Following on from the previous chapter. Bucky has moved on to New York. He struggles with his memories, of living in the city again away from HYDRA as well as dealing with the feelings of fear and paranoia that haunt him. All errors are my own and unintentional.
FYI: The layout of this chapter is how i feel Bucky would write in his notebooks. Would love to hear your thoughts.
Dear Steve,
I'd forgotten how noisy New York is.
When I first got back here it was like being hit by a wall of noise.
Traffic, aeroplanes, music, voices.
Some murmuring like a low powered hum.
Others yelling at the tops of their lungs.
Blasting through the air.
Making their presence felt, their opinions known whether I want to hear them or not.
Screaming.
Or was that just me?
For a little while it was too much. It felt like too much.
I couldn't filter it out. I didn't know how to.
My head is still full.
Of you. Of what happened. Of what I need to do.
I walk the streets early in the morning when it's not so loud.
I can hear myself think then but sometimes I'm not sure that's such a good idea.
My thoughts still hiss and fizz, trying to connect to something.
An idea, a memory, an opinion, a person but right now they're all still just out of reach.
I hope one day I'll begin to remember more.
Bucky.
Dear Steve,
Life is definitely easier but at the same time it's more complicated.
I like being free, relish it but I still keep looking over my shoulder.
I can't ignore that feeling of being watched, that tickle against the back of my neck.
Not for a minute.
Even if I'm not being watched, the feeling never completely goes away.
Maybe I am being watched. Maybe I'm always being watched and HYDRA are just biding their time.
Ready to grab me the second I let my guard down.
So I don't.
I don't sleep. Or not that much.
Thanks to HYDRA scientists, I can go for days without sleep.
But then I crash and when I do, that's when the nightmares sneak in.
Louder and more confusing than usual.
I wake up with a cry caught in the back of my throat. Tears in my eyes.
But with no memory of how or why.
And I'm almost scared of what will happen when I do begin to remember.
Bucky.
Dear Steve,
I have a place to stay.
It's nothing special. A room. With a bed, a couch, a table and a chair.
There's another room attached, a tiny bathroom.
Two rooms then.
It's nothing special but it's mine.
It's not in the best neighbourhood but compared to some places I've been to, stayed in, was contained in, it's nothing short of paradise.
Because it's mine.
The bed though. That took some getting used to.
I couldn't get comfortable and I couldn't figure out why.
Til I realised that it was too high up. It felt like I was going to fall through the mattress onto the floor.
Waking up panicked from another nightmare of disjointed flickering images reeling through my brain like some out of control movie camera.
Times I imagined there was something or someone under the bed.
Once or twice I swear I could hear them breathing.
Then I'd realise it was me.
It took a while for me to calm down. It took me longer to settle again. If at all.
Now I check under my bed when I get up in the morning and again when I go to bed.
And even then I'm not entirely sure.
So I found a solution to my problem.
I dismantled the bed frame and now I sleep on the mattress on the floor.
It's still taking some getting used to but at least I don't feel like I'm going to fall through the mattress anymore.
And I can't hear the breathing anymore.
Mostly.
Bucky.
Dear Steve,
Most mornings I'm awake to see the sun rise.
That's if I've been to sleep in the first place.
Waking up and making a cup of coffee. Watching the shades of night fade into the grey and pink of an early morning.
Seeing the sun rise.
The quietest time of the day.
I don't think that I used to be an early bird.
I have vague memories of walking the streets of Brooklyn and seeing the sun rise.
Getting into trouble with someone for being out all night.
I can't remember that someone clearly.
But I can hear their voice in my head.
Wanting to know where I've been, who I've been with.
It's a woman's voice. Older I think.
Being called James when I think they would usually call me Bucky.
Warning me that I'll make a bad name for myself one day.
Well that part came true.
Bucky.
Dear Steve,
Strange day today. Even for me.
Getting caught in the rain. It just poured from the heavens.
The sky was gunmetal grey. I didn't think that was right word to use to describe the colour at first but thinking about it, the sky was the colour of the barrel of a gun.
And the streets were shiny with so much water.
People were rushing around me, avoiding the downpour, avoiding puddles.
Trying to stay dry underneath their umbrellas.
The swooshing sound of car tyres riding through the puddles.
Feeling the rain soak my jacket, drip down the back of my neck.
Chilly. Invasive. Making me shiver a little.
I loved it.
Even turned my face up and felt it spatter against my skin.
The freedom of it.
Almost made me smile.
Then I saw her.
I recognised her.
