Bucky sat across from the familiar man, a silent yet attentive witness to his stories. The deep plush chair was so over-sized it nearly engulfed him. Bare toes dug into the rich carpet, fingers gripped the armrests; the only outward signs of his discomfort. A deep breath, his gaze fell to the floor before he began:
"I remember that day. It was hot, for Spring anyway. I think it was Spring. All I know is the tree I saw had new leaves on it. Not a lot of trees in the city, but that one kinda jumped out at me. Never really noticed that stuff when I was - like that. So not sure what made me see it. That happened, sometimes, I'd notice things that grabbed at a memory, only I didn't know it was a memory at the time, just some weird thing that knocked me off my focus for a second. There was a flower box too, in front of a store or a restaurant? I dunno, it was there, a box with dirt in it, flowers were hanging out, purple and white, oh, right and green of course."
A heartbeat passed in silence. He continued:
"Funny how your mind plays tricks. I thought I could smell wet earth, not the ugly kind, like when a grave gets dug in the woods, but the good kind, like when Ma would plant seeds in the pots on the windowsill. I'd watch the dirt." A hint of a laugh, "Really, watch the dirt waiting for that damn seed to come up. I'd poke at it then blame my sister. Imagine that? The Winter Soldier, waiting for a seed to pop up."
His eyes darted towards the man then back to the carpet. "Suppose there are those that wouldn't buy that, but true story though, back when I was a kid. Innocent and stupid."
He tapped a random rhythm on the upholstered arm. "Anyway, it was hot for a Spring day. I was hot. All that leather, the sun beating down on my back, mostly I ignored it, had no choice, right? I got to a point where the weight of my clothes soaked in sweat just didn't matter; it was all part of the game. I ran, I fought, I killed, I sweated. Sometimes I bled. It all soaked in then it dripped down. I left a trail, easy to follow, sweat and blood, mixed, hell any dog could find me, didn't need some bloodhound. So what? Didn't matter, trail, out in the open, anybody could see me. Everyone saw me. No one helped. Just watched. Me and the target. Never crossed my mind, what I had of my mind, that someone might help him. Or me for that matter."
He took a breath, "I mean, why help me? No one helped that poor fool I was chasing. Sorry, not a fool, really I don't know. Sad right? I didn't even know him or what he did to deserve me stalking him down. I wonder sometimes, did he have a family? A Mom who cried over his death, sisters that named their kids after him? What the hell did he do to deserve my particular brand of attention? Did he get a big Irish wake, you know where the booze flows and everybody laughs telling tales about his life? Maybe nobody even noticed he's gone. Maybe it's better that way, you know, disappear, fall from a train never to be found again?"
Bucky dragged a hand through his hair; he stared across the room for a few long heartbeats.
"They, my employers, noticed he was around. Not employers, that implies I had a choice right? My handlers. I hate that word but hey what else am I gonna call them? They noticed he wasn't gone, that's why they sent me. He needed to be gone. That was my job, ending things. Killing. None of that spy crap. Sure I was sneaky, covert, slip-in, slip-out, an assassin. I was good at it, very very good at it."
Toes dug deeper into the carpet, he leaned forward, hands between his knees, "Pathetic. I still feel that twinge of pride about that. Sick son-of-b…"
He glanced at the man sitting across from him. "Sorry. No swearing. I promised, didn't I? Let's talk about deserving to die. Death's too good for me. Too easy an escape from what I deserve."
He rapped a fist to his temple and looked away again. "Right, right, no self-loathing allowed either. It's unproductive. Back on track. Spring. Chasing the target down the streets of New York, crazy people, everybody's dressed in green, loud as hell, distracting, tugging at my brain. It was familiar, the noise, the sea of green, a parade. St Patrick's Day? Maybe I'd been there before, years and years before. Who knows? None of them even said anything when my target ran through the crowd, stumbling like some scared rabbit. Strange, he never said anything either, no words, no screams, never once begged for help from those scared sheep around him."
He shook his head, "Not sheep. Look who's talking here. He just kept looking back at me with that horrified look on his face; eyes popped wide, he was sweating too." He leaned towards the man to whisper, "His terror reached right across the space between us, it clawed deep into my chest and wrapped its death-fingers around my effing heart trying to tear it out as if it mattered to me. The sad part, I liked it. As it happened, that part of me, that lost and empty, wasted part of me liked the terror."
"But me, the me buried down below the cold like some damn seed, hated it, loathed it. Looking out at the pain, watching myself. Inside of me. I'd like to say I was fighting for control but I wasn't. How could I? It wasn't like that, you know. I was along for the ride, gagged and bound, tossed in the trunk, kidnapped, I guess, only they dragged me out and stuck a gun in my hand and said do it, do it, do it. When I said no, they ripped away my past until there was nothing left to say except yes cuz anything that was me was gone."
