Monster

My heart was rattling so loudly in my chest that I could hear it pounding in my ears. It was all I could hear over that high pitched ringing that didn’t seem to want to fade away. I had my back pressed against a crumbling brick wall. A grenade had taken most of it off, making a temporary rain of debris and ash. My gun was across my lap. I could feel the heaviness of the machine against me. I could feel the weight of my armor and ammunition across my chest, constricting my already ragged breathing. I knew I was never going to be able to pull that trigger. I had been training for this moment for years, and I couldn’t do it. I froze.

So I sat there against the wall with the ringing in my ears and the knowledge that I was going to die. We were all going to die. I probably could have saved them. I could have stopped that bomb if I had just been brave enough to pull the trigger when I had the chance. If I didn’t hide like a coward behind a wall, they might have had a chance. I had to be brave again. I couldn’t hear them, but I knew they were still there.

I stood up and winced at how tightly I had tied my boots that morning. My legs were shaking with exhaustion and fear. I cautiously peeked over the wall just in time to spot a man racing around the corner. At first I thought he was a civilian until he lifted his hands and pointed his gun in my direction. My breath caught in my throat. It was too late to dive back behind the wall. I could hardly breathe through the dust, debris, heat, and armor as it was. I felt my lungs completely halt. My finger stroked the metal trigger of my gun, but I just couldn’t do it.

He fired first, and I felt pain explode over my left shoulder. I fell backwards, tripping over crumbled cement blocks until I was flat on my back, staring up at the smoke filled sky. It was supposed to be an easy mission. Why did it fall apart? I wasn’t even supposed to be there. I went through all of the training, but I was just supposed to help and support. I wasn’t supposed to die this way. My mother would be disappointed.

Then a loud beeping sound broke through the ringing. Instead of the smoke filled sky I saw the ceiling of my bedroom, blackened with shadows from the twisted trees in my yard. I took a deep breath and rubbed the damaged skin on my shoulder, where the bullet had struck me and left behind a thick layer of scar tissue.

My bones still ached, and I could still recall that sharp blast of pain. I remember feeling like my whole shoulder had been torn off. I remember believing I was going to die, but my alarm clock continued to grow louder and more persistent with every passing second. So I reached over and slammed the palm of my hand against the large button on the top. The beeping halted, and the silence filled my ears with that ringing again.

Then the wind blew and made the old windows creak and whistle like ghosts, reminding me that my hearing was just fine, and the ringing was from the silence. Not because I’d stood too close to an explosion. I sat up and moved the covers off of my bare legs. I pressed my feet against the wood floor and felt a chill in the air prickle against my skin. Summer was approaching, but I was still cold. I was always cold.

The memories were getting worse. Not worse, really. Just going back to the way they had started. I was told when I got home that it would take me a long time to recover, but they always made recovery out to be such an easy thing to accomplish. They always made it seem as if I’d be normal again within a year. I’d be the same optimistic, loving, bubbly girl I’d been before I shipped out.

But it had been almost six years and the nightmares always returned. They had started to get better. I could be alone with my thoughts and my silence. I could sleep through the night, but then HYDRA resurfaced. No, they were always there. That was part of the problem. I was just finally forced to see them. I had to turn against people I had always considered allies; people who had been against me all along.

Even though I couldn’t recover, I could persevere. My therapist always said that perseverance was one step closer to recovery. I was good at perseverance, even if I couldn’t get the hang of recovery. So I stood up and crept across the hall to the bathroom. I took a hot shower as I tried to wash the chill from my bones and relieve the ache in my shoulder. I ran my fingers over the scars as I stood beneath the rainfall, getting familiar with them again.

They told me I was lucky to have been hit in the shoulder. The bullet had torn through some muscles, but missed major arteries and skimmed my bones, and managed to come out clean through the back. If I had been hit anywhere else I probably would have died or been too injured to return to an ordinary life. I hated when they said that. My chest had been armored. There was a helmet on my head. He could have just shot me in the chest and spared me the pain. They always said he probably just missed, but I knew that couldn’t be true. The shooter was smart. He knew I was armored. He knew a shot to my chest wouldn’t have done anything but knock the wind out of me and provide me with enough motive to fire back. He shot me in the shoulder to take me out of the game.

