RECONSTRUCTION | BUCKY BARNES [2]

09: CONSEQUENCE

          Another restless night granted me only a few hours of troubled sleep. I woke up numerous times, drenched in my own sweat, with echoes of the same nightmares plaguing my mind. The dreams were a cruel montage, a journey through the harrowing experiments that marked the genesis of my transformation into the Red Ghost. I could feel the invasive procedures, the cold touch of metal, the smell of blood, and the weight of unseen eyes scrutinizing my every move. No matter how hard I try, my mind is trapped in a never-ending cycle, reminding me of who I have become. Even when I'm taking the right steps to clear my name, there is no escaping the reputation that I've made for myself.

My dreamscape is haunted by the faces of my assailants and the lives I've taken. I found myself thrown back to the beginning of my journey, a time when innocence was callously sacrificed at the altar of inhumane experiments. And it never stops. It wasn't my mind that orchestrated the dreams; they were visceral experiences. They were real. Those moments are recreated over and over again. As if I haven't spent almost seventy years of my life experiencing it.

Yet, every time, I manage to scream myself awake, the hours playing out like a malevolent film I can't escape. As consciousness struggles to take hold, I grapple with the remnants of the night terrors, gasping for breath in the solitude of my room. And the guilt I feel creeps up on me, suffocating me with its deathly grip. The sweat soaked sheets cling to my skin, bearing witness to the silent battles fought in the trenches of my subconscious. They seem to whisper tales of a struggle unseen by anyone but me.

          The creak of the staircase beneath my weight echoes in the stillness of the morning. Each step is a conscious effort to ground myself to the present, to forge ahead into a day that dawns with the promise of uncertainty. The familiarity of my surroundings should offer me solace, but this day, they seem to amplify the disquiet that resides within. Descending further down, questions linger like a persistent fog, shrouding the clarity I long for. Are there others out there, waiting to reclaim their dominion over my existence? Will the dawn bring the ominous knock of authority, heralding a fate that I've long eluded? The paranoia weaves its tendrils into the fabric of my thoughts. It threatens the fragility of normalcy I've carefully crafted around myself.

The mute glow of the morning sun filters through the windows, casting a gentle radiance upon the memories that adorn the walls of my home. The photographs, frozen moments of a life both cherished and cursed, become waypoints in a narrative that refused to follow a linear path. The silent stories, captured in worn frames, whisper tales of a woman who once believed in the sanctity of her own existence. Now, I have a difficult time believing those narratives because well, they weren't really mine to begin with.

As I make my way into the kitchen, my first task of the day is making coffee. The enticing aroma of freshly brewed beans wafts through the air, a grounding familiarity that accompanies the morning ritual. The steady hum of the coffee becomes reassuring background noise as I prepare the brew. The clinking of the ceramic mug against the countertop adds a rhythmic cadence, creating a momentary distraction from the lingering thoughts of the night's torment.

The cool surface of the countertop contrasts with the warmth emanating from the mug cradled in my hands. As I take my first sip, the bitterness of the coffee greets me peacefully, giving me a sense of calm in this moment. The rich flavor swirls in my mouth, a small indulgence that temporarily allows me to be enveloped by the quietude. Even if these stolen times slip from my grasps, I know I still have the power to reclaim what's left of my humanity. For now, in this corner of the world, it feels like I can stay in this moment until I'm ready to confront the uncertainties that lie beyond these walls.

However, like smoke, these transient moments elude my grasp, slipping away as effortlessly as water through my fingers.

My steps trace erratic patterns across the floor, an unconscious pacing as I grapple with the timing of my call to Bucky. I know that I can call him, day or night, but this conversation is different. The weight of my recent actions weigh heavy on my mind, and I'm unsure how he'll react to them. This conversation is an admission of vulnerability–of guilt–and a lifeline thrown to someone who's become an anchor in the violent sea of my existence. I've never been good at opening myself up to others because I fear that exposing my wounds would drive people away.