Wasting My Young Years || Bucky Barnes (Book 1)

Chapter 3

SATURDAY, JULY 15th, 1989. 0720 HOURS

He hears them.

He hears her.

Nothing can be worse than the screams of a child, yet all he feels is this relief wash over him. Why does he feel this way? Why would he want to feel this way? Because he's not alone? Is it because for once in his life, he doesn't have to undergo a physical and mental pain that only he suffers by himself?

He closes his eyes and finds himself relishing in her pitiful screams from halls down. He sits in the men's locker room with the lights hardly working and most of his gear off. He finds the desperate bellows to relax him if relaxing was even an option in a hell hole like this; this is a place where order might as well be categorized as chaos.

"What are you thinking about?" a feminine voice sounds from the door of the locker room, the door closing gently behind her.

The soldier looks up at her slick, dark, brown hair tied in a bun. It slightly bothers James at how neat it looks in a place like this. Her perfect posture, perfect skin, perfect brown eyes that glow brighter than his cold, hard, blue ones. That's saying a lot, for the psychiatrist barely has any light left to share in those eyes. It seems HYDRA has worn her down just as much as everyone else in this place.

She tries though. She tries no matter how hard something may get. That has to mean something. If not for her own sake, then at least it does to James.

The soldier furrows his brows, tightening his jaw as the screams become served with sobs. He closes his eyes and pictures himself being right next to her, relieved that it's her and not him for once. "The girl," is all he says, hoping the psychiatrist can somehow tell him something, knowing full well that her verbal exchanges are limited to what she can and cannot tell to James.

But first things first, he must remember the psychiatrist's name. He constantly recognizes her, but he hates himself for not being able to remember a single name that constantly scratches its way to the surface, only for it to be buried again. Over and over and over again. "First, your name."

The woman walks deeper into the room and takes a close enough seat on the bench next to one of her patients. His eyes never leave her. He has known her for almost five months, but that doesn't mean he can't keep his guard, even if the only weapon she poses is her confidence.

Maybe that's why she's still alive, unlike the others.

"My name is Dr. Elizabeth Blanchet. And the girl will be like you."

"Why?"

"It's best to start young, soldier, as it is easier to make them follow orders since their brains aren't fully developed."

Another wave of screams fills their ears. Elizabeth tries not to flinch, yet fails to execute it and closes her eyes as if that would shut out the young girl's wailing.

The soldier catches onto this. "You don't like the sound," he states rather than asks. He sees her eyes open to meet his as a small, gentle smiling plays at her lips forcefully to comfort him but to mostly comfort herself.

"It's not the most pleasant of sounds, especially if it's one of my patients. Especially if she's a little girl. It's all the more terrifying if I'm being honest." Elizabeth thinks back to her 5-year-old niece. She lets out a deep, shuddering breath and acts professionally. "And how do you feel about the sound?"

He thinks hard again, not wanting to sound like a complete monster in front of his doctor. He fails.

"I like it." His metal hand balls into a fist at his answer. In a way, it feels right for him to give that answer. But at the same time, it also feels wrong. Maybe it's because Elizabeth isn't too fond of them.