She lives in my building. I've seen her coming and going.
I don't know her name but she always says hello to me or good morning or good evening.
Depending on the time of day.
Every single time. Even if I don't answer her back. Which is often.
Call it left over paranoia. Avoiding eye contact, shoulders up around my ears.
Fear of being noticed, of being paid attention to.
Eager to get out of there. Away from her. Anything.
Like I said, left over paranoia.
It just takes one person, right?
She's small in height, bird-like thin. Maybe a hundred pounds in weight total.
Silver hair.
I saw her walking ahead of me, a slow cautious shuffle.
Braced against the rain I was enjoying.
Carrying groceries in a couple of brown paper sacks.
Rain soaked.
I could almost predict what would happen next.
And of course it did.
One of the bags disintegrated and her groceries tumbled onto the sidewalk.
Some fruit and vegetables, some packets.
Scattered around her feet.
I rescued a couple of escaping apples before they made good on their getaway onto the busy road.
I cautiously approached her. Picked up the rest of her groceries along the way as I did.
Said hello this time.
Told her my name: James.
Offered to help. Fully expected her to refuse. To tell me to get lost.
She didn't.
Said she recognised my voice and knew I lived in her building.
Her name is Mrs Henderson.
And that's when I realised again. Saw for myself the whiteness in the faded green of her eyes.
That she's almost blind.
We walked in silence back to the building.
All the while I was hoping she wasn't the chatty type.
Conversation of any kind still ties me up in knots.
She wasn't. Thank God.
Whether by nature or otherwise, there wasn't any conversation.
None of the curiosity that could get me into trouble or worse.
Left over paranoia. It's really hard to shake off.
I walked with her to her front door and waited while she unlocked it.
Stood on the doorstep as she shuffled through.
Invited me inside. Offered me a cup of coffee to say thank you.
I almost accepted.
Til I heard the music playing.
It took me a minute til I realised it was a radio playing.
The music sounded familiar.
Old. From a bygone era. A long time ago to most people.
Might have been yesterday to me.
I remember dancing. Loud music playing. Jazz. Big band.
Glenn Miller type of stuff.
Laughing. A pretty girl. Dark hair and button bright brown eyes.
Called Connie?
She had a friend with her. Blonde.
Why am I seeing a flying car of all things?
I'm in that uniform again.
I see you.
Skinny. Frail looking. Your head too big for your body.
Don't do anything stupid until I get back…
How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you.
The images are chaotic. Flashing through my mind without rhyme or reason.
Constant. Unrelenting. Terrifying. Too much.
I had to leave, get away from it. To somewhere quiet.
To process it all. Write it down.
I made my excuses and stumbled out of there
Now I've written it down.
It still doesn't make any damn sense.
But I can still hear that music playing in my head.
Bucky.
Dear Steve,
A knock on my door made me vault off my bed and head for the window.
I had that window half open with a dozen escape strategies going through my head before I heard her voice.
Yeah. Her voice.
Mrs Henderson. From the other day.
Knocking on my door. Scaring the crap out of me.
My first instinct was to freeze and wait for her to go away.
But she didn't.
She told me that she knew I was in there. She needed help with something.
Could I help?
So of course I did. I went to see what she needed help with.
A blocked sink.
Turned out the garbage disposal was malfunctioning.
Took me about ten minutes to fix the problem.
When I finished there was a cup of coffee on the small kitchen table.
A plate full of cookies beside it.
And a request to sit down, take a load off. Talk to her.
I was on the verge of refusing, making an excuse to leave.
Til she told me that I was the first person she'd spoken to all day.
So I sat at the kitchen table with her.
Almost vibrating with anxiety and the need to get out of there
But there was something inside of me that made me stay with her.
A sense of decency maybe or good manners.
I don't know.
But I stayed for a little while.
Long enough to drink a cup of very good coffee
And pick and nibble at the edges of a single chocolate chip cookie that made me remember yearning for something similar.
The sting of slapped fingers and being told to wait.
The sweetness of sugar, chocolate chips melting on my tongue, the hint of vanilla essence.
The familiarity.
Being home.
That hit me like a thunderbolt.
And the fear of it made me stumble to my feet, stammer out an excuse
And leave. Again. Like a coward.
Spent the rest of the day in my room.
Pacing.
Trying to deal with the memories fighting inside of my head
Struggling to make sense of any of it.
And failing miserably.
Bucky.
Dear Steve,
There was package outside my door this morning.
A little plain brown paper sack, the top neatly folded over.