Bucky leaned back and spoke to no one in particular, "Except not gone. Still me. The real me there watching. Not the memories but that hidden deep core that has nothing to do with who I knew or where I grew up or how I did in school. I was there, a witness to it all. Voiceless, impotent, crushed. But not gone. Can I ever believe that I'm innocent when I know what I know? When the dead haunt my dreams?"
He let his head fall back, he stared at the ceiling then refocused on the man, "Sorry. Supposed to be telling this story. I keep getting lost. That happens now, getting lost, but you know this already. He, the target, had that look, the one they get right before the end before they die. Seen it. Too many times. Hate it. Hate that I'm the one making it happen. But I deserved it, can't say they should understand or not be scared. I was a monster, no doubt. Scary and cold as hell. Ha. Wrong place. That's where I belong. Should I say cold as Siberia? Anyway, I was a monster. Maybe I still am."
His gaze returned to the carpet, "So, he ran, I followed. All that heat and sweat, I didn't run. Why run? I could see him, could see how the crowd parted for him, like some damn boat tearing through the water, they parted and let him pass without a word or a look or a hey pal, need some help? They parted like that for me too. No eye contact, no hey jerk, you're scaring us. Don't kill us, not us, but go ahead and keep looking at that poor schmuck and don't look at us. Nobody said, need some help, buddy, you're looking pretty stressed right now. I wasn't stressed. I was a machine. Think about it. I could walk the streets of a big city, in full glory, black leather vest, guns hanging off my back and hips, face covered, and no one said boo. They ran. I'd run too. I wanted to run. See, I knew deep down how wrong it was. That constant sick feeling was always there; I just didn't know how to fix it."
Bucky sighed and looked around the room before picking up again, "Okay, the guy finally came to his senses and stopped running. That damn ocean of green parted in front of me, and there we stood. Pursuer and prey. Standing face to face, sweating together. He was breathing hard, real hard, I was not. Well, maybe a little. Not from chasing him, just in general, from something that sat rolling around in my gut. That sick feeling jumped up and kicked at me. I remember it. People saw us, saw me, their eyes wide, you don't know how much I wanted to scream at them, 'Can't you see, I'm in here, me, the real me, I want out of this. You're looking right at me and not seeing me. This monster isn't me.'"
"But I never said any of that. Never looked at them, except a glance to warn them off. That part of me, the Soldier, whatever you want to call him, he was in control, didn't matter what I wanted, it was all about him. Not sure what happened next, I pulled a gun, aimed it at the target's head, it was easy. Nothing special. Just a hair more pressure on the trigger and I could go back to base and watch some TV, kick back a couple of beers, put my feet up."
The man across from him didn't laugh.
Bucky shifted in the chair, "Joking. There was no beer. Right, I keep getting off track, sorry. Almost done. I knew the extraction crew was right behind me. They appeared at the back of my brain whenever the job was nearly over. You know I ran on them once? The itch of memories won out that time. Didn't last long, they found me. Paid for that, a lot."
"Back on track. That guy stared me down hard. Balls. He had balls. I liked that. Then he bolted. I didn't like that. More running, well, walking for me. I marched right after him. Job wasn't done. He took off up a flight of stairs, wide and low, felt a little familiar, but hey; I've been all over the world, some of it sticks out clear, some not so much. He ran up the stairs, I followed. I saw him struggle with a door, a big old wooden one that looked heavy as hell. Not for me, of course. Not heavy for me."
"I followed him inside. It took a minute, nah, less than that, for my eyes to adjust, it was dark. My alter-ego braced, you know walking head-long into a dark room from the bright sunlight is kinda stupid when in you're in my line of work. But nothing happened. No surprise attacks. Just quiet darkness until my eyes started working again. I couldn't see him. But I could smell him. Fear. It has its own distinctive odor you know. At least I thought it was him. Maybe it was me. I was damned sweaty."
"Ok, I'll admit it, it was me. The fear part, that wasn't new, just different. Dying or getting hurt didn't scare me. Dying might've been a good thing. The fear part was like sludge in the bottom of a gas tank, poor analogy maybe, maybe not. It just sat there deep in my gut, nameless, nothing specific, waiting for the match to blow the whole deal to high heaven."
Bucky pointed at the listener, "Speaking of heaven. So this guy ran into a church, get that, a damned church, it was, wait I can remember this, St Patrick's, yeah, St. Patrick's in New York. Ever been there? It's huge, makes you feel reverent whether you like it or not. Anyway, he ran in the church like he thought that was gonna stop me. Like that sanctimonious act would keep me from killing him, as if I had a soul or a memory or gave a rat's butt about God or forgiveness. What an idiot."
