I can feel myself shaking like a leaf, fear, anger, confusion, all of it boiling over, spilling out of me. The journal is gently pulled from my hands. Bucky takes hold of it, reading the entry.But all I can think about is how I somehow had such a mental break, that I got free, and instead of fighting or attacking that bastard. I babbled about how our kid was going to inherit our powers. Like that wasn't their goal with the whole thing.
"Do you remember this?" he asks.
I shake my head no; I can't seem to form words in the moment.He flips through the next several entries after it while I sit beside him, my fingers laced into my hair. My astonishment at my own stupidity grounds me in place.
Maybe I really am just crazy?
That must have been the tipping point, that I lost my mind.The catalyst for all the poor choices I've made in the years since my escape.I really should be locked up. There, I couldn't do anyone harm. Forget a prison, throw me back in cryo, then bury me in the cold water of the Atlantic.
"The entries stop around the time you told me you escaped," Bucky says.
"He must have been one of the doctors I killed on my way out," I mumble.
"It only takes you seconds to regrow an arm?" he questions, flipping back to the journal entry in question.
"No, it takes me hours," I reply.
"Then why does he say here it took moments, under two minutes based off the time entries?"
I glance back at the journal, rereading the entry and seeing that note. I had glossed over it once I saw that I had spoken.He's right. "That has to be wrong, it takes me hours. Last time I had a limb severed, I think it took me like five hours or more to grow it back."
"That's a long time for him to be off by. Anything else in here seem inaccurate like that?"
"No, all the other notes, dates, and times align with what I remember happening. But I don't remember this at all."
I shut my eyes and try to focus, thinking back to that day. A lot of the carnage from then kind of blends together since, admittedly, I did lose my mind a little.I had no sense of time other than glances at files and newspapers brought in, along with the swelling of my stomach. I vaguely remember being on a tube feeder for a while, so I couldn't even count meals.
I smack my head a few times out of frustration before Bucky seizes my wrist to stop me.
"I can't remember it." My voice cracks.
"It's okay," he murmurs. "I don't think it was you."
"What?" I question, lifting my head to meet his gaze, seeming just as confused as me.
"If it was you, why did your eyes change color? And why did you say 'them' and 'their,' instead of 'us'?" he continues.
Honestly, I just chalked it all up to being briefly insane and ignored those details. I'm grateful he's here to keep a cool head with this.
"Then who was it?"
He shrugs in response. "Maybe it's time to go to Wakanda and see what they can find."
I silently nod along, he's right. Going there next is our best bet.
With that, he sets the journal aside. "Let's go to sleep for now."
The floor creaks under us as we adjust down onto it. Lying beside one another, we both stare up at the ceiling. Closing my eyes, all I can see is the white lab coats stained with my blood, complete with a soundtrack of my screams.
Bucky's finger taps my clenched fist between us. I open it, letting his palm slide against mine. Our fingers interlace, and somehow, just that alone seems to quiet everything enough that before long, I find myself waking up to the sounds of birds chirping.