"I wish my troubles could float away like the smoke that slips through my lips. I wish the sadness would come and go as quick as it takes for a cigarette to go out. I wish I could just crush my depression like I crush the embers on the concrete. Why does everything ignite the sadness, like a flame to the cigarette? And why do I always come back? Why?"

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Bucky's POV

The only light in the darkness of my room was the small flicker of a lighter.

I held it to the cigarette in my mouth and lit it, placing the lighter next to me. I shifted my position to lean against the wall, the bed creaking a bit as I did so. I closed my eyes as I sucked the smoke in, removing the butt from my lips as I breathed it out. My eyes opened, they followed the smoke as it floated up towards my ceiling. I let a sigh escape from my mouth as I rested my hand on my knee, leaning my head back and closing my eyes once more.

I had almost gone through a pack already and it was barely 3 AM. My mind wandered to the memories I could barely recall.

Shots fired, blood splattered.

Screams, Frightened stares.

Strangles, the cry of an elderly woman.

I never fully understood what was going on in those memories, I don't even remember doing those things. Could I have possibly done that? Or was it some fucked dream?

I took another puff of my cigarette, ashing it in the ash tray I had on the window sill. The window was slightly cracked open, I could see some of the smoke drifting out of it. I sighed and opened my eyes again, looking at the ceiling.

Smoking lets me have time to myself. It started a while back, I don't quite remember when, but I do remember having to be careful around this tiny blond boy. I've been doing it ever since. It calms me, it lets me think. It lets me let some of my thoughts float out the window like the smoke escaping from my lungs.

If only it were that simple to get rid of my problems.

Those thoughts, those damn thoughts drove me insane. Was I really capable of doing such things to another person? Was I a monster? Can people really trust me? These thoughts and more swirl through my mind like a spiral every time I take time like this. I sat there and thought about everything, which made me feel like shit.

It fucking sucks.

Ever since I was taken in by this tall, blond guy, I've been a bit quiet. The guy constantly tells me that my name is James Buchanan Barnes, or 'Bucky' as he calls me. He had to tell me my name because I had no idea what my own name was. He cared for me, and said I was his best friend. His childhood friend. He told me stories of when we were young, how I defended him and protected him. He told me his name was Steve Rogers.

That name rings so many bells in my head.

I sighed again, shifting positions so my legs were hanging off of my bed. I brought the cigarette up to my mouth again and sucked the smoke in, breathing it out once more.

All these thoughts made me feel so confused. Who the am I? Where did this metal arm come from? What's my purpose? Was I a monster?

My eyes started to water a bit, I quickly wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my hoodie. I can't cry again, that would be the 2nd time tonight.

I can't fucking help it. I'm so confused, unsure of my own identity. I let myself cry, my shoulders heaving a bit as I let out a few choked sobs. I tried to stay quiet, Steve was asleep near by.

Or so I thought, until I heard the door creak.