6

Red Paint

"… darn you Hollywood, for making me believe that all bad guys have terrible aim."

Blood. Blood is everywhere. I've got it on my hands, on my torso, on my arms. How are you supposed to treat a bullet wound? Apply pressure and wait for medical assistance?

Great. No one mentioned the fact that when you apply pressure your hands aren't exactly free to call 911 - hence, no medical assistance.

There is a scream and Bucky has, has … well, he's punched someone. Clear over the garbage bins and through a window.

Well. He isn't going to be the one to call 911.

We're behind that hardware store.

I should have stayed on the couch this morning.

The kid is breathing strangely now – great, whistling breaths. I push down with my hands, feel the warm blood ooze between my fingers.

"Hold on, honey," I tell the bleary-eyed teen. "You're going to be alright." She's looking up at me, dazed and bewildered. I sniff and hope that somehow, this is a dream. I look up. There's a man with a knife behind Bucky. He leaps forward, with blade ready.

"Watch out!" I screech.

But even as the words leave my mouth, Bucky has turned and whacked the man over. One punch and guy goes down like a toppled tree. How … how did he do that?

The crack of a gun sounds behind me. I duck – too late. Strange, bullets don't whistle; they crack and by the time you have warning, they have already 1) hit you, 2) killed you or 3) missed you.

Or, in my case, there is option one and a half – graze you. My shoulder, to be exact. I look down and notice the thin line of red that has cut itself through my white, rose-printed top and is spreading like a river overflowing its banks.

Oh. Wonderful, I think dazedly. After all that kerfuffle in high school, now would be the time I turn into a poet.

And also: darn you Hollywood, for making me believe that all bad guys have terrible aim.

In a blink, Bucky has moved and I hear a clonk as a gun hits the ground, followed by a thud that signals its owner's fall.

Three figures emerge through a doorway, another appearing behind that broken window. Guns are fired and it's like I'm in a strange, unreal dream. A bullet sears my ear – a burning touch - and I duck, pushing my hands down harder on the girl's stomach. Her top is soaked with dark red and- and- her eyes are open and fixed, a little frown wedged between her brows.

She's dead. The fact hits me like a sledgehammer. I don't hear anything else. Only see her - her face. I hear no hard-drawn breathing, even though I strain for the sound of it.

I push harder on her wound, maybe, maybe I just need to add a little more pressure and her eyes will flicker again and her pale brown face will be flushed with colour.

Just push down a little harder, Ida.

You can do this.

(Auntie, I can hear my own voice echo from years and years ago. Why do people die?)

My arm is snatched, the world whirls and it takes me a moment to realize that someone - oh. It's Bucky - has hauled me over his shoulder.

"Stay. Here," he says and everything tilts and it takes another moment to realize that he's tossed me into a dumpster; the one by the alleyway's opening.

It's so cold. I'm shivering and my teeth are chattering like the rattling lid of a pan of boiling water. Fine – the weather isn't cold but I'm cold. A paradox. No, no it's not – it's shock.

I hear gunshots and feel the dull thud as bullets dent my shelter.

How did this happen … how the heck did this happen?

How It Happened

by

Ida's [very helpful] Memory

Conversation between Bucky Barnes and Ida Proctor:

Ida: Hey, Bucky. We didn't get those clothes for you. Shall we pop out and get some?

Bucky: …

Ida: Bucky, honestly. Sitting and staring at that wall can't be healthy.

Bucky: It's what I did.

Ida: Yeah, [clears throat] I know. But, you still need clean clothes.

Bucky: [words omitted due to content (though perhaps they were Russian, in which case: aszchlsdjfsk)] has that got to do with it?

Ida: Nothing. But – look, you've been wearing those clothes for days now and-

Bucky: I'll get some more.

Ida: That's the spirit! Come on I'll grab a sweater and then-

Bucky: Later.

Ida: …

Bucky: Ida. Leave.

Ida: Alright. I'll leave you alone but, but I'll be back. I promise. And, listen … I'm going to go for a drive, and just in case you want to come … I'll wait five minutes for you, outside. And not a minute after. Okay … so … um … see you.

Ten minutes later, in the old green van:

Ida: Bucky! Hey! I wasn't expecting you.

