GOOD MEN ARE RIDDLED WITH GUILT

The streets were brutal. They were merciless, which was something Ileana was quick to learn. No kindness lay beneath the dark depths, the lonely nights and the even lonelier days. 

She was not naive, and knew the fact well within her first few weeks on the streets. 

Still, she was sometimes surprised at the state of some of it's victims. Women grasping onto the few last scraps of tattered clothing, lips soon to be blue and eventually colourless. Men curled up in the shadows, praying that the darkness would shield them from the animalistic instincts of others. Children squatted in desolate buildings, grateful for what shelter they would have before it would be cruelly ripped from them. 

Yet, none of the people she'd seen looked like him. He was beaten, a different type of beaten to those rotting on the streets. It didn't seem like the streets caused his surrender. 

His hair brushed his shoulders, greasy strands veiling his face. Despite laying against the alcove - her alcove - seemingly asleep, his back was stock straight, and his shoulders rigid. Clothes clung to his body - something Ileana considered a luxury considering how hers hung limp off of her tall frame - and she couldn't help but release a gasp. The bitter scent of sweat greeted her nostrils, and even though she imagined she smelled ten times worse, she couldn't hide her disgust. 

Just as she was about to prod him awake and shoo him away from her spot, the mumbling's began. Incoherent words flowed off of the mans tongue , becoming jumbled as he got more distressed. Despite his obvious discomfort, his back remained straight. 

Ileana was at a loose end - should she wake him and risk getting bludgeoned to death, or leave him be and hope he woke up soon? She didn't seem to have much time to weigh her options, the mans thrashing becoming more incessant. The words rose in volume and her feet seemed to take her a step back before confronting her brain. 

Big mistake. 

Her movement, even though it was minimal, was enough to bring an abrupt end to the mans muttering. His eyes snapped open. His gaze locked on her. 

Ileana felt like she was the prey, staring down the predator that would gnaw away at the little life she had. Her heart raced. Sweat beaded at her brow. All the things she'd done in her life drowned her: the time she hit a deer on the highway and sat with it as it died, the time she bid her family goodbye to pursue an independent life - which didn't work out well for her -, that party she sneaked out to when she was 16 and had her first kiss, only for him not to remember the next day. Well, he claimed to not to. Everything replayed in her mind, and she found herself not being that bothered by the fact that her life hadn't amounted up to much. She didn't mind dying. She hadn't achieved anything meaningful at the tender age of thirty six, so why start making a difference now? When she died, people would rejoice for the space she had freed up.  One less piece of trash. 

All the things, the opportunities, the chances she wasted rushed forward to remind her of what a waste of space she was. She'd done more damage than good, and she needed to be fixed. She found herself hoping that the man who'd stolen her spot outside a run down 60's diner was a homicidal maniac, just so that there would be more space and opportunities and chances for those who could use them. 

Her wishes made her feet drag her a large step forwards - a step closer to the potential killer - until she was close enough to peek through the curtain of hair shielding his face. His eyes were wide open and alert, darting around. She jumped back, his gaze constantly assessing her. 

"I don't want to hurt you." The roughness of his voice didn't startle her - it coupled his stubble and untamed shaggy hair. Yet she was more surprised at the words he uttered, the Romanian words striking a cord within her. No one had shown anything but greed and desperation towards her in a long time. His eyes stayed trained on her. She gulped. 

Realising her hand had trailed to her pocket, she rapidly pulled it out, her skin grazing softly against the blade secluded in her pocket. She ignored the flare of discomfort that coursed through her hand. Timidly, she raised a hand in a short wave. The man kept his calculating gaze on her, his hands hidden from sight. If he noticed the small cut on the palm of her hand releasing pitiful drops, he didn't say anything. 

Of all the times she wished she could speak, this was not one of them.

She averted her eyes, focusing them on the ripped soles of her worn trainers. Her shoulders hunched involuntarily, and she didn't move. 

She waited to die. 

He watched her cautiously, taking in her stooped stature and hidden face. She was not a threat. The grip he had on the gun in his jacket relaxed, and he offered his flesh hand towards the frightened girl. 

"Hey, I'm Bucky."

She didn't reply; the only sign that she'd heard him being the slight nod of her head. He found himself asking a question before he could clamp his mouth shut. "Are you okay?"

Ileana felt her lips rise. It'd been a long time since someone had asked that question. Even longer since someone cared to know the answer. 

"Can you speak?"

Again, another question that wasn't asked often. Some would consider it rude - maybe she was stricken with anxiety or plagued with extreme shyness, but to her, it was something that wasn't asked enough. Everyone assumed, and she hated it when people thought they knew the truth. 

With a small tilt of the lips she shook her head, finally finding the confidence to look the stranger in the eye. They were a pale blue, the type of blue that had girls melting at the very sight of them. Once you delved deeper though, they lost their innocent beauty. Pent up agony, torturous secrets and a crimson past lay beyond the traitorous wall of baby blue. 

It was that very pain that made her trust him. No good man existed if they weren't guilty about one thing they had done. She knew even if he did bad things, he regretted them and had long since paid the price for his sins. His defeated appearance spoke loud enough for this.

Bucky's shoulders slumped a fraction and he raised both of his hands up for to see. She flinched unconsciously, thinking to herself that her initial impression of him had been correct. Instead, he did something she'd never forget. 

He spoke to her without using words. His fingers and hands flowed in several movements that read: "Is this better?"

Tears welled up in her eyes, and as hard as she tried to disguise them they resisted, plunging down her face and cheeks. It had been a long time since someone could speak to her in sign language: she missed it. 

She signed back one word that held so much meaning to the both of them. "Yes." She kept repeating it over and over, attempting to show her gratitude in a way her voice couldn't. 

He allowed a small smile to grace his face. Without thinking he signed back. "I know what it's like for people not to understand you."

At the time, she thought he meant it in a way as though they didn't understand his language - it turned out to be a lot more than that. Still, it felt nice knowing that someone else understood her daily struggle. Finding work was difficult, finding friends was even harder and begging was something that never helped. The people just never understood. 

"It's hard to find people who know what it's like," she replied, her hands moving with ease. It'd been a long while since she'd communicated that way, and it was like adding oil to the rusted cogs. Signing to someone made her feel revitalised. It made her feel like she was real, and not just a ghost chained to the earth.

"Now you've found someone." She wiped the tears from her eyes, joyful at the fact that after being alone for so long, she'd found someone, even if it was only for a ten minute conversation. But still, this guy was in her spot. It had taken her weeks to find it, and she's nearly died several times protecting it. 

Biting her lips, she let her hands be her voice. "I'm sorry, but you're in my spot." When he didn't move his hands for a solid minute, she scrambled to find a middle ground. "We can share it, if you want? I won't mind, the more the merrier."

For a moment he's taken aback. He fiddled with his hands again, preparing himself to reply when his eyes catch movement behind her. Instantly his demeanour changed. Wordlessly, he clambered to his feet, tugging a backpack she hadn't noticed over his shoulders. "Sorry", he spoke aloud, taking advantage of her surprise to barge past her.

She stumbled after him, tripping over her own feet as she tried to catch up. Ileana knew if she was normal then she'd consider yelling at the top of her lungs after the mysterious man who spoke her language - she was anything but normal. 

His steps got faster; he must've heard her chasing after him and she struggled to catch up to him. Her destroyed shoes provided no comfort against the harsh ground, sending waves of pain through her legs. Still, she endured this, furious at herself for irking the man who'd been nothing but nice. 

The faster she got, the further away he seemed. Until eventually, he disappeared completely. 

She never got to tell him her name.