Anger. Nobody really knows what it is but me.
Nobody seems to understand how hopeless I feel when it is something I can't control.
Losing control. Nobody understands how weak I feel when I'm forced to let go.
Nobody understands, not really.
Twelve months. Twelve. Twelve. I wrapped my arms around myself to steady the shaking. I focused on the steady, rhythmic hum of monsoonal Indian rain on the tin roof, trying to calm my breathing. One, two. In and out. One, two. Time up. Time up.
Eleven minutes. Eleven long minutes before the jet arrives. Eleven minutes to get myself under control. No. No.
Ten. Ten guards aboard that plane. Ten innocent lives at risk because of me. Ten lives in danger. Danger.
Nine. Nine painstaking hours aboard that plane. Nine hours of claustrophobic flight. Out. Out! One, two. One, two.
Eight. Eight seconds since the spy, Natasha Romanoff, stopped talking. Silence was good. People could say things that could get them hurt. Hurt! HURT!
Seven. Seven miles out of Calcutta, away from the claustrophobic aura that dampened the polluted city. Away from the innocent population that don't deserve me here. They do not deserve it. Do Not Matter. Seven. Seven.
One, two. One, two.
Six people in Manhattan that eagerly await my arrival. Six people who cannot be injured because of me. Can, can!
Five. Five children left to die for this fake call-out. Five children who did not deserve to die. Die, DIE!
Four. Four minutes since the rain had stopped. Though I can still hear the wind whistling. Four. Four. Let OUT! Out OUT OUT!
Three. Three seconds of breathing. Control, control. "I don't think you wanna break that streak." BREAK! BREAK!
Two. Two people within this small shack. Two people in one small room. Too small. Breathe, Banner. In, out. In out. TOO SMALL! TOO SMALL!
One. One world, One planet. One weapon. One god. One world. One thing to do: Save it. ONE, TWO, ONE, TWO, ONe, two. One two, one, two.
Breathe.