He used to be human. He used to have dreams that would float like bubbles and sometimes pop when they hit the ceiling of his skull, or sometimes they'd float out and become true.
He used to be human. He used to want to be alive, to smell the skin and the cigarettes. He wanted to be alive, he longed for things.
Now he's not human. All he longs for is death, because maybe it will end the pain. He use to be human, and he used to be colors. Now he's black, white, and red. Now he doesn't feel because the agony has lasted so long that he went numb to anything that wasn't agony.
He shattered like a mirror into millions of pieces, and he tried to put the pieces together; but all his trying was useless. He tried to see his reflection, what he was before, but all he saw was the shattered pieces and the shadows and empty spaces of missing memories. His world went black, white, and red and it seemed like nothing could bring back the other colors.
The memories disappeared because of people who turned them to ice and then shattered the ice. People who melted those pieces so they'd evaporate faster. People who used his emptiness to their advantage, and people who made it harder than anything else for him.
It was like a snap of fingers, or the pull of a lamp chain. His brain shut off, and he was just a soldier. Nothing more: not a friend, not a relative, and definitely not human. He used to be human, but now he's ghost, a shell, a machine, a soldier. He bitter but he's not cold, he only feels cold.
He used to be human, but he can't be without Steve.
He used to be Bucky, but he can't be without Steve.