Some days it hurt a little less. Those were good days, days when he remembered but it didn't absorb him.

Some days it hurt a lot. Enough that it exhausted him, he pushed people away, and all he really wanted to do was sleep.

Some days it didn't hurt at all. Those were days when his heart went cold, when he ignored the memories because he couldn't afford to care. Days when he didn't want to open that door because he was tired of fighting the monsters behind it. When his brain suggested I can do this all day, he shut it down. Maybe he could. But not right now.

Some days he controlled it and he was okay. Some days he thought he might actually be normal again or at least on the way there. Other days he knew he never could be.

Through it all, he was functional. What else could he be? After all, he was a super soldier. They had chosen him for a duty above anything he struggled with, a duty to protect as many people as he could. That didn't always mean himself.

He was supposed to be an example. They never said of what. At first he was fairly sure of himself; he was proud to wear the stars and stripes. Now, he wasn't sure of anything.

Some days that pistol in his desk drawer looked really tempting. He couldn't deny he had thought of it more than once, the easy way out. But that's not what he was here for. He wasn't here to take the easy road, he was here for the rough haul. Some days he accepted that truth and some days it made him upset.

Some days he boxed until his fingers were bruised and swollen. Other days he beat back his mind.

Some days he wanted to be loud. Other days he only tried to be quiet, because he knew no one would hear him, no one would want to listen. He was a support, even if he was broken too. And it was better that way. He had done enough damage already.

Some days the fear was unbearable. But he never knew what he was afraid of.

Some days people told him his strengths, built him up, smiled at him. Other days they pointed out his weaknesses and laughed as they kicked him down.

Some days he felt a surge of random motivation and he lived on it for as long as he could. Other days he stumbled through because his nightmares hadn't let him sleep.

Some days he was grateful for his second chance and some days he wished he had died in the crash seventy years ago.

Some days he fought the system and some days all he could do was follow orders because he couldn't find the strength to argue.

But every day, he was faced with a single expectation, a single demand. To the world, he wasn't Steve Rogers; Steve Rogers didn't matter. He was Captain America, and he better live up to the name.