NEARLY ONE DAY had passed, or at least, that's what it felt like. No one had come in, and neither of us had left(we weren't allowed to leave, was my guess). We were stuck here together, two people with a past that meant nothing now. 

I kept my head down and sat against the far wall, as close to the door as I could get without actually leaning against it, and as far away from Bucky as I could manage. My eyes were trained on him, focusing so hard that sometimes my vision blurred when I forgot to blink. If I missed just a split second of action, I knew, he could launch himself back at me just like he had only a day ago. 

One hand tapped anxiously against my knee, keeping time with a rhythm that I didn't know existed. Or maybe it was just from the sheer terror I felt, being in the presence of a ghost. My other hand crept up my chest to feel my tender neck, the bruises undoubtedly melding into purple and blue in the outline of a hand. It hurt like hell to even brush my fingers against my neck; I had to do my utmost best to keep the pained groans from escaping my lips. 

But apparently I wasn't silent or invisible enough. 

"You'll lose fingers if you don't stop that incessant tapping." He stopped pacing(a rather common task for him, it seemed) for a second to glare at me, his metal hand flexing and relaxing in a fist. "Be thankful I haven't been given the order to kill you yet."

I inhaled sharply and swallowed roughly, the tears rising quick to my eyes. Yet again, I was faced with the harsh truth of it all: this was not the Bucky I knew. This was a Bucky that would kill me without hesitation if he were given the order and given the chance. This was a Bucky that couldn't see through the veil of manipulation that Cerberus had laid over his eyes. 

Perhaps it was a blessing, to think of it that way. That this was not my Bucky, the same man that wrote me a letter confessing his love for me. This was not my Bucky, the man that let me cut his hair despite his every effort to keep me from doing it. This was not the man I loved, but a rare ghost that inhabited his mind, body and soul. 

I could only hope that the real Bucky, the one with piercing blue eyes and lips softer than heaven, was still alive and kicking. That he was deep down, waiting for someone to wake him up. 

"S-sorry," I stumbled over the apology, the word coming out softer than I meant it to. I'd had the intention of sounding strong in front of him, but I didn't know if that would do anything. 

The stranger in my lover's body shifted his cold gaze to the wall across from him, his arms crossed as he continued to pace. 

In another world, I may have risked a snarky response such as a complaint about his incessant pacing. But thankfully, I was growing out of my dumbass-ery. I didn't have a death wish. I wouldn't provoke the man whose fingers I could still feel clenched around my neck, prepared to kill me without even breaking a sweat to do it. 

So I just sat there, holding my shaking hands in my lap and trying my best not to make any noise. I stared at him, my eyes following his every movement, analyzing the differences between this man and the man I knew. 

The way he walked, while it was always so languid and confident, was now rigid and obedient. He was following the orders of Cerberus, that seemed to haunt him inside his own mind. It was like they were truly in his head.

The crease between his eyebrows that was always there, even when he was excited or happy, it was gone now. In its place was a blank, flat space on his skin that was too empty for my taste. He held the blank look of an American Girl doll, stiff and unmoving. 

We existed like this for a few more hours, before there was a sudden clang from outside. I realized that the heavy door was being swung open. In stepped a handful of guards, none of which had carried me to Isaac Thompson yesterday. 

Thankfully. Or I would have tore them apart. 

Bucky stopped moving. His arms dropping to his sides, he ducked his chin to keep from meeting the eyes of those who'd walked in. He was submissive. Following orders that didn't even need to be spoken aloud. It was spooky to see him so...compliant. 

"We are in need of the White Wolf's services," one of the guards spoke in a commanding tone. He was clearly unbothered by the presence of a metal arm, even what some would call blase about Bucky's dangerous aura in general. "You will follow us."

He didn't move for a few seconds. From my vantage point on the ground, I was the only one who could see why. His hair had obscured his face from view of the guards, but I could see under the layer of brown. He scrunched up his face, his eyes squeezing shut. Lips moving, it was as though he was speaking to someone. Or himself, I wasn't sure. 

But he forced his face to relax as he inhaled a deep breath. Then he nodded, just slightly, and followed as the three guards led him from the room to God-knew-where. 

One of them glanced at me with a strong glare, as if daring me to get up and try to escape. But I had no desire to test my fate. I knew it would be a losing fight. So I remained huddled against the wall. 

I could do nothing as I watched the four men walk out of the room, leaving me alone. 

||

When he returned, I almost didn't recognize him. 

Maybe it had to do with the ridiculous amounts of blood covering him from head to toe. It was like he'd practically bathed in it.

The metallic smell had my stomach turning and my gag reflex acting up. I could see that day in my mind, when all of this shit started. The Cerberus agent that Sam had shot, saving my life, yet causing his blood to fall into my open mouth and splash onto me. 

He looked at me then, in a certain way. A way that both relaxed me and frightened me. His eyes held a sort of curiosity that reminded me of his old self. But that relaxed part of myself seized up again when he cocked his head, his eyes squinting at me.

"Who are you." 

It was a question, but he spoke it like a fact. Like he couldn't bear the vulnerability of not knowing something. 

I rose to my feet, gazing into the eyes of a man I thought I knew.

"What are you doing?" This time, it was clear that he didn't know what was going on. He took a step back, a stark contrast with the bloodied soldier that stood in front of me. 

My brain tried to ignore that fact as I opened my mouth to speak. I feared that if I learned what he did while he was away, who he fought, tortured, killed...I was afraid I'd never recover. "My name is Elda," I said quietly, my feet inching their way toward him. "My name is Elda Reid. Your name is Bucky Barnes."

He furrowed his eyebrows and dropped his gaze to the floor. "My name..." he cleared his throat, clutching the stained-red hem of his shirt. Looking directly at me with stone-cold, unseeing eyes, he answered, "I do not have a name. I am only the Soldier." He took a step forward, his eyes glancing down to the winding bruises around my fragile neck. "You are nothing."

Looking back on this moment, I wish I would have gotten angry. I wish I could have punched him, shoved him into the wall, done anything but cry. I was ashamed of all the crying I'd done over this journey. I was sick of feeling weak, the feeling I got when the tears washed my face clean in a salty wave. 

But alas, I did not get angry. I retreated, practically limping back to the wall, sliding down to the fetal position where I hugged my knees to my chest and I hid my face in the space between them. The breaths I inhaled were shaky at best, and exhaling them was like a whistling breeze. I could hardly breathe, but I had enough tears to fill the gaps.

I wasn't sure what Bucky did after that, but all that mattered was that he left me alone. I may as well have not even been there. 

The only thing I wanted to do was save the man who'd saved me from a life of isolation and loneliness. But it was becoming increasingly more obvious that I could not save him. Not alone, at least. I needed the help of others. Steve, Sam, Cara, my brother, Nat, and most of all, Wretton. 

I hated asking for help. I'd even screamed at my parents when they tried to offer me their assistance. But now, I was begging. Into my arms, into the silence of my own brain, begging for anyone to hear me and to help me bring back the man I loved. 

Before it was too late, and he was too far gone. 

||

this book is so depressing jesus christ

i hope i'm not writing elda into a hole of anti-feministic characteristics...like, i hope she isn't becoming someone you guys hate because she cries all the time. i just wanted to try and write something realistic for a person who has experience with people coming back from the military, but isn't trained physically or psychologically for this kind of trauma. 

anyway...that calc test that was on tuesday? i got an 83!! way better than i expected, but hopefully the next test goes even better, cause i just know i'm gonna get railed in that class. 

thank you for sticking with me, you guys. this book is almost winding down, and the day it ends is gonna be so sad. for all of us.

lots of love!

october 5, 2019