Breathe No More

The psychiatrist’s office is probably the worst place ever to meet someone.
But it was where it happened.
How did you go from there to have him buried between your legs it was another matter entirely.

Maybe it was the way he smiled at you when he offered a cup of water, or the way he’d try and hide his tears behind his hair when he left the office, or the ice cream he bought you after a particularly hard session for you.

You had seen him around the building, you knew who he was. Everyone knew who he was. He had been a hot topic for weeks after the rescue op managed to bring him home. Out of his team, only two had survived. What horrors he had faced, you were sure you didn’t wanna know. But you imagined the consequences would be similar to yours: survivor’s guilt, PTSD, eating disorders, sleeping disorders, night terrors… if dialed up to eleven in his case.

And still he managed to be nice, and sympathetic. He knew exactly how to make you smile.

It was just a convenience thing. You both needed to feel good about yourselves and when the alcohol was more than enough, you ended up tangled into each other.

Like right now. Another hard session for him, another sleepless week, another batch of meds thrown into the garbage bin. He always said you were better at making him sleep than all the pills he was being given.

“Bucky!” You whined, already coming back from your high, clinging to his sweaty back as he spazzed and collapsed on top of you.

Bucky looked at you lazily, kissing you softly before he settled on the crook of your neck, holding you close until he fell asleep.

You, instead, couldn’t. You would lie awake, fingers tangled in his hair. You would wait until you knew he was sleeping soundly to start crying.
Why? Because you loved him. You loved him so much it hurt to have him right there, knowing he couldn't love you back. He had said so himself: he didn’t love you.
It was just a convenience thing. You both needed to feel good about yourselves, and you allowed him to keep feeling good about himself despite your own sanity.

It’s not fair. I deserve better.

You'd try to convince yourself over and over that you deserved to be loved too. That you deserved to feel good too. And you knew that, if you told Bucky how you felt, he would understand. He would step back and leave you be.

But you loved him, and you didn’t matter as long as he was happy.

It didn’t matter that your mind was cracking, or that your heart was breaking, or that you felt empty and alone. You couldn’t tell this to your therapist, or your friends. They would try and talk you out of it. And you couldn’t tell him and risk losing him.

It didn’t matter that you felt like an empty shell of a person for 23 hours and 30 minutes a day, just for those 30 minutes in heaven Bucky gives you. It didn’t matter that it was just an illusion.
It didn’t matter that every morning he would slip out of bed and leave before you were even awake. It didn’t matter that they would go through their daily life pretending it didn’t happen, pretending it wouldn’t happen again.

After a few months, things were spiralling out of control for you.

You were shutting out more and more. Before Bucky was a nearly daily occurrence, you had been keen on going out more. Now, you’d stay at home every day, just waiting for that text message. Bucky always asked if you were free before showing up at your door. You made sure to be free just for him.

Many times you thought against it, fought yourself against it. A few times you even decided to go out, only to rush back home when he made contact. Your friends started questioning you, so it was better to just stay home.

Your shrink was questioning you too. You couldn’t tell them. You couldn’t say why you were getting worse instead of better when everything else in your life seemed to be just fine.
You needed to snap out of this love sick moods. This wasn’t you.

But then, what were you?

That’s a question you didn’t wanna answer.

So you’d stay holed up in your apartment. Another empty afternoon, waiting for a message.

“Hey.” Bucky said, smiling as you let him in. The smile soon faded as he noticed your red eyes. “What happened?”

“Just another rough day at the office.” You said, faking a smile.

“It’s a good thing I brought this then?” He took a bucket of ice cream out of the bag. It made you laugh. He always knew how to make you laugh.

You curled up on the couch for a while, watching whatever nonsense was being played on the tv. But this visit had a purpose. And you both knew it.

Soon enough you were naked, sprawled on the couch, shivering in both cold and excitement cause Bucky decided he wanted to eat the ice cream off of you.
Right now, he was licking it off your breasts. After a few minutes, he was licking it off your pussy, his tongue moving fast to make it before it would melt.