Bucky: [tight lipped glance.]

Ida: Fine, I was hoping you'd come and- never mind. Let's go.

Ida: [stalls van] Ha, I mean it's the van … it's always like … this. Sometimes.

Bucky: …

Ida: [mutters darkly under breath] You don't have to look so darn interested.

Bucky: I can hear you.

Ida: [sighs heavily] I just can't win …

Driving past neighbourhood where Ida heard gunshot:

Ida: I rang 911 here, once. Two - er, three? – days ago. And I'm pretty sure I head a gun being fired.

[sounds of shots heard]

Ida: Like that – it really sounded just like tha- oh. Oh no. It sounded just like that! Bucky - my cell phone! Call 911. It's in my bag. This is a gang war. Or, or, or a terrorist attack. Nononono.

[Bucky opens door and jumps out of moving vehicle]

Ida: Bucky! WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING? COME BACK!

[Ida slams on breaks, scans neighbourhood]

Ida: Whattheheckwhattheheckwhattheheck. Where did he go? Shoot. What's he doing?

[climbs out of van, locks door]

Conversation between Ida and her Conscience:

Ida: This is probably a bad idea. I'm going to be shot. Killed. Slain by a bullet. My blood will paint everywhere red.

Ida's Conscience: You can't just leave him. You know what happened last time. If you do leave him, I will torment you for the rest of your life.

Ida: … gonna die.

Ida's Conscience: Torment … for the rest of your existence. Every moment. Every breath. Every time you close your eyes. Every time you try to sleep. Every second of every day … tormented.

Ida: I am so doomed. There are literally gunshots sounding every second.

Ida's Conscience: Walk faster!

Ida: Alright, alright I'm going. Everything's gone so quiet. Well, this is scary. And strange. But mostly scary.

Ida's Conscience: Oh no! What if we do die – who will look after Aunt Becky? Turn back! Turn back! Call 911 and leave.

Ida: Philip will look after her and they'll both be quite happy. And I can't call 911 – because of Bucky. I've got to find him and stop him from … from … something.

Ida's Conscience: [admiringly] You make a very good martyr.

Ida: [approaches hardware store, cautiously. Nears renewed sounds of shouting, shooting and swearing] Oh yeah? Well, you are clearly very delusional.

The next few moments pass in a blur. Ida recalls only stumbling once (however, she did this three times and stubbed her toe once) but remembers (vividly) coming out from the small alleyway at the side of the hardware store and finding a large space behind it, that looked like a mutation of an abandoned warehouse (with no roof) and a graffiti skate-park.

And also a morgue.

Not that Ida has ever been to a morgue before. But this is a mutated form of one. Four bodies lie in unnatural, tangled positions on the floor.

From the shelter of her alley, she can see that there are people hiding behind garbage cans, in doorways and behind piles of rubbish and abandoned crates. With guns, firing at each other.

And Bucky.

Well, they fire mostly at Bucky.

Bucky who is a blur; Bucky who looks like a very, very frightening action hero; Bucky who is currently leaping from a low roof and onto an unsuspecting baggy-pants wearing, gun-toting man's back.

Ida – always normal, always sensible and always sane – becomes, at this point at least, convinced that her mind has been shipped off to LaLa Land. These things just. Don't. Happen. To. Her.

Well, obviously life didn't get the memo.

Because they are happening.

That's it, she tells herself. I'm going to get my cell phone. This is really, really bad.

(Like a serpent, memories from the Battle of New York slip in but Ida ignores them. Or at least, she pretends she does.)

Guns are shooting and a girl with spikey black hair and ears covered with more piercings than skin races from behind a dumpster, across the opening, towards Ida.

She crumples and Ida belatedly hears the shot. She can't help but run forward, can't help but stare, panicked at the red spot which spreads and spreads over the girl's stomach.

Apply pressure, she thinks, phone forgotten.

But then guns are fired, knives are thrown. Bucky tosses someone through a window. Ida gets shot – and is very, very lucky. Twice. The girl, less so.

And then Bucky throws Ida into a large dumpster.

And that – that is where she is now.

Remembered by: Ida's [in no way faulty] Memory

With thanks to: Ida, Ida's Mind, Ida's Conscience, and Bucky.

