In 'Captain America: Civil War' we found out that Bucky Barnes kept diaries. Somewhere to write down his thoughts and memories. What if they were in fact letters. To Steve Rogers. This is my interpretation. Would love to hear your thoughts. All errors are my own and unintentional.

Letters To America:

My name is James Buchanan Barnes.

You told me that. You gave that back to me but I don't feel like a James somehow.

I remember you called me Bucky on that bridge.

It feels like such a long time ago but in reality it wasn't.

It's been days or maybe it's been weeks since I wanted to know who the hell Bucky was, who you were.

I forget now.

Time isn't really important to me at the moment.

Days, weeks, months or years.

Hours, seconds, moments.

It's meaningless to me.

I'm a blank slate.

Ready to comply.

Ready to carry out orders.

Ready to reshape a century I really don't remember living in or belonging to.

I have a name, an identity. One that's still alien to me but I do understand that once upon a time it wasn't.

I had a name.

I wasn't always that blank page HYDRA wanted me to be.

I used to be someone.

I meant something to someone. I meant something to you. Damned if I know what though.

My name is James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky.

This is who I am.

I just don't remember him right now.

Dear Steve,

I remembered your name all by myself today.

I didn't need to remind myself by looking through the leaflet I picked up at the museum.

Your name is Steve Rogers. We were best friends. Best friends from childhood the museum claims but you called me Bucky.

That part wasn't mentioned. That part I remembered.

More specifically that sometimes you'd call me Buck. When you were kidding around with me, a term of affection I guess.

No one's called me that in decades Not Bucky, not Buck, not even James.

Though someone used to.

I can't quite put my finger on that one.

It's a woman, that much I do know. I can't remember her name but I'm sure it's a woman who used to call me James.

Sometimes her voice filters through what passes as my dreams and I'm sure I knew her. From where, from when is anyone's guess but like I said earlier, time is meaningless right now.

Right now I'm just glad that I can still remember my name, and now yours.

Bucky.

Dear Steve,

I wish I didn't feel scared all the time.

I'm too scared to sleep, to eat, to even breathe.

I should be relieved, happy even to be free of HYDRA, of the machine, of the emptiness that was my existence but I'm not. It wasn't a life. Not really.

I was a commodity.

Used and put away, forgotten when I was no longer needed.

Resurrected when I was.

I'm still empty though. I should be glad that I don't have to live that life anymore but I'm not.

I know that I'm free but every step that I take, every decision that I make, I'm terrified.

I don't know what I'm doing.

Or if I'm doing it right.

I'm free but I'm scared.

I don't know what to do.

I almost miss the control that was HYDRA. They knew what to do.

Bucky.

Dear Steve,

My head hurts. It hurts a LOT.

There's a huge gap in my memory. A deep black hole where memories should be.

I'm still that blank slate HYDRA wanted me to be. That damned machine made me be. I've lost count of how many times they used it on me. Usually after a mission.

They wanted me docile, like a child.

Sometimes they would stick a needle in the back of my hand and make me empty headed. Like an idiot.

If I showed any sign of independence, of trying to fight back then they'd use the machine. Some days it was just quicker to use the machine and then they started to use it on me all the time.

But this pain in my head. It's always there, heavy, like a rock. It tires me out. Makes me sleep a lot.

I don't know if that's normal. I don't know what's normal anymore. Is there such a thing as normal?

I just know I'm not. How can I be?

I went to the Smithsonian, the museum.

It's on the cover of that leaflet that's all about you. Did I mention that already? I forget.

I walked around that place with my hands in my coat pockets. A jacket I stole from somewhere, I don't remember where but it felt good to wear something that I'd chosen.

It felt soft and I was warm. No more tactical gear, no more weapons strapped to my back.

I walked around that place, watching, looking for them, for HYDRA.

I didn't see them but they'll be searching for me once they realise that I didn't go down with the Heli-carrier. If you got out then for sure they'll know that I did too and they will be searching for their Asset.

I want this pain in my head to disappear first. I don't know if it will.

Or maybe they think I was swept away or burned in an explosion.

Maybe they aren't looking for me at all. I don't know.

I don't know anything anymore.

Bucky.

Dear Steve,

His name was Alexander Pierce.

I saw his picture in the newspaper, I forget which one. Someone had left a copy behind on a park bench.

I watched for a little while, waiting to see if anyone would come back for it.

I remember how the breeze tickled at the edges of the curled up pages before I knew for sure it had been abandoned.

I sat on the bench and I saw his picture splashed across the front page. The head of HYDRA, a traitor and the overseer of Project Insight.

He had everyone fooled, they thought he was a good guy, the best.

Turned out he wasn't.

He wanted to change history to suit his vision and he wanted me to be the one to do it for him and I probably nearly did it too.

And then I saw you on the bridge. And you said one word.

My name.

He came to see me the day I saw you on the bridge.

I remember how he sat in front of me, just watching me, he wanted a report of what happened.

My mind was just full of you. Your face, your voice. I did know you, you were right about that but I didn't know how or from where.

I just knew that I did and when I questioned him, all I got was a back hand to the face and then when that didn't work, he told the scientists to wipe me and start over.

Like I was a malfunctioning machine.

And I suppose I was. I was starting to remember things, I was starting to question things and he didn't like that.

I wasn't supposed to do that, but I did.

