Before we start, here are the triggers of the day: self harm & suicide.

As somebody who's been brushed with death on several occasion, I stopped worrying about it and the repercussions it threatened. I had no choice but to ignore it, partly because, not only had I experienced it several times and somehow dodged it, but I had nobody around to my knowledge that would have any incentive to miss me in any way.

So when I dragged Steve from the bay and dragged myself as far away as I could, I honestly expected that it might have been the last time I'd be able to walk away from a mess like that. Sure, there was nobody to really seize control of me all over again, but there was also nobody to help me seize control of myself.

I was lost and without an identity.

I knew my name. James Buchanan Barnes. According to the articles I was able to dig up, I was born somewhere around the 20s, but clearly nobody is capable of putting an actual nail in that coffin. Technically speaking, while I don't even know how old I am biologically, I estimate that I'm something close to ninety-something at this point, masquerading in my twenties. Yeah, I know plenty about myself, but I don't know who I am at all.

That's the problem I kept finding myself trying to escape from, the sinking, rotting feeling of no self. The museum pointed me as some sort of lost war hero, and yeah, it may have been true, but it didn't feel like it happened to me. That was Sergeant Barnes, and I'm pretty sure I stopped being that person a long time ago. I didn't know who James Barnes was, and I definitely didn't know who Bucky was.

I realized this as I walked away from Steve's unconscious body by the bay. That was close to a month ago. I'm not really sure if I'd stopped walking since, at least figuratively. I remember stopping to do quick things, like cover my arm to keep myself hidden (and sure I had taken that jacket from a man I'd never met and probably never would, but that was definitely not the point), but I really never stopped walking about aimlessly, as if searching for something when I didn't know what to look for. I knew nobody, knew nothing, had no money, and no home. I would walk as long as my superhuman body would allow me to, then I would attempt to walk some more, until I would inevitably give out. I had no other choice. If I died, then that was that. I wouldn't be some ticking time bomb anymore, some machine waiting for use. At least nobody would be threatened by me anymore.

I suppose that's what kept me walking; not the promise of death but the idea of evading it once again. I suppose that I thought if I could evade it again, I could try and do right by my identity, whatever that was. Maybe this was part of who I used to be, this heavy conscience. I sort of hoped that, without the constant mind wiping HYDRA had been performing, I would be able to come back to my own, but I think that I had unrealistic expectations, at least at first. Within a couple days, I was pissed that I wasn't myself, whatever that meant. I didn't know what myself was, but I knew that what I was wasn't right.

Truth be told, I didn't know what my purpose was anymore.

It took two weeks before I became disoriented again, confused beyond repair, and violent once again. Afraid, I remember trying once to kill myself. An incredibly idiotic idea; wracked with guilt and hallucinations, I attempted to use one of my old throwing knives on my wrist, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. It was more of the guilt, the taunting idea of beating death one more time, the images that still laid in my head of an old life that didn't feel like mine anymore.

I didn't even look like the old pictures. Every picture I saw, Bucky Barnes looked like a handsome young man, equipped with a smile that was all teeth and charm, and he had to have been a hit with the ladies, because I liked to think that he was just that damn likable. I looked nothing like him. Bucky had a face that looked optimistic and young, but I looked lived in my own world for far too long. I had seen more than Bucky had, and Bucky should never see these things. Part of me hoped he would never have to.

I think that's one of reasons I kept walking as long as I did; it had to have been the hope that, if I couldn't pull together something similar to my old life, at least there was a shred of a chance that maybe I could try and be a new person.

Unfortunately, that alone did not keep me on my feet for an entire month. I think I saw flashes of houses thickly laden between large trees that seemed to scope for miles before I was forced to stop. I couldn't keep going anymore. My arms were in pain, one scratched and dislocated from treatment, and the other beginning to rust from lack thereof. My sight was beginning to play tricks on me. I was dehydrated, starving, because my body could only tolerate so much. I was a broken mess of a partial human, barely a man, barely a person. I even graciously accepted defeat when I finally laid back in one of the tree-heavy fields and shut my eyes, because even if I failed, it was over.

But, as you can tell by the fact that I am relaying this story to you, it wasn't over.

I opened my eyes.

I didn't know where I was, at least not by memory alone. I blinked the days worth of sleep from my heavy eyes and looked around. My vision was still a bit fuzzy, but it was crystal clear compared to its worst. I saw monitors next to me, the source of the faint beeping that was keeping track of my heartbeat (which sounded surprisingly strong). I looked down at my own body, which was draped in a blanket and lain on a somewhat large hospital bed. I tried to move my left arm, which felt a bit tingly, but was still surprisingly easy to do. I pulled it out from under the covers and looked at it; it was bright, free of rust and debris, almost like new, but far less painful than that. I looked around the room again, realizing that I was genuinely in a fully functional hospital room. Realizing this, I looked around in hopes for something I could see my face in. Intent on staying quiet I took a tray from the rolling arm that adorned portions of food, which I moved off of the silver tray and held it to my face.

There was that unrecognizable person again. Dark, almost sad eyes crowning a face full of lines. I'm sure that my face had been dirtier than it was now, but it seemed that my face had been cleaned of dirt that had worn into my face. My hair still found it's way to shroud my face, as if I was the one who needed to be protected from the world. Maybe for a moment I could see a shadow of whoever Bucky was, but it wasn't quite enough. I'd just about been repaired, and I couldn't fathom who would want to ever do that.

The tray almost shot from my hand in shock when the door opened. I was almost humiliated that my first instinct was unadulterated defense. I really was a monster shed of it's teeth. I sighed as I watched a slight form enter the room, a girl that looked like she was approaching the age I pretended to be, with hair almost the colour of wheat in neat curls coming paster her shoulders. She wore a black suit that I recognized almost as quickly as I recognized the crest on the briefcase she held. She offered me a smile (which I did not return, or barely remembered how) and set the silver briefcase down before approaching the foot of my bed. She paced two hands at the footrest, clasping them over each other.

"Good to see that you're awake, Sergeant Barnes," she told me kindly, as if the two of us had history. I didn't know her. I didn't know if I wanted to.

"Who are you," I said finally, my own voice uncertain.

"I'm Agent Fowler," she told me reassuringly, but I was reassured of nothing.

"Where am I," I said, unblinking.

"Mount Desert Island Hospital," she replied, her expression shifting to something that seemed heavy with the weight of the explanation. "Or rather, one of the last remaining SHIELD outposts. You, Barnes, are in one of the purest government facilities. You're safe here."

I found that hard to believe just yet.

Here we have it, the first chapter of my new baby! As stated, this fic is entirely Bucky-centric, dealing with his very clear PTSD and what have you. I'm really excited to start sharing this budding idea with you all!

Remember, comments and feedback are love!