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wintersoldierwhore · 2 years

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fatal risk | ONE

SERIES MASTERLIST

Y/N

MY feet were aching, boots mangling my toes together. I was surely far enough to stop running, but fear still resided in the back parts of my brain. When I was 11, fear controlled me. It told me to do everything I knew I shouldn't. It got me to where I am now, running through what I could only assume was an old car dealership. Clutching my head, I could feel my brain pounding against my skull. This would last for a few days, it always did when I used my abilities.

I wasn't even sure how I got them.

A lot of my childhood is blurry, only blank spots remain etched in my mind. I remember a sister, parents, a family. I have nobody now. Nothing and no-one.

That was years ago. I am not back to who I was, well, who I hoped I was. But I'm doing better. I live in an apartment, it's small and needs a lot of work, but it's cozy. I have a job at a library, a job I couldn't be more suited for. I love books, I analyze them cover to cover. I have more books than I have dollars in my bank account. They litter my apartment, stacks of them holding plants up to my windows. I managed to buy myself a bookcase for my living room just last month. And it's about to snap under the weight of the pages.

I have some friends, and I am astounded by my social skills. Two of them are coworkers, the other is a barista in the neighboring building to the library. We usually go out every weekend, getting up to nonsensical things. And none of them have ever questioned my past, of my lack of memory of it. I had given them a brief white lie. Telling them I don't talk to my family, and haven't in years. It's just me all alone in this town.

This town is small, everyone knows everyone. Which is exactly the type of place I wanted. It took me a while to trust my friends, I never know if anyone is after me. I never know if my past is coming to bite me in the ass. But my friends, my life in this town, it has yet to be threatened. Everything around me is real, no illusion or false reality. I trust my surroundings entirely.

I refuse to go into the city. Or anywhere near it. The furthest I will drive out is forty minutes out of town, and that's if I desperately needed to get something this town hadn't offered. But everything I need is here. I have never thought to leave this place, my friends, my life that I fought tirelessly to build.

I've thought about reaching out, trying to find my family. But it's too dangerous. They could work for the organization, they could be part of it, which made sense. How else had I left my loving family home for a boxed cell with an annoying, flickering light? I've written every flash of memory I get down, into the journal I hide behind my books. There's no reason to hide it, the only people that come over are my friends, and they'd never snoop.

Pages upon pages filled with fleeting memories.

Not perfectly sewn together.

They were just pieces of my past that were missing the glue they needed to make sense.

When I'm feeling down, having nightmares about my past, I dig for my journal and read through it. So many memories that are the only remnants of my old life I keep.

Spinning my sister around on the tire swing, her short, dark hair swatting me in my face, but I couldn't help but laugh. I was so glad to have a sister, a friend, someone to wake up to everyday with. I still remember her face vividly, eyes wide, a buttoned nose, and colored cheeks as if she'd been running around in the snow all day. She was six years younger than me. Only four when this memory took place, a year before I was taken from my home.

Going for walks with my new baby sister and parents. This usually happened in the summer time, we'd wait until it was dark enough for the street lamps to come on, but not too dark. The Earth around us still warm, and we'd walk around the block. I'd skip ahead, my dad always coming to my rescue when I wasn't looking where I was going. I'd have caved my head in if it weren't for him. He saved me from walking into streetlights, walking straight off of a curb and into a dead street, he always watched out for me. He was barely home, always working away, but when he was home, he was entirely devoted to his family. I had hours of fun with my dad. One of my favourite memories of him was dancing in our living room. He'd bought a brand new turntable, and would play the same song on repeat. He'd hold me in his arms and spin us around whilst listening to Love Me Do by The Beatles. I was too young to know of any issues him and my mother had survived through, but it didn't seem like there were any. They were always happy together.

Another fond memory I always went back to read in moments of darkness, was gardening with my mom. The page was so worn from tears and crumples, I had been meaning to rewrite it. Worried to lose this memory, this part of me, I should probably get to writing it.

I remember gardening with my mother on various occasions. Before she had my sister, and after, we turned our plain garden into something beautiful. I helped my mother pot the plants, store some in the greenhouse. And she'd give me a crayon and labels to name every plant. I named one after myself, and I took care of it everyday. Until my baby sister was born, and I'd named a plant after her, too. For when she'd grown up, and she'd look after it just like I did. I spent every day outside with my mother, checking up on the plants, making sure my baby sister's plant was thriving. As well as my own. We watered them together, planted some more, which I named. And after a long day of gardening in the sun, she'd bring me inside, sit me on the counter and make us both lunch.

The journal was nowhere near full. I still had small flashes of memory, and I'd write them down. No matter how little I remembered, it could be vital to figuring out how the hell I ended up where I did. I heard blaring, not like the kind I heard back in my boxed cell, this was different, lighter, less threatening.

