6. A Ghost in My Own Skin
Dear Friend,
They put me in a costume.
Bright blue, red, and white — colors that used to mean something. Now they feel like paint smeared over bruises. The fabric clings too tight to a body that isn't mine. It stretches over muscles that weren't there a year ago. A body they built in a lab.
A mask with an "A" stitched right into the forehead, like they were afraid I'd forget the role I'm supposed to play.
The first time I "punched Hitler," the crowd roared. I smiled. Or maybe it was a wince. Hard to tell anymore.
Girls in sequined skirts kicked in perfect time behind me. The brass section was blaring and bright and unbearably loud. The lights were blinding. The people cheered like their lives depended on it.
I played my part well, for someone whose never acted before.
I flexed.
I grinned.
I threw the same punch at the same actor playing the same dictator, and he fell exactly on cue.
"Whose strong and brave, here to save the American way?"
That's the line. They sing it at every show, every stop.
Every time they sing it, I feel less real.
They cheer for Captain America. For the muscles and the jawline and the easy smile.
They don't know me. They never knew me.
I signed up to fight, to serve, to make a difference. They gave me tights and a script.
They love me.
But I feel like a cardboard cutout of myself.
I remember begging to enlist. I remember the bruises from alleyway fights, the nights spent icing my ribs, telling myself it was worth it if I could do one good thing.
And now they won't even let me near the front. They let me hoist motorcycles over my head and sell war bonds, but when I ask to join the actual fight, they pat my shoulder and say, "You're doing more good here, son."
Here.
On a stage.
Pretending.
They call me Captain America.
I don't think I know him.
Colonel Phillips said I'm technically not even enlisted anymore. That I "belong to the State." Like a mascot. Like a ghost someone dressed in red, white, and blue and paraded through the country so everyone could pretend everything was okay.
I asked to serve. They asked me to sell.
Before I left for the European leg of the USO tour, I went home. Not to a base. Not to a hotel.
Home.
The tenement is smaller than I remember. The walls are cracked, but they hold the smell of memory — dust, age, and something faintly sweet. Cinnamon and boiled coffee. My mother used to sprinkle cinnamon on my oatmeal, especially on Sundays. I remember the way she hummed as she stirred.
I climb the stairs alone. No one's lived there in years, but the door gives way like it remembers me. Inside, it's quiet. Not just empty — quiet. Like a breath held.
The living room still has the echo of her in it. Her sewing chair, long gone, has left a ghost impression in the wood. I stand there too long, like maybe if I stand still enough, the past will come rushing back in.
Her bedroom is empty now. But I see her.
Thin. Pale. Dying. Tuberculosis stole the last of her before the serum gave me this body. She never got to see it.
Would she even recognise me now?
I sit on the edge of the bed frame and stare at the wall where her mirror used to hang. The moonlight cuts across the floor. Dust dances in it.
I think about the boy I was — sick, scared, hopeful. I remember the way she used to brush my hair back and tell me I was braver than most men she'd ever met.
Would she still say that?
I don't know who I am anymore.
I don't know what she'd see if she looked at me now.
I miss her voice. I miss myself.
The ghosts are loud tonight. Not the kind I see, just the kind I carry.
Yours,
Steve