I'm alone in a dumpster, trying not to think about what is beneath me, trying not to imagine what's going on around me. I move, slightly and slowly. Oh – look. I can see the sky. That cloud looks like … I see the dying girl's face again; the way her eyes begged for something whilst her mouth moved and only whimpers came out.

The way everything stopped (her breathing, the look in her eyes) and I didn't save her.

(Just like the Battle. When death stalked the streets and explosions were like fireworks and fear, fear cloaked the city.)

No, no – mustn't think. Must not think.

Another bullet hits the dumpster. Someone swears and I hear pain in his voice over the thudding of my heartbeat.

That someone is close by. I can see the hand – pale and white and coarse - gripping the side of my refuge, at my head's end. Fingers with the nails bitten to the quick.

The other hand comes over.

Oh.

Uh.

Um.

There … is a gun in that hand. Loosely held. Pointing at me.

At my head.

At the head which is mine.

My head.

What do I do?

What do I do?

Alright, he hasn't pulled the trigger yet. Break it up, Ida. Break up the problem like you do in customer service. And breath – you know, the little thing that keeps you alive? Yeah? That thing. Do it. Oh, wonder of wonders, I've forgotten how.

Nope, there it is.

Right. So, if you keep still then … he won't notice yo-

He's resting his head against his hands. I can see a mop of dull, brown hair. If he raises his head he's going to be faced with the view of a petrified woman covered in blood, in a dumpster.

Don't raise your head, I chant in my mind. Don't raise your head.

So, of course, he does.

Black bruises beneath sunken eyes, his face is covered in red blotches and his hair is scraggly and thin.

It happens in a moment – a thousandth of a second. I'll never know what keeps me here and what stops me from being blown head first into eternity.

I move, you see. Jack-knife into a sitting position as the whole dumpster shudders with a shot. And I don't stay still – I'm on my feet and with the speed of a startled hare or deer I launch myself over the end of the dumpster.

Another bang.

Searing pain.

No time for it.

A quick survey of the … yard? shows me the bodies lying on the floor. I'm in a crouch with my back against the dumpster and a rough bit of wall touching my left arm. I can't see anyone – just the bodies on the floor.

But I can hear him.

I can't run else I'll have a bullet in my back quicker than you can say 'we're not in Kansas anymore'. No, time to put my non-existent black belt to good use.

The best defence is a good offense. I hope.

Thoughts run like ticker-tape on caffeine through my mind, yet everything is so slow. This is someone else's life, I think as I hear the crunch of footsteps on broken glass; not mine. I'm watching a movie. This isn't me.

I'm in an invisible fog. Watching someone's life through a window pane.

Everywhere hurts.

This is real, I think. And I wish it wasn't.

I want to give up, but I can't.

I want to lie down and remember that girl's face. No, I want to forget. Give in. I'm so scared. My hands are shaking. My breathing rattles. My heart is beating so loudly that my ears are filled with its thump. I can't do this.

I can't.

I think of Bucky. Of Aunt Becky.

And then I see the tip of his shoe. A heartbeat. My left hand clutches at something.

In one motion I grab the rim of the dumpster with my right hand, haul myself up and bring what is in my left hand down hard onto his upper arm.

He goes down, spasming almost, clutching at his arm.

It was glass, I realize dumbly.

It was glass, I think as I stare at the blood trickling down my hand.

I've killed him.

Then – no. He isn't dead. He's rolled up into a ball. Moves about. Jerking convulsively and swearing like a sailor in a hoarse voice which rises at the end of every word. Crying like a wounded animal. Clutching at his arm. Doing all these things in seconds, in moments, whilst I stand and feel like I'm reading about this. This isn't me here. It can't be me.

Someone swears behind me and I grab the fallen gun off the ground (and feel the gravel clog my fingernails and the rough concrete scrape the backs of my fingers) and swivel.

(I've watched movies, action movies, you know. Only here there is no choreographed fight scenes – only instinct. And precious little at that.)

She's got a gun too.

She's wearing a blue 'Hello Kitty' tank top. Choppy blonde hair frames a snarling face with decaying teeth and spitting eyes. Her arms are skinny and you can see the difference between the wiry muscle and the flesh which hangs loose.

Paradoxes. Again.

