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.
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.
The struggle continues because of the scarcity of parking spots. The hunt of a suitable spot becomes a quest, a delicate ballet between for openings and navigating against the current of traffic. The urgency of finding one only adds an extra layer of tension to an already chaotic environment. In these moments, my irritation only seems to grow and my frustrations show in my movements. But luckily, I have a stroke of luck–or perhaps sheer persistence–leads to a coveted parking space. Maneuvering into the spot feels like triumph, a small victory in the face of the city's relentless demands.
My first destination on my impromptu journey is Central Park. The vast expanse of greenery among the towering skyscrapers offers a distinct contrast to the concrete jungle that surrounds it. As I stroll through the park, my helmet nestled in my arm, I'm enveloped in a sense of serenity. Families picnic on the lawns, joggers navigate the windy paths, and artists capture the scene on their canvases. All complete strangers, but they all have a passion. They know their purpose. And that's something to admire about simply being human.
Observing the diverse nature of lives being lived, I can't help but feel a twinge of longing. It's the simplicity of people creating their own futures, forcing paths that lead to fulfillment, resonates with me. Every face that passes by tells a story–of dreams pursued, battles won, and the never-ending pursuit of happiness. Yet, I remain as a silent observer, yearning for a taste of the ordinary.
As I stumble upon an empty park bench, my gaze is drawn to an older couple sharing a picnic nearby. Their weathered hands intertwined with an intimacy that transcends time, and laughter lines etched a story of shared moments on their faces. Watching them makes me yearn for a love that weathers every phase of life. To be able to hold onto the love I have until my last dying breath. A bittersweet longing settles within me as I witness the tenderness between them–the way they look at each other, the shared smiles, and the unspoken understanding established through years of companionship. Bearing witness to them, I glimpse a future that has long eluded me, a future where age isn't a curse but a testament to a life well-lived.
And for a short moment, I yearn to experience the passages of time, to grow old with someone by my side. I feel as though I've lived the same age, over and over again. It's like my life is a constant loop with no way forward. It's a desire tinged with both hope and resignation, knowing that the nature of my existence may forever deny me of such simple, yet profound, joys. These strangers become a clear reminder of the ordinary wonders I've long been denied, and a wistful ache settles deep into my soul.
As I observe people forming relationships, creating families, and pursuing their aspirations, I am torn between the longing to feel a sense of belonging and the unsettling realization that my own existence is akin to a shattered mosaic, lacking the essential pieces that would make me whole.
I tear my gaze away, continuing on my adventure through Central Park. This park holds a story in every corner, like a manuscript hiding inside a book, waiting to be unraveled. I find myself drawn to Bethesda Terrace, where musicians serenade passersby, and the energy of the crowd carries the hum of urban life. The music envelops me in its warm embrace, becoming my companion on my journey through the city. I linger by the terrace, memorized by the melodic tales woven by string and wind instruments. I feel as if I'm transported back to a time where music consumed my life and I felt at peace with the woman I was becoming. The familiar melody harmonizes with the melodies of my life long forgotten, and the performances that still linger in the back of my mind.
But before I can get lost in the sound of a familiar melody, my feet take me forward. Before I realize where I'm going, I find myself looking right at Bow Bridge, an architectural marvel that spans the water like a poetic bridge between nature and civilization. Couples stroll by hand in hand, familiar sharing laughter, and those who seek to find beauty in the quiet moments, create everlasting memories against the scenic backdrop.
Sitting on a bench near the bridge, I become a silent observer of life's ever-changing panorama. The city skyline stands tall, a lone witness to human resilience and ambition. As the sun begins to make its descent, casting a golden hue over the cityscape, and the air becomes imbued with the promise of a new beginning. It's as if at this moment I feel a renewed sense of purpose–an affirmation that, despite the life that haunts me, there is light to be found in the simplest of experiences.
Central Park has become another one of my sanctuaries. A place where I can forget all that I've lost and remember what I've gained. There is no reason to hide from these moments. I've spent most of my life trying to become what others wanted of me. But now, with each step forward, I am carving out a piece of the present, and rediscovering the joy of truly...living. The park, with its myriad stories, becomes a canvas where I can paint the first strokes of a new chapter, unburdened by the weight of what came before.
***
The lock gives way under the gentle manipulation of the tools in my hands, the soft click signaling my success. I push the door open cautiously, stepping into Bucky's apartment. My eyes wander over the sparse furnishings, absorbing the details of this modest abode. Each item seems to have its designated place, a precision born from a life marked by the need for control. It's a world I've never truly glimpsed before–the intimate space that houses the man behind the soldier.