When I got home, I was recommended to SHIELD by my former commanding officer. I got the job, thanks to him, and moved to Washington DC. They let me carry a gun even though they knew I couldn’t use it. They stuck me in a desk job, claiming that I was too emotionally unstable for field work. I didn’t complain because I figured they were right. So I sat behind a desk every day and pretended not to feel the extra weight that always rested on my hip. I knew I wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger if it came down to it. They did too.

When HYDRA was revealed within SHIELD, it turned out to be a test of my ability. Co-workers that I had known from the start had turned on one another. Friends had become enemies. Everything had been in disarray, and the office was in complete chaos. I’d had to pull my gun out. I felt it in my hands, heavy with more than just the weight of metal and machinery. I felt the trigger beneath my finger, and I couldn’t do it. I’d shot paper. I’d shot at targets. I regularly practiced just so I never lost the skill. I enjoyed shooting at targets. I just couldn’t bring myself to shoot another person. Even when my life was in danger.

You know that saying that you never bring a knife to a gunfight? Well, I was the one who brought the knife. It was a pretty thing too. It was a joke gift from my sister in New York. It was a switchblade with a pink handle that she’d given a custom bedazzling. My sister said it was a decent representation of me since I’d always been girly as a child. Until I ran away to join the military.

My mother always used to say I had strong maternal instincts. She said I only joined the army to prove that I could be maternal, girly, and tough at the same time. I was just supposed to be a medic. I was just supposed to help people. The gun, knives, and training were just precautions. I’d never been able to use them.

So when everything went down with HYDRA, and I realized that I still couldn’t pull the trigger and take another life, I pulled that pink sparkly switchblade from my pocket and used it to defend myself with. I was a joke, a laugh for the other guys to talk about. I was the girl who brought a pink bedazzled knife to a gun fight. But I survived, and that had to mean something.

The sun was starting to rise when I finally made my way down to the kitchen on the main floor. I decided to forgo breakfast and packed my coffee in a shiny silver mug with the SHIELD logo on the side. I snapped the lid on tight and stuck a packet of crackers between my lips to eat on the ride. My pink bedazzled switchblade was sitting on the counter where I’d left it. It was a gag gift from my sister. It was the butt of many jokes, but it was my weapon of choice. It could kill, but it could also protect without having to kill. So I snatched it off of the counter and slid it into the pocket of my blazer.

Notes

Alright, son. So I've been really sucking so super bad about writing lately. For like a year, to be completely honest. The last time I finished a story it was just a rewrite and I was so unhappy with it that I decided to rewrite it again. *facepalm*

But then this happened. *Points at new story*

And I wrote it. Like... from start to finish. Like oh my God, that is still apparently something that I have the ability to do. It took me less than a week and I lost a lot of sleep over it just like the good old days. there's still some tweaking I want to do in later chapters and some additional things I might do later on. Also, like one really fluffy chapter that I couldn't get passed so I skipped temporarily. But otherwise, it's done. Holy shit.

So, first things first. I hate the title. I don't know why but I had an extremely difficult time coming up with a title for this. I ran through like twenty different ones and I just kept coming back to this one because it relates to some dialogue in the story. It sucks. I know. But it's all I've got. I just barely managed to make a full story, and apparently my inability to come up with clever titles has not changed. I hope that doesn't deflect away from the story.

Second, if you didn't read my spoiler warning and disclaimer on the front page. This story has a shit ass fuck ton of spoilers. So if you just read this chapter and you haven't seen The Winter Soldier yet... sorry. If you have, carry on. If you read this and get spoiled, that's on you. Also, I wasn't sure if this was necessary. But I felt like I should give a warning for a few things. As you noticed above, there was a war flash back, an injury, and a hint at a possible case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. That was a relatively mild flashback, but it's not the only one in the story. If these are things that bother you, I'd advise you not to continue reading. Otherwise, carry on.

And so, I hope you like this. I hope to get updates out regularly. I'm really excited for some Bucky-ness. Also, there's a lot of fluff in this story. So don't get discouraged when there are moments where you're like "There's no way he'd be that sweet and fluffy after going through everything he went through." You are absolutely right. And that's why it doesn't last. This story is like a burnt crispy marshmallow. Soft and gooey in the center. I hope you read it anyway and I hope that you like it. :D

*Edited*