Soon enough, he was pinning you to the wall, cock deep inside your core, pounding into you like there was no tomorrow. After your third orgasm, your body was limp on his grasp, but he still managed to squeeze one more out of you to match his release.
Round three would be held in your room.
Round four would be Bucky clinging to your sweaty and sticky body, and falling asleep.

Standard routine.

But that night something inside of you sort of snapped: you weren’t enjoying it anymore.

The next few days you went functioning on autopilot. You got up, took showers, brushed your teeth, combed your hair. Went out for groceries, fed a stray cat. But your head didn’t register any of it. In fact, there were long periods of time you had no recollection of.

You know you went to the store, and now the items you needed were on your table. How?

The first time you didn’t reply to Bucky’s messages, it was because you blacked out. You panicked, thinking he wouldn’t ever message you again. So you made up an excuse, you overslept, your phone was on silent mode. He just laughed, saying he understood and everything was fine.

But it wasn’t.
You weren’t.
How long could you keep going like this?

Therapy wasn’t working, not when you hadn’t told your therapist everything they needed to know. Day in and day out, the pills would end up abandoned in some spot of your apartment.
Your friends tried, and to their credit, they tried hard. But you weren’t letting them in. You weren’t worth the trouble, not when you were blacking out on a daily basis.

Another hard day. Another missed day. You fought against your brain, you had to make it remember. But it wasn’t happening.

You got up, you took a shower. Maybe, cause your hair is still wet. But you’re in your pajamas. So you didn’t go out. But you had soda and alcohol in our fridge and they weren’t there this morning. Or maybe they had…

Your chest started hurting. There was no air around you.

How did you get to your room?

Why is it so cold in your apartment?

Why are you still here?

You grabbed your phone and tried to calm down. Surely you could call someone.

Why are you still here?

You flipped through the names, but couldn’t pick one. They all had better things to do than looking after you.

Why are you still here?

You dropped the phone on the table and started crying. Getting air inside your lungs was getting harder. You were getting dizzy.

Why are you still here?

Enough!

You gathered every single abandoned pill. Every bag Bucky had tried to get rid of, every pack you had not taken. Red ones. Yellow ones. Big ones. Round ones.
You took the cocktail and a bottle of tequila.

Before long you were losing your head. You didn't know if you were hallucinating, but the colors faded away. Shapes became blurry and blended into each other. The remaining pills shone like gold, the tequila tasted sweet, like liquid licorice.

There were no pills left. You were completely dissociated, watching yourself from somewhere behind your back. Your body didn't feel like it was yours.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you heard the phone beeping. You struggled to focus on it, the screen showing an upcoming message: Bucky was coming.
Your heart started racing a bit. Bucky was coming and you were a mess! You couldn’t let him see you like this. You were filthy! Why were your hands so tainted? Why did your face feel dirty?

Yes, take a bath. Clean yourself before he arrives.
Bucky was coming. He had already sent the message.
You didn't have to say much, a simple thumbs up that you typed out of habit.
He would be here any moment now.

Clean yourself before he arrives.

You started rubbing your skin furiously, the soap doing nothing to clean the stains. You rubbed harder. Your nails left angry marks on your forearms, even drawing blood in some places.

Clean yourself before he arrives.

Your hair! Your hair was so slimy! You dunked your head into the water, clawing your scalp.

Clean yourself before he arrives.

Your lungs started to hurt, they needed oxygen. But your hair! Is disgusting! You’re disgusting! No, you didn’t need to breathe until everything was clean. Your insides too. Water would help.

.-

When Bucky got to your house, he found it odd that the door was slightly open. Puzzled, he entered the dim lighted room. You weren't there. The ajar bathroom door let a sliver of light go through and Bucky guessed you would be there. He could hear the water running.

Something still felt out of place. He didn't dare call your name. A cold feeling settled on the pit of his stomach. His breath picked up, even if he didn't know why.

The first clue was the smashed bottle of liquor on the floor.

The second clue were the empty packs and bottles of prescription meds.

The final clue was the splashing sound his shoes made at stepping on water.

Notes