He sighed and squirmed in his seat, "Again, sorry. He wasn't the idiot, that would be me, listen to me, all full of attitude, as if I didn't care about forgiveness. You know I care about that, right? I just don't deserve it. How the hell do I ask for that?" His voice trailed off as he picked at a thread on the chair before, "He was smart, desperate, smarter than me. The church was cliché sure but a brilliant idea for him. Mass was going on, it didn't register at the time, not really my style even as a kid, but hey, Steve went with his Ma so, you know, so did I. The whole incense thing, that smell, sweet and distinctive, boy did that slam my brain back a few years. Nothing specific, no sudden onslaught of 'hey your name's Bucky and your best friend was Steve;' but flashes of little things, whispers during services, stifled laughter, pencil drawings in the back of a hymnal."
Bucky sat forward, his eyes connecting with the man, "This one time he had a pocket full of pennies for the collection plate, we were horsing around, you know like kids do in church, and I bumped his hand, sort of on purpose. Those coins fell right when not a damn thing was going on and clattered all over the floor, rolling everywhere. We started laughing of course, that only got worse when the old ladies turned around to glare at us, the more we tried to stop the worse it got." Bucky's laugh should have been infectious but the man only smiled.
"Imagine the Winter Soldier intent on a kill, remembering that. Needless to say, I stopped in my tracks. It all started right there, a chink in the dam of memories. Brooklyn, art classes, the war, falling. Steve. His name just popped into my head. Boom. Then it went away. I guess I staggered back; maybe I grabbed a pew end, maybe it was the cool air that just sits there in a cavernous place like that. Cold air washing over hot sweat. Somebody near me said, 'You don't look well, maybe you should sit down.'"
"Jesus, really? No pun intended. I mean really, 'You don't look well?' I had three pistols on my hips, and an Uzi strapped to my back, and I was the one who didn't look well. That's a priest for you, cut right to the soul of it. I can't remember what happened next. I found myself sitting in a pew at the back. It was strange even for me. I knew without any doubt, without one moment of uncertainty that I'd been there before. Steve right beside me. It was as real as you are, assuming you're real of course. I could hear those damn coins clattering, rolling, the laughter; I could hear him wheezing from how hard he laughed. God my heart was breaking, and I couldn't figure out what the hell was happening. I nearly put my fist through the wooden bench, I gripped it so hard trying to shake the aching."
"Then I heard it. That dumb prayer. Right, me? The Winter Soldier? A prayer. Don't laugh. I know you won't, you barely breathe during our sessions. That's what I like about you. Not shockable. You know, Mass was in Latin when I was a kid. Nobody understood a word of it. Not really, they just said the words back and forth. No feeling, no understanding, no meaning. Maybe some felt the meaning, just saying not me."
"I heard something that day. I've looked it up since then, you know I had to know. I'm not gonna say it saved me or changed anything, no damned miracles here. I'm the last one on this earth that deserves a miracle. I'll just say Steve is my miracle; he never gave up. But those words stuck just a little, sometimes all it takes is one moment in time to get you to the next moment in time."
Bucky turned to look out the window, his voice was full of an uncharacteristic timidity, "Lord I am not worthy...but only say the word, and I shall be healed."
The laugh was subdued, more an embarrassed apology than anything else, "Stupid I know. Damn tears stung at my eyes that day. Good thing the handlers weren't there yet. That priest came over and sat in the pew in front of me. The way he looked at me I could tell, he saw me. Not the Soldier, not the killer. But me. Bucky. I know, priests, some good, some not so good, I got nothing to say about religion or priests or God for that matter. Not today anyway. But that day, that man, he saw me. He knew. Steve looks at me like that. No judgment, no past. Just now. Maybe it all started right there. The unraveling of the Soldier. The beginning of the end."
Bucky tucked his hands under his thighs and shrugged. "The handlers came not long after that. Funny, I felt relieved. I remember that. Better to go with what I knew than face the darkness of what I couldn't remember. At least at that moment in time. If I'd gone with the priest, accepted his help, maybe I wouldn't have found Steve again. Maybe it's all for the best."
It was nearly time to end the session, he stretched his back, the head tilt brought the subtle sounds of a neck crunching to realign.
"Oh, right, I know you're on the edge of your seat, the target, he got away. Happy ending."
Bucky slipped on his sneakers and scurried towards the door, he didn't look back, he knew the man was watching his retreat. No sense tempting fate, the man always knew when he added a lie. Just like Steve.
Bucky smiled when he saw Steve straddling the bike outside the old brownstone that housed his therapist. He threw a leg over the back and settled into place, he sighed at the comfort of an old friend.
They fell into the same conversation every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
Steve started, "How'd it go this time?"
"Good, good. He never says anything. If he didn't twitch once in awhile I'd think he was dead."
"I think the whole point is for you to be talking not him."
"Yeah, yeah. Does yours talk to you?"
"Nope, but with the stories we've got to tell, they've got nothing to say."