Some people have made comments assuming that I'm lucky to have survived that plane crash, even if I was on ice for seventy years. I don't feel lucky. I don't even feel alive anymore. I feel like an antique, a relic from a different era, kept around for its sentimental value.
People call me a legend and tell stories about the things I did. But to them they're just that—stories. To them, it is things that happened in ages past. To me it was last month, and last week, and yesterday. The faces in my mind are as fresh as the white paper I put my pencil to. I still see my best friend falling from a train because I couldn't get to him in time. It's ancient history to everyone but me, the one who lived it.
No one seems to take any notice of the nightmares, though I know I must have been heard at some point. They repeat themselves every night, over and over until my throat is raw and my sheets are soaked with sweat.
There is no one that can say they remember something from yesterday, yesterday, yesterday—no, that was seventy years ago, Captain. And I'm pretty certain I wouldn't want anyone to understand because I wouldn't wish this on anyone. It's almost as bad as that train and that ravine and watching him fall seventy years ago and last week and every night when I close my eyes.
AN-So I was having Cap feels again. What makes me especially sad is that The Winter Soldier doesn't come out until next year. ~II