Shit.

My alarm.

Peeling open my eyes, I scan my room for any differences. Nothing, I'm still safe. I always set my alarm to wake me up two hours before work. Even though the library was a block away from my apartment, I liked the time I had in the morning. I did not like to be rushed. I am trying to unlearn my past routines. Instead of being told what to do, I live by my own rules. Legally, of course. Anyone outside of work or the law tells me what to do, it's not long before they're out of my life. Although, I'm grateful that was yet to happen.

I watered Florence, Mary, and Juliette on my bedroom windowsill, then Hazel and August in my living room. And finally, Fern, Venus, and Ela in my kitchen. I kept the habit of naming my plants, anything to connect me back to the child I was. Then I'd eat something really light, as we'd always have snacks in the break room at work. And finally get myself ready for work.

I didn't bother driving to work. Everything in this town was close enough to walk, even a thirty minute walk was not bad. I enjoyed walking, the weather, though not always good, was refreshing to me. I'd see the same things on my way to work, smiling at the florist lady who had her market stall set up so early every morning. We had a routine, she knew to reserve a bouquet of lilies for me every weekend. And I'd be first in line at her stall to buy them.

"Y/N!" Adeline, the library manager, and my own manager called out just as I'd gotten in. She was lovely, she'd given me this job even with no qualifications and no past references. She trialed me, saw I was honest, and hired me.

"Oh, hey Delia." I greeted, using the nickname she swore everyone to call her by. She always said Adeline was too formal. I'd bonded with her first, and she is the only one to know of my past to the furthest extent I'd let anyone. I told her I hadn't seen my family in a long time, jumping from hostels, and she'd stopped me before I brought on the water works. My emotion was very limited back then, after everything I'd seen and been told to do.

She'd helped me find an apartment when I'd had enough money to get one. She'd helped me get my foot in the door in this town, which is why Adeline was my first friend in this town. She was in her forties, she was a widow, with a grown up kid. She'd told me she saw a lot of her daughter in me, and I'd often visit her at her home.

"We got the new order of books, finally!" She exclaimed, and I had reached for my lanyard in my bag. I loved book delivery days, it meant I could spend my entire work days organizing books. Taking old ones off the shelf, and putting new ones up. I even got to design displays for bestselling books and authors, this job was perfect for me. A perfect job for an introvert, or a person who dislikes disclosing themselves to others. The only social contact I have is when someone approaches me for a recommendation, or if I'm on the till.

As I'm clearing the old display away, that Delia had done herself, I recognize the name of the author. Frowning, I stare at the book in my hands. I couldn't place it anywhere, I knew her name.

From where?

"Is everything okay, Y/N?" Delia asked, leaving her place at the till after spotting my entranced expression. I'd left my thoughts where they were and looked up at her, she reached out to touch my shoulder but quickly retracted her arm after remembering my rule. I didn't like to be touched. Anywhere. No hugs, nothing. I couldn't stand contact with anyone, it made me shrivel up. Even if it was an accidental finger on mine as we exchange books at the till.

"Oh," I sighed, glancing around the room for any differences. Nothing, I'm still safe. "I just recognize the author's name, that's all."

Delia giggles lightly. "This was actually her first Young Adult book, she is mostly known for being a children's writer. I read it, I tend not to follow age guidelines for books. It's pretty good, she's an incredible fantasy writer."

Fantasy?

Cordelia White? Kids writer? Fantasy writer?

A small shockwave echoed through my heart and I stood back. "Can I take this home to read?"

"Of course, dear. Go and put it with your things, I'll finish this." Delia instructed, her voice was always smooth and honey-like. But I wasn't thinking about Delia's words right now, I was focusing on the memory I had in my head. I'd gotten through to my locker, digging for my journal and grabbing the pen that was attached to the side. My hands were shaky, a new memory. Something new to come back to.

Cordelia White wrote the books I used to read to my sister. I was seven and she was one. She would never understand the words on the page, but I did. I favored one of her books over the rest we had. A book about four friends who were from different parts of the country, and all met in a forest when they'd all run away from their lives. Each one was envious of the others lives, despite having either more or less than the others. And they'd found a way to live the lives they wanted, pretending to be each other, and it worked. They'd meet up every once in a while, switch to someone else's life, and keep going, always avoiding their own.

I wanted to do that. I often wished I could trade places with someone else, although I wouldn't want them to experience what I'd been through. I'd never let anyone go through that.

When I'd finished writing in my journal, the memory safely within the pages of my journal, I had put it away and returned to work. To my normal, mundane life. And I couldn't be happier. I never thought my life would end up this way. After years of torment from HYDRA. After years of rebuilding my hollow shell of a life. I am finally a person.

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