The air inside carries a faint scent of solitude, mixed with the lingering essence of a life lived on the edge. The makeshift bed on the living room floor, simple yet comforting, stands as a symbol of endurance and adaptability. The apartment, though compact, exudes a sense of purpose and efficiency, a distinction that often accompanies my own existence. As I move inward, the magnitude of the solitude and resilience embedded in this space becomes apparent. It's a sanctuary amidst chaos, a refuge meticulously designed for survival. My fingers graze over the edges of the sparse furniture, tracing invisible lines that separate the disorderly world outside from this haven of controlled existence.
With a sigh, I decide to make myself at home in this space I've invaded. Placing my backpack and helmet on the kitchen table, I move with a purpose that transcends the boundaries of an uninvited guest. The stillness in the air doesn't deter me; instead, it fuels my determination to find comfort within these four walls. It's only fair that I make myself at home here–he broke into mine once; why can I do the same to him?
As the kettle on the stove begins to hiss and steam, I rummage through Bucky's cabinets, successfully finding the familiar sight of tea leaves. I choose a blend, a harmony of chamomile and lavender, and let the aroma consume me. The mug clinks softly as I set it on the countertop, completely the tableau of domesticity in this new space. I sit down in one of the kitchen chairs, waiting for the tea to steep, absorbing the atmosphere of the apartment. It's a calculated intrusion, a deliberate act to carve out a space for myself in this corner of Bucky's world. I've grown fond of the moments we've created in Boston, but it's nice to change things up a bit.
I sip the warm tea, its soothing tendrils winding through me. Holding the warm mug between my cold hands, a subtle shift in the air alerts me to his presence before the sound of the door knob turning. It's a primal instinct, a shared connection forged in the crucible of shared battles and quiet moments. Without turning my head, I know he's standing there–a familiar energy permeating the room beyond words.
The door swings open, revealing Bucky framed in the doorway. His expression, a mosaic of surprise and recognition, meets my unapologetic gaze. "You picked the lock," he remarks.
A small smile forms on my lips as he closes the door. "There was no other way in," I say, not wanting to delve into the reason why I'm here, "Hope you don't mind. I made myself comfortable."
A soft chuckle passes through his lips. As he steps closer, there's a discerning look in his eyes that catches my attention. The room seems to shrink with the weight of unspoken words, and I find myself avoiding his gaze, my eyes fixated on some indistinct point in the distance. It's like the weight of my actions last night's actions are reflected in the shadows that flicker shadow my face.
"Running is what I'm good at," I finally admit, my gaze fixated on the outside world beyond the window. The words linger, carrying a truth that goes beyond the act of breaking into his apartment. I can sense his curiosity growing, a silent plea for transparency. "So, I figured this time, I'd run back to you."
His eyes reflect an understanding and concern as he absorbs my confession. "You always did have a talent for finding your way back," he says, his tone a gentle reassurance.
A small, appreciative smile tugs at the corners of my lips. It's a sentiment that carries the weight of shared history, the kind that doesn't require any sort of elaborate explanations. Bucky moves closer, the quiet intensity of the moment underscoring the connection that has survived the storms of our individual journeys.
Bucky's eyes hold a touch of regret as he apologies for missing my call. "Sorry I didn't get the chance to call. I was out getting a few things," he explains, a subtle unease flickering in his gaze. There's something in his pocket, a hidden detail that adds to the atmosphere around us.
I sense his nervousness, the way he's gripping onto whatever is in his pocket. The undisclosed mystery hovers in the room, and although curiosity tugs at me, I resist the urge to pry. Instead I meet his gaze with a nod, acknowledging the apology without pushing for further details.
He seems to have noticed my subtle fear; the way my gaze keeps darting to the front door and the window. I have been keeping an eye on any suspicious behavior outside this apartment. I don't know if I was followed here, but in my case, I hope that I can relax. My unspoken truth hangs on the tip of my tongue, threatening to blow my cover. But all it does is create a palpable tension.
"When you're ready to tell me the truth, I'll be here to listen," he says, catching me off guard. He's perceptive, catching onto the avoidance and the fear that I cannot entirely conceal.
I softly mumble a 'thank you' in his direction. As we sit in his apartment, a heavy cloud of dread descends upon me. The impending conversation remains like an undeclared storm, and I find myself grappling with the burden of revealing the truth. The fear of destroying the fragile peace I've managed to create here claws at the edges of my consciousness. Self-doubt gnaws at me, whispering that everything I touch turns to ruins, that I'm still a harbinger of chaos. The urge to run, to escape the impending storm, tugs at the fringes of my resolve.
Yet, in the stillness of the room, I choose to remain motionless, reluctant to disturb the delicate sanctuary I've found in Bucky's presence. The conflict within me is a tempest threatening to erupt, but for now, I'm holding onto the appearance of tranquility, however ephemeral it may be.
a/n - I really liked this chapter. seeing avalon experience life again make my heart happy. she deserves to find her peace, her haven, and she's doing her best, despite her circumstances. let me know what you think!! I'll be away most of this week because I'll be in Alabama for a work trip, but I plan on writing as soon as I can :) -k