Bucky Barnes x Reader

There was scars on my back. Scars traveling up my legs, arms and ribs. Scars on my face, on my neck. Scars on my hips, and hands, and practically every other part of my skin. There was bruises on my knuckles, bruises on my face. Bruises where my bones where still messed up. But most importantly there was open wounds inside me that hadn't healed.

There was nights where I still remembered the torture. The feel of everything they used to make these scars, the ones that still lingered when the covers brushed against them. Sometimes I'd wake up and forget I wasn't there anymore, and I'd count them over an over until I was sure I couldn't find a new one. It took some getting used to, but with time my skin stopped shaking when I saw them every time I showered.

The ones in my head where still fresh. The ones with men in masks and small rooms. I could still remember being told I'd get skinned alive if I ever tried to escape. And how many days, 37, it took for them to break me. But on the days where I'd wake up screaming and curl up in the corner of my room until it was morning, whispering to myself that it was just a dream, scared me the most. Because it wasn't just a dream. It was my memories reminding me they could find me again.