My name written in an untidy scrawl.
James.
I stared at it suspiciously for a moment or two.
Wondering who knew my name.
I looked up and down the corridor.
I don't know what or who I was expecting to see.
Because there was nobody around.
So I scooped up the package and took it inside.
Unfolded the top and peered in.
Smelled vanilla essence, sugar and chocolate.
Inside were four cookies. Homemade.
Mrs Henderson.
For a long while I just stared at them.
Unidentified emotions flooding through me.
Upper most was why? Why would she do this?
Was she saying sorry for something?
I racked my brain as to why but came up empty.
Which made me think that there had to be another reason why.
It didn't occur to me until much later that she did it because she was being kind.
Kindness.
I'd forgotten what it felt like to be on the receiving end of such a thing.
Bucky.
Dear Steve,
I saw Mrs Henderson outside of her apartment today.
It'd been a few days since I received her gift and I knew that I had to say something
Even if it was just thank you.
It's so hard making that first move, that first approach.
But I knew that I had to.
Good manners insisted that I do.
So I did.
Though I have to admit my heart was beating right out of my chest at the prospect.
Just a simple thank you for thinking of me.
I didn't tell her that I'd savoured every bite, my eyes full.
Grateful for her kindness. And her generosity.
I didn't tell her any of that, no.
Just a simple thank you that she accepted with a half smile and a nod of her head.
She'd been shopping again.
So I held onto the grocery sacks while she unlocked her apartment door again.
Noticed the harder than usual shove she gave the door til it opened.
I saw that the wood was a little warped.
I hadn't noticed that earlier.
Maybe I could take a look for her.
When I asked her about it she said it happened when it rained.
The damp air made the wood swell and stick.
I offered to take a look at it, as a thank you for the cookies.
For a long moment she just looked at me before she accepted
And it made me feel a little better.
Bucky.
Dear Steve,
It's been a few days since I last updated.
Mrs Henderson's door is fixed, she won't have to shove it to open it now.
She's a nice lady. Lonely.
Her name is Eleanor. Named after a President's wife.
A widow. Her husband died in Korea.
They'd been married barely a year before he shipped out.
She never remarried. Didn't want to. Couldn't, she told me.
He'd been her 'one' and after he died, she wasn't interested in anyone else
No kids. No family. She has no one.
Alone in the world.
Any family she had are gone.
Korea is familiar to me. I'm not sure why.
It's on the edge of whatever is left of my memories.
Fighting someone like you. Strong like you. Relentless like you.
But not you.
At least I don't think so. I'm pretty sure it wasn't, as far as being sure about anything is to go by.
The memory dances frustratingly close to the edges of clarity.
Almost at the point of remembering.
But just when I think I do, it waltzes away again.
Mrs Henderson asked me questions.
She tried to be subtle but it felt too much like an interrogation.
However she tried to phrase it.
And I know all about those. Know all of the tricks.
After all they've all been used on me somewhere along the line.
Too many times to count.
Doesn't matter the tone of the voice, the manner, they're all the same.
Whichever way you sugar coat it. They want information.
What's your second name?
How old are you? Where am you from?
Do you have any family?
Is that a Brooklyn accent I can detect?
I don't know, can you?
Eventually she stopped. To my relief.
It's not that I'm being deliberately rude.
I just don't remember.
And I don't know how she would react if I told her that.
So I didn't say much. Remained polite.
She was being sociable. She's lonely. She's curious.
It's natural. Normal even.
But I'm a little more wary. Loose lips and all of that, you know?
So I told her little bits.
That my name is James. She already knew that.
I fudged my age. Said I was thirty. I know I'm much more than that.
No family. None that I'm aware of.
Apart from my name, I have no real idea yet of the rest.
Instead I looked at the photos that she keeps on a table in her living room.
There aren't that many.
Black and white.
Faded by the years.
Her memories.
A younger Eleanor, glamorous. A younger husband.
She did tell me his name.
As usual I've forgotten it. It's just on the periphery.
But seeing those photos triggered something.
Something fragile.
It hovered close by like a spirit
I couldn't quite see or hear it but I was aware of it all the same.
It made me think about you, though.
Whether you're out there, looking for me.
Are you in New York?
I wonder what I'd do if I saw you on the street again.
Probably run.
You remember me but I can only remember bits and pieces of you.
Disjointed, chaotic. Out of focus.
My memories.
Sometimes it feels like a wound that won't stop bleeding.
Everything feels raw and exposed inside of my head when that happens.
