Macallan whiskey in his hand, tilting it back, chugging it down. The intrusive thoughts started to creep to the forefront of his brain. Thoughts of murder and his past.

Of his time in prison.

~

Eleven years ago. Rikers Island.

"No funny business, inmate." The guard spat, as he held the heavy metal door open for him to walk through.

Like he could even stop James if he tried. The bald man stood about a foot shorter than him. He had a pudgy belly and squishy limbs. Like a fucking adult baby.

James wrists and ankles clinked with every step he took, shackles leaving sores where they rubbed his tattooed skin. His hair was swaying with his swaggering movements. Stringy. Greasy. From going days without a shower.

Long story short— he had spent the last week holed up in an isolation cell after literally biting off some guy's finger for talking shit.

Prison had been rough for James, even though it had only been about a year and he was in for a record long sentence. He was the kind of man that despised most people. These days, he felt like a goddamn sardine, packed into a disgusting can of filth.

It was why he ended up killing his first cellmate. The man only lasted a day with James. The second he stepped into the cell, he started calling him a bitch and trying to put up a front of bravado. None of his insults changed the stoic expression James wore. He wasn't surprised by it, but that still didn't stop him from plotting his murder. He went through a couple more, getting creative with it. Both of them dead. After that, he got a cell to himself.

He killed three men in his first week at the joint.

Let's just say, he got quite the reputation. He wasn't the Devil, he was the man you sent to kill the Devil. Ferocity and violence personified.

All of this leading him to where he is now. Sitting in front of his least favorite person: Earl Pritchard. He'd been James' shrink since the day he got there. A whole year of meeting once a week and he hadn't plucked a single thing from his brain.

He was an old, fat fuck of a man. Probably about sixty or so. He wore ill-fitting, cheap department store suits. He was married. Abusive to his wife. Drank too much. Had a terrible gambling habit. His kids had both left the house as soon as they could and didn't call anymore.

All of this information James had gotten from their many conversations and his assassin-level observation skills. Whenever they talked, he made it a game. Trying to shrink him instead. He always won.