RECONSTRUCTION | BUCKY BARNES [2]

09: CONSEQUENCE

I pick up the cell phone, and the weight of it in my hands feels substantial. As if it carries not just the physical form but the intangible burden of the words I'm hesitant to speak. I glance at the clock, its hands ticking away the seconds, a reminder that time is both my ally and my enemy. With a deep breath, I pull myself together and start dialing Bucky's number. It's a number I've memorized forwards and backwards. Bringing it to my ears, the ringing feels like a countdown.

As the dial tone rings, my hope wavers, and the call transitions to voicemail. Just my luck today.

"Hey, it's me," I begin, keeping my tone steady, not daring to let my words fail me. "Just wanted to check in. Call me back when you get the chance."

Putting the phone down, I slump down into the kitchen chair. The room is eerily silent, like it's holding its breath, waiting from something–or someone–to break the uneasy stillness. My eyes avert toward the old photo albums scattered across the table, a visual representation of a life fragmented and reconstructed. Yesterday's violent interaction clings to me, and I'm left grappling with the aftermath. Uncertain of what this newfound knowledge means for the path I've been walking.

But I know what I have to do. I can't just sit here and be afraid of what lies beyond the doors of my home. When I begin to feel trapped, my first instinct is to run. Run as far away as I can and never look back. But this is different; this is the need to feel like I won't suffer at the hands of another. And with this renewed sense of purpose, I grab my backpack and fill it with the essentials–a few outfits, my notebook, and a few knives for my protection. I long for a change of scenery, the familiar surroundings of my house are starting to feel like a suffocating cocoon.

Slinging the backpack over my shoulders, a surge of impulsive energy courses through me. I glance at the old albums, remnants of a past that haunts me and make a spontaneous decision. It's time to break free from the web of lies that have trapped me and find comfort in the present. However, where I'm going isn't that hard to think of. It's where I need to go. It's where the other half of my heart is.

The decision is made: I'm heading to New York City. The very thought of going carries a blend of excitement and uncertainty. I've been there before, but this time, I don't have to hide. I can walk freely, knowing that whatever comes my way, I can face it head on. But going also shows my innate desire to feel whole again. After all, the other half of my heart is over two hundred miles away.

The engine of my motorcycle roars to life, and as I hit the open road, the wind in my hair feels like a tangible representation of freedom. The highway stretches out before me like an open invitation, and I can't help but feel empowered by it. Each mile brings me closer to where I need to be. But deep down, I know I crave this chaotic nature, the unpredictability of every moment, and where every turn might lead. It's a yearning for the unpredictable, an antidote to the calculated existence that has been imposed on me for far too long.

As I move forward, there is an exhilarating sense of surrendering to the chaos that calls out. It is a defiant dance with destiny that may lead me down a path I have been too blind to see.

***

            One thing is for sure: I absolutely hate traffic in New York City. It's also worse when I don't know the cityscape well enough. Through the madness that is the busy city streets, finding a parking spot proves to be a daunting task. The constant hustle and bustle of city life only seems to intensify as I move further inwards. The cacophony of honking horns, the ebb, and the flow of pedestrians form a chaotic symphony that defines the city's pulse. The streets, a labyrinth of concrete canyons, seem to conspire against me. Each intersection presents a new puzzle to solve, a quick decision to make amidst the relentless current of vehicles.