Other times it feels like there's thick scar tissue in there, holding everything in.
Even though I can feel memories, something thumping against it.
Wanting to be free.
Waiting for the day it'll be ripped open and every last memory will pour out.
And that scares me.
Ted. I finally remembered his name: Ted Henderson.
The soldier who went to Korea.
The young husband who left behind an equally young wife.
And never returned
Bucky.
Dear Steve,
I keep it hidden from view but it's hard to ignore.
A souvenir from HYDRA. A weapon. Part of me
Unwelcome.
I can't escape from it.
Sometimes I wish that I could.
Silver. Heavy. Threatening.
A symbol. The Fist of Hydra.
I wear long sleeves. Gloves.
Avoid any questions as to why.
It's none of their damned business why.
Instead I stare at it and wish it away.
But I'm careful.
To not let anyone see it.
They'll remember it and in turn they'll remember me.
And that's how I'll be found.
Bucky.
Dear Steve,
I've been here a while. Too long.
Things are beginning to become familiar. Comfortable.
And that's dangerous.
I can't afford to form attachments.
I need to keep moving and I can sense the time to do that is close.
Call it instinct but mostly it's out of a sense of fear as well as good old paranoia.
Mrs Henderson keeps me here whether she realises it or not.
I keep an eye out for her. Make sure she's okay.
Her apartment is sparsely furnished and set out in a way that's easier for her to navigate.
She doesn't watch television. She can't see the screen too clearly. She says it would only frustrate her if she tried.
Instead she prefers to listen to the radio.
I've got used to the music. I try not to pay too much attention to it now.
But it still triggers little things inside of me.
Like arrows in flight. Some hit their targets. Others miss.
Gramophone music. People dancing. Bare feet on wooden floors.
Laughter. Clapping hands. Being pulled to my feet to dance with someone.
Taller than me. Sky blue eyes and fair hair.
The scent of rose water so strong that my heart gives a hard double tap.
My mom. I'm almost certain it's my mom.
I just can't remember her name right now.
But I need to think about moving on.
That itch at the back of my neck is getting more intense.
They're close.
They'll arrive in the dead of night and will leave no witnesses.
And I'll be gone again and this time they'll make damn sure I can never get away again.
So I need to take the initiative.
Make a plan. Execute it and then move on.
I know HYDRA's secrets.
Where their money is hidden. Codes. Addresses. Contacts. Names.
I know them all.
And I'm going to use them.
Bucky.
Dear Steve,
It's done.
It's funny how easy it was to slip back into the mindset of the Asset.
Soldat.
It's as familiar as breathing.
A part of me.
The look of surprise. They weren't expecting me.
Everything is still in chaos according to the newspapers.
The organisation is crashing and burning.
Like the Helicarriers into the Potomac.
New revelations between the pages each day.
Arrests. Charges. They're breathless from it all.
The sheer size of it, how easily their evil filtered in.
And nobody noticed.
Not until it was too late.
And so many people were hurt. Killed.
Some that I'm responsible for.
So the few remaining scraps left over within HYDRA were surprised to see their Asset appear in front of them.
But it then turned to fear when they realised that I don't work for them anymore.
I didn't think about the body count as I worked my way methodically through the building.
The living and the machines.
No witnesses.
They're all agents of HYDRA. They all chose this life. Benefitted from it.
I know their hiding places.
I know how to access all their secrets.
I treat it like a mission. Become that ghost. Take what I need and I leave.
Without witnesses. Under the shadow of night. No alarms raised.
But it'll only be a matter of time before they are.
I have a go bag ready. It contains everything that I need.
I don't have much.
Clothing. Notebooks. Cash. Paperwork.
I refuse to think of anything more than what I have to do tonight.
Things have begun to heat up.
I've started to notice things.
Things that make the alarm bells that have been clanging in my head go up a notch or two.
A couple of times I swear I recognise faces I've started to see around the neighbourhood.
HYDRA operatives.
I'm sure that they've located me and they're arranging to take me.
I need to get out of here now.
They'll be expecting me to leave by the front or back door of this place.
They should know by now that I'll never do what they expect me to do.
It's why I've survived for so long. Their Soldat. Their Asset.
There's another way out of this building. One I discovered the day I moved in.
By the time they find it, I'll be long gone.
I need to get out of the city, out of the country, maybe.
Europe could be interesting.
Before I go, I push the envelope underneath Mrs Henderson's door.
It contains a little extra cash and a note.
Just one word.
Thank you.
Bucky.