He heard the shot; he saw the woman cornered in the alley, red blossoming across her sternum and face as she collapsed grotesquely to the ground. A beat, and her form reared, standing up again on wobbly legs. Her voice was a mournful monotone.
You did this. Please don't.
The gunshot exploded again and she crumpled under the attack again, red raining thick into pools around her. The corpse rose again a second later, more haggard and drawn...
You did this. Please don't.
The shot. The skull couldn't contain the flow of blood...
You did this. Please don't.
He lifted the rifle again. He couldn't stop the movement of the metal finger on the trigger. How he tried.
I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY
He was screaming himself raw as his eyes flew open to blackness.
For an instant he froze. Then, like a hammer shattering ice, a fit of shivering broke his paralysis. The woman's bloody visage flashed across his vision again and he squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. Darkness.
His apartment.
Oh.
He willed himself to calm his hitching sobs to shaking, gasping breaths and he wrapped his arms tightly around his chest... surely his heart was going to pound its way through his ribcage.
Get a grip, Barnes. It's nothing new. Calm down.
His senses struggled to reign the real world into focus. The phantom iron scent of blood lingered for a bit, then gradually gave way to the familiar, lived-in aromas of his tiny living space. He faintly remembered eating a tomato he'd bought from the street market with the frozen macaroni and cheese he'd had for dinner last evening. Next time he'd definitely try making mac-n-cheese from scratch. A dull thud jerked him even closer to the waking world... a hot water pipe, a sound which had become familiar, to the point of surpassing annoyance. Now he silently welcomed it. His fingers, violently trembling, tried to grasp to the edge of his sleeping bag, as if for dear life.
He collected strength sufficient to pull himself into a sitting position, and he slowly rubbed stars into his eyes. The horror of the spectre still gripped him and the urge to chase it further away by turning on the lamp was overcome by his instilled instinct to remain hidden and unseen in the dark.
His shivers had not subsided. He felt absolutely chilled to the bone from not only the taxing stress of the terror, but also from the room's cool temperature brought by this year's abnormally frigid springtime. He couldn't afford to use heat, now that winter was technically over. He could survive this cold spell. He'd endured worse. He drew his legs up close and tried to chafe warmth into his right arm. The left one whirred and hissed ever so slightly beneath his pajama shirt. He let out a shaky sigh, and another. His head swam, and pain pulsed behind his eyes. This particular aftereffect of the chair, the machine, still returned at regular intervals, even after all these months.
No. Not the chair.
He bit his lip hard and made an effort to steady himself as a new wave of panic threatened to assail him.
Breathe, Barnes. You're okay. You're safe. Nothing new. Get a grip. Calm down.
I'm sorry. I'm SORRY.
Ssh. Push it back. Harder. Fight it.
You did this. Please don't.
I'M SORRY
Mission report, Soldat.
Elimination of target confirmed.
No.
Mission failed.
Unacceptable, Soldat.
Put him back under.
NO.
All-consuming cold.
Wake up. Barnes, WAKE UP
Early morning light filtered through the newspaper taped over his windows.
He pushed his sweaty hair out of his eyes, ignoring the throbs of the headache. He drew a resolute breath and leaned over the edge of his makeshift bed to grab the notebook lying on the floor. He scribbled down all he remembered about this night's visitor from his past.
He wondered vaguely which one he'd be tasked to kill again the following night.