That damn sound of water dripping, it's driving me insane.
Each drop echoes off the stone floor, bouncing through this godforsaken basement like a cruel metronome.
I'm locked in this dark cell. There are others around me, cells, I mean, but they're all empty now. They took the others.
None ever came back.
The air down here is thick and stale, laced with mold and rot. I can taste it when I breathe. My skin is blackened with grime, and my hair is so greasy I've started fantasizing about shaving it all off with a rusty nail.
I don't know how long I've been here. Days? Weeks? Some crazed Nazis calling themselves Hydra snatched me up.
I was part of the Captain America's tour group, performing to boost morale for the troops.
I remember performing at a camp, didn't even know which one at this point they look the same.
When it was raided, bombs and gunshots erupted before anyone could react. They took whoever wasn't dead after that.
Since then, they've been pumping me full of drugs, not the numbing kind.
No.
These burn. They set every inch of my body on fire, pain deep enough to scrape my bones.
You start to pray for death's kiss.
They didn't interrogate me. They didn't ask questions.
They weren't interested in secrets.
I had none to offer anyways.
This was something else, experiments.
Whatever the hell they were trying, it wasn't working. I saw it in their faces, twisted with frustration as they jabbed needles and barked in German.
They were trying to get something to "activate."
What? I have no idea.
After each round of torture, they'd drag my limp, broken body back down here and throw me onto the cold stone like garbage. I never had the energy to move. I'd just curl up and pass out.
They always looked surprised when I was still breathing.
Maybe I'm not supposed to be.
Maybe the others, all those soldiers, those civilians, I didn't really know them. Most didn't speak English. Maybe they're dead now.
I tried to track time by meals. I think I get food once a day.
If you can call it that.
It's more like gruel, grayish sludge with the texture of oatmeal, bitter, and filled with random unidentifiable chunks.
Like someone threw scraps into a pot and stirred.
Back when I had a life, I used to watch every calorie. Gotta keep the slim pinup figure, right? Tiny waist, flat stomach, perfect smile.
God, if I could go back, I'd eat that fairground hot dog. I'd drink the cola. I'd savor every last bite of chocolate cake.
Chocolate cake. My favorite. What I wouldn't give for just one slice.
The clink of keys breaks the silence. My whole body tenses.
Heavy footsteps. The sound of dragging.
I roll over to see two guards dumping someone into the cell next to mine.
He looks like hell.
His left arm is gone. Blood has soaked through his white t-shirt, which clings to him like a second skin. His pants are torn to shreds, revealing stitched-up cuts and deep bruises.
A soldier, maybe.
His chest rises and falls, just barely. The only sign he's alive.
I watch the dirt stir slightly as he exhales.
One part of me wants to speak. I haven't talked to someone else in what feels like forever.
But what's the point? He'll be dead soon. Like the rest.
"Where are we?" A barely audible voice leaves him.
I stare at him, his face down on the ground, his eyes half open. Don't think he can really move.
"I don't know." My hoarse voice spills out in a murmur.
"I need to get out of here," he pushes his palm against the floor, trying to lift himself.
He doesn't make it. Crashes right back down.
"Oh God, my arm!" he gasps, staring at the place where it used to be.
The fear on his face is sharp and raw. Even in the dark, I can see the color drain from him.
He didn't know.
"Don't panic," I whisper. "You'll probably be dead soon anyway. No use missing it."
Dark, yeah. But I don't have it in me to lie.
"No," he says, barely above a whisper. "Steve is going to come get us. We'll be okay."
Steve?
"Captain America? He isn't coming," I mutter.
"Ugh," he groans, rolling onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
"Yes, he will. He doesn't leave men behind."
The way he says it, with total certainty, makes something tighten in my chest.
That hope. That damned stubborn hope.
It's infuriating. But... it's also the first thing that's cut through the noise of my own despair.
"What's your name?" he asks after a beat.
"It doesn't matter," I reply.
I turn my back on him. I don't want to see that much hope in someone's eyes. Not again.
"It does matter," his voice gentle but insistent, "Because if someone remembers your name, it means you're still real. You're still alive."
I stay quiet.
"I'm Bucky," he says softly.
"Vivian" I whispered
For the first time in a long time.
I said my name to another soul.