But I never knew his name.

I didn't need to. I was The Asset and he was…well he was the man who pulled all the strings, gave out the orders and demanded compliance.

Maybe someone did tell me his name at one point but I'd be wiped after each mission so I forgot that too.

Which would've suited him perfectly so he could maintain his cover.

I wasn't privy to that information. I did as I was told. And I did.

Time and time again.

And when I wasn't needed then I was pushed into cryo and forgotten about until the next time.

Resurrected when I was.

As I read the story and I recognised his face, I knew then that while the higher ups at HYDRA were dead or captured, I knew it wouldn't be the end, that there'd be more of them.

When one head is cut off, two more will appear, or something like that.

How many of them knew about me?

How many of them knew about the existence of The Winter Soldier?

I've heard tales that I'm a ghost story, that I melt in and out of the shadows, changing history in whatever way was needed by whoever needed it to be.

I scoured the photos that accompanied that story, looking for me in them but I'm sure I'm not in any of them.

There's a dark smudge in one of them that could be me but I'm not sure.

If HYDRA think I'm at the bottom of the river then I'm not going to change their minds. I'll be that ghost. I'll stay in those shadows.

But I'm not the only Winter Soldier.

I know that but I don't know if you know that yet but I'm not the only one.

There are more of me around. Worse than me even and that's saying something.

I think they're still where they used to keep me, in Siberia I think it is.

If they are and HYDRA have been destroyed as the story in the newspaper is claiming, then they're locked away, safe.

I also read you were in hospital too.

That you received some injuries but were expected to make a full recovery. I'm glad.

My arm doesn't hurt anymore. I remember that it did and now it doesn't.

I guess I heal quick too.

Bucky.

Dear Steve,

I woke up today and I didn't remember my name for the longest time.

The pain in my head was terrible. Burning and burrowing, impossible to ignore.

It's not like I can go and see a doc. I can't take the chance in case someone recognises me, alerts the authorities, HYDRA even.

I'm not going back to that life.

So I put up with the pain even though it makes me moan and tear at my hair.

I keep telling myself it'll go away eventually, that I just need to be patient and patience is something I'm particularly good at.

But this pain in my goddamn head.

It pounds, I see black speckles in front of my eyes, my belly aches and churns and sometimes it's enough to make me puke and other times it's not.

It's exhausting though.

All I can do is try to sleep and wait it out.

Turns out I'm not good at either of those things when my head hurts.

I remembered that it was me that put you in that hospital.

You said you weren't going to fight me, that you were my friend.

I shot you. I stabbed you. I was determined to stop you.

You were my mission. I hurt you. I hurt you badly.

Why did it take me til now to remember that? I never used to do that did I?

You said I was your friend and I want that to be the truth.

Friends don't hurt each other.

Not deliberately.

I'm sorry.

My head hurts too much to think about this anymore today

Bucky.

Dear Steve,

You'll be glad to know that my head no longer hurts.

Or maybe you won't be.

The exhibition at that place, at the Smithsonian said we were best friends from childhood. Have I said that already?

I remember bits and pieces now.

For so long, my memory was full of static. Nothing there.

Nothing of my own. No memories of the past, of my past.

Just the training. Just the mission. Just the pain and the punishment.

Just the seemingly never ending cold.

I don't like the cold. Not anymore.

Since I got away, little things come to me and I'm not sure whether they're real or not.

You were a skinny kid. Always sick.

I remember pulling some jerk off you in an alleyway. Telling them to pick on someone their own size. Hoofing them up the butt, watching them run away.

Did that happen? It feels like a dream. Was it?

I was wearing a uniform then too. Not the one I'm used to.

I remember a rollercoaster. You got sick.

And of being on the side of a mountain. Somewhere in Europe. It was cold then too.

It's after that my memory goes blank but I'm getting flashes of that too.

Being cold. An accent. White coats. Pain.

I don't like those memories when they come, I try and push those ones back.

They come back and get me when I least expect it.

Nightmares. I get a lot of those.

They wake me up in the middle of the night and my heart is beating so hard.

The noise is so loud in my head.

For a moment or two, maybe more, I think I'm going to die.

And then it passes and I realise that I won't. Not then. Not yet.

I'm just scared out of my socks over a dream that is already starting to fade away.

But that fear always lingers on the edges, like a threat.

Bucky

Dear Steve,

Your mom's name was Sarah. She used to be a nurse.

Your dad died when you were just a kid.

You weren't much older when your mom passed either.

You tried to be brave. You were brave.

You were determined to be by yourself and there was nothing I could do about it.

You were also determined to do your bit for the war. You kept getting turned down for health reasons but you kept trying.

Paramus. Why do I remember Paramus?

And then the Doc saw you at the World Fair. Saw in you what I always did.

I remember you telling me that. Beside a campfire. Somewhere in Europe again.

After you rescued me from that camp.

Azzano. Why did I have to remember that place?

That's where it all started.

I didn't know it then but it was there it all started.

The guy with the accent.

Arnim Zola.

Memories rise and sink again. I'm not sure what was real and what wasn't.

But I know he was real. I know because I can see his face when I close my eyes.

Hear his voice. How it's invaded my soul. Haunts my dreams. Terrifies me.

Sometimes I think he's in the room with me.

And then I realise that he's not. He can't be. He's dead.

Isn't he?

Bucky.

END.