"Drop the gun," she says.

She curses when I don't.

She thinks I'm being stubborn.

I'm not. I'm not.

I can't let go.

I can't.

So we stand with guns trained on each other. Mine is heavy and wavers and I feel the trigger with my slick and wet fingers. Her gun is steady.

My fingers convulse; shaking so, so badly.

I pull the trigger.

I don't know why I do it – maybe it's the shaking of my hands, or a slight movement of the girl opposite me that causes my mind to spasm in panic and my finger to jerk and pull at the metal.

I pull the trigger.

And the girl opposite disappears in a blur even as a gun fires. She just goes … sideways. Oh. It's Bucky. He's taken her out. Tackled her like a football player.

I lower the gun.

And he straightens, eyes shooting to mine. She's gasping on the ground.

This is-

I can't-

I-

There are sirens in the distance – piercing as they come ever closer. Bucky is at my side, pulling me by the arm.

"Run!" he barks.

I really can't do it. Everywhere hurts. Everywhere aches.

The world is as real and as sharp as glass cutting my skin. It hurts too much. I think I'm going to be sick.

"Ida. Faster."

"I can't," I grit out. "I don't go to the gym."

The sirens are closer, so close that they overwhelm my ears and all of a sudden the world swirls and twists again and I feel the solid metal of Bucky's arm as he chucks me over his shoulder and runs.

I watch – upside down, with great dignity – as we leave that awful place. He's taking me away – away from the alleyway, from the dumpster. I have a nice view of the ground, broken bricks and – was that a needle? We're on a tiny road now and Bucky's still running. I'm jerked and jogged but he runs with a strange smoothness and in his calmness I find a meagre ration of strength.

And then suddenly I'm placed on a hard surface and I blink.

I'm sitting on a bike; straddling a motorbike, to be more accurate.

There is no time to think, I nearly fall forwards but Bucky slides on in front of me and I lean against him. He does … something fiddly with whatever is up front and the engine rumbles.

"Put your feet up," he tells me.

There is a shout and I turn – look down the narrow strip between two old grizzly buildings towards where … it ... happened.

A figure is there, clad in blue.

A cop.

I feel a jolt of relief: the police – they'll make everything better … won't they?

But suddenly we are flying forwards and zooming down narrow streets and zipping around corners and the wind whips my hair and I clutch at Bucky, feel the roughness of his jacket and realize that whatever we do, we can't go to the police – because how on earth can I explain it all away?

My memory shows me a picture of a green wall and so many names.

What would they do to him?

I hold onto Bucky and close my eyes.

Right. I need to make sense of this, this, well – whatever just happened.

Making Sense of the Thing Which Just Happened:

1. Clearly we interrupted some sort of … gang battle?

27. Why did Bucky jump out of the car?

412. I stabbed someone in the arm. With some glass

699. Why didn't I call 911? Dumb. So very dumb.

10,589. I shot at someone.

8,005,042. In conclusion … I have no idea what just happened.

The engine slows and then cuts and I open my eyes to see that we are at the back of some apartments. Great. Another alley. This is becoming a habit. There is a fire escape – grey and rusted – stretching up above us.

Bucky gets off the bike. He glances over me, checking to see if I'm alive, I suppose. He holds his hands out and I clamber off the bike with his help. There is a dull clunk as the bike falls to the floor behind me.

"Hold on," Bucky says.

"Huh?" I say with beautiful eloquence.

Hands go around my waist and I am launched into the air and onto the fire escape.

Bucky leaps up, catches hold of the lowest bar and hefts himself onto the fire escape with me. He gives me a look and his eyes are cold, but maybe that is just me. Everything is cold right now.

"Where are we?"

"At the back of your apartment."

He puts his arm around my shoulder and lifts me up. He glances behind me.

"You got shot in the ass."

"Oh," I say dazedly as we go upwards, each footsteps making a muted clang. "Really?"

"Yes."

"That's nice."

Another flight of winding metal steps. There is a dragon in my stomach and it twists and turns and I rather think that the contents of my stomach wish for an abrupt relocation to someplace more … airier.

"It's just a scratch," he says.

Another footstep.

This is like climbing Everest.

Honestly, it is.

"I'll probably survive," I attempting to be optimistic. Somewhere in between climbing out of my green van and being dumped on the back of a motorbike my eyes have been overflowing with liquid and my cheeks are damp. Gosh darn it.

"Probably," comes the assuring assurances from the man beside me. (By the way, climbing up a fire escape? Two people wide? Uncomfortable. Two out of ten, would not try again.)

It feels like days, months – years, but here we are. Bucky opens a window (how, I don't pay much attention and to be brutally honest, I don't much care) and we are suddenly surrounded by familiar walls.

Green soothing walls.

But even these look alien to me – the bed has moved, the wall bears the names of dead people and I haven't slept surrounded by green for a week.

But still, I leave Bucky staring at the wall and force myself to go to the bedroom door and call Aunt Becky.

"Yes, love?" she responds from the living room and her dear, dear voice makes me want to bawl helplessly. But I don't. (I won't.) I walk – not without great effort and aid from the walls – to the living room and peer around, not so that she can see my body, but so that I can see her.

She's knitting and doesn't look up when my head pops into view.

"I didn't hear you come in," she says.

I can't tell her. I honestly can't.

So many stupid 'cannots' I've been running into today.

"I'm just going to … change and put the dinner on."

She's reached a difficult point in her pattern and so she peers at her handiwork (a cream sweater, for Bucky no doubt), tuts under her breath and speaks absently: "Alright then. Is Bucky well?"

"Yeah," I say and I think my voice cracks. "I think so."

I turn away and look down the hall.

Huh.

I walked aided by the walls and, and where I put out a hand to hold myself up … is a trail of smeared red. Red paint. My blood on the wall.

No, not all of it.

That poor kid's blood.

Painting my wall.

I slap a hand to my lips to hold back a sob.

Bucky appears from my bedroom and gives me an assessing look. His eyebrows flick upwards and he walks forwards and takes my hand away from my mouth.

"It's not all my blood," I tell him.

"I know."

Somehow, I am moved into my bedroom and sat on the bed.

"First aid?"

"Kitchen, second cabinet above the counter. On the left."

He disappears, leaving me just to sit and stare.

And then he's back and he's disinfecting and stitching and handing me painkillers and I feel swept up in a blur and don't even blink when I have to shift so that he can stitch the wound on my bottom and swamp it with enough disinfectant to sterilise a sewage plant.

I'm sure, in another time and another place I'd find this mightily embarrassing - but right now? Right now I'm done.

"Why did you get out of the van?" I ask him.

I'm lying on my side (getting grazed on your bottom is … impractical) and he is sitting on the edge of the bed, tending to my shoulder.

"I thought …" I feel the cold touch of metal fingers on my arm and the sting of a needle piercing my skin. I'm pretty sure that I've gone snow white.

I look at the wall and see the names. I wait for him to gather his words. Maybe he won't share them.

"I thought I was in a mission. It was a …"

"Flashback?" I suggest.

"No," he says and snips the thread. Out of the corner of my eye, I see green stitching. Green to go with my room. Wonder where he found the thread. "Yes."

"Oh."

We don't speak for a little while and I can hear the noise of the television – Aunt Becky must have just switched it on. "… the so called 'Kid-Napper' is now in police custody … " booms out a newsreader and then his voice fades and I know that Aunt Becky has lowered the volume.

I remember seeing one of his victims in the paper. So they found him after all. I hope they found his victims. Hope that they are alive. Hope that they aren't left scarred.

An image of a pale brown face flashes in front of my eyes and I fight it and force the overwhelming feeling of distraught sadness backwards.

Bucky speaks: "You lost blood."

A short silence.

"You won't die from it though."

I look up at him and tilt my head to the side. "Thanks. You are very reassuring."

The corners of his lips twitch. Minutely. "Sure, I am."

"The bike," I say. "What are you going to do with it?"

My shoulder is bandaged. Now he takes up my hand. My head is swimming and I feel faint and sick. But I have important questions to ask: "And my van, what am I going to-"

"I'll get it back for you," he promises.

He's cleaning my hand and oh my gosh it hurts so much. I squeeze my eyes shut and grit my teeth.

He stops cleaning. I peek one eye open and see the dried blood on the old (clean? I hope it's clean) towel he placed on the bed. The wound from the glass wasn't deep enough to sever anything but my gosh it looks so bad I want to be sick.

