Meant to Be

It was a murky December night in Brooklyn. The clouds threatened to spill over with freezing rain. Chick realized her new snow boots would be put to work that night, if she didn’t pick up the pace.

She followed the traffic of people flowing up and down the sidewalk, gradually walking faster. She brushed a piece of hair from her eyes, rubbing the sleepiness from her left eye with the heel of her palm.

On a good day, Chick Abbott’s chestnut hair was wavy and tame; her eyebrows arched gracefully; her full lips were soft. On a good day, her hazel eyes shone like precious stones; her smooth, tan skin glowed.

Unfortunately for Chick, good days were hard to come by lately.

The construction site near her apartment building featured new graffiti tonight. The same large, white poster was layered along the length of the fence, one after the other. The dim, flickering lamp posts lit the posters in several spots, casting a yellow tinge against the white and the bold, black letters.

Death to false gods!

Death to false gods!

Death to false gods!

Death to-

On a good day, she might have actually given these words some more thought and concern. But tonight, her dull hair was frizzy and tangled; her eyebrows were overgrown; her lips were dry and cracked; her skin was sweaty, greasy, and spotty. The dark bags under her eyes made them look sunken-in to their sockets- as if she was just a skeleton of a human. She hadn’t had a moment of rest in weeks. She was exhausted.

She was off the clock. The Avengers were not her concern tonight.

She only scanned the posters lazily for a beat, not interrupting her journey home. Her nose and the tips of her ears stung painfully in the freezing cold. She just wanted to get home and sleep.

The bad weather made the leftover bones in Chick’s right leg ache. It triggered a phantom pain which traveled down the length of her missing leg. A sigh caught in her throat, her eyes squinted with the familiar pain. It had been about four years since she lost the leg, but still she had trouble adjusting.

Chick slowed her pace, moving to the side of the traffic to take a breath. She shouldn’t have rushed herself. She massaged her thigh muscles and the puckered, wrinkled skin tissue that pinched under her prosthetic.

Flashes of memories ran through her mind. That day in D.C, when HYDRA’s ships fell out of the sky. Shrapnel slicing through her leg; bleeding out on the sidewalk; being trampled as citizens ran for their lives; being left for dead…

She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her head. She gripped her fluffy cashmere scarf with her free hand and focused