Bucky looks either troubled or mildly constipated. "Sorry," he murmurs, his eyes flickering to mine. Hands paused. Mine cradled between them.

"For what?"

"For everything. I've messed up your life."

He has. But he doesn't need to know that I think that. So I open my mouth and try to be reassuring even though my hand looks so bad and my shoulder hurts and I'm not going to be able to pee usually for days because I got shot. in. the. backside. How am I going to sit on the toilet seat? I'm going to have to hover and my leg muscles are literally none existent so it's going to be fun.

"Don't worry about it," I tell him with smile that is probably loopy. "Life is far more … erm … interesting with you around."

He shakes his head – a tiny motion, as if he doesn't quite believe me. "Sure it is."

He starts cleaning my wound again and applying some sticky things to keep the wound together. (Not being an expert in First Aid, I haven't a clue as to what he is doing. All that I know is that … I would very much like to say Very Bad Words to him because boy it hurts.)

"The gun had no ammo left," he tells me and I blink at him because: huh?

"The gun you had," he clarifies. "It had run out of bullets by the time he reached you round the dumpster."

"So I stabbed him in vain?" I question. I cut my hand for nothing?

"No," he says quietly. "He would have killed you with the knife he had in his pocket."

My mind flits to another memory: "Wait a sec … does that mean that the gun that went off when you … tackled that girl-" (or woman. How old was she? Early to late twenties?) "-was actually … hers?"

"Yes."

"Ohhhhh …" I say and find myself teetering on the cliff of 'what ifs'. "Then … you saved my life."

"Yeah."

"Thank you. And you did it more than once – you tossed me into the dumpster as well." Huh. Don't think I've said something like that before. I can't help but chuckle. "I can't believe you tossed me in the dumpster."

"Sorry."

"You think I'm trash?"

He is bandaging my hand now. He pauses – again – and looks down at me. "No," he says.

"Oh. You sure? Evidence points to the contrary. You tossed me in the dumpster and everything."

"Yeah?" His eyes glimmer ever so slightly. Like in another lifetime, he would have found this funny. But there's too many burdens on his shoulders, too many memories, and actions, and names that weigh him down, hanging round his neck like millstones and he can't.

"So … " I say, to change the subject. "Was it a gang war?"

"Perhaps. I found some drugs-"

"You what?!"

"I didn't take any," he assures me.

"What?" I choke.

"Didn't bring any back with me," he corrects himself and finishes binding my hand. "They were probably contaminated."

"The cops will find them … right? The drugs, I mean."

"Yes."

"Oh my word – will they find my van? It's a little ways from where, where it happened but could they trace me to-"

"Maybe."

I give him a half-hearted glare for being so truthful (sometimes you just want to hear comforting reassurances, regardless of the truth). "I'm doomed."

"No," he says. "No - you're not."

And then he stands up, wipes his hands on a rag, goes to the wall, kneels down and picks up the pen. And writes 'Unknown x 3'.

He doesn't look at me when he stands again, but he directs a question at me: "Do you want a drink?"

"Yeah … " I smile at him – a very weak and a very wobbly smile. "Yes, please."

And he leaves the room.

I can still hear the low murmur of the TV. Aunt Becky's okay. But how to tell her about all this? Should I? She clearly is going to notice – I've got a band aid on my ear and bandage on my shoulder, and even more wounds to add to my blossoming collection.

I open the bottom drawer of the bedside table, look blankly at the romance book that stares up at me. Close the drawer. Cast my arm underneath my bed and feel for my teddy bear.

I don't care if it's childish but I curl up, facing the door, and bury my face in Winnie's musky fur. Bucky comes back in. He places the glass on the bedside table and sits on the floor, leaning against the bed. Without realising quite what I'm doing, I reach a hand out and lay it on his shoulder. He stiffens, but he doesn't shake it away. And we stay there. Remaining very still for a very long time.

He with his demons, and I with mine.

if you ever read the first incarnation of this chapter, you'd know that this one has slightly changed because ... PLOT UPDATE (not like, plot plot update, pfft ain't no one got time for dat) but plot update as in 'muahaha the burn shall be slow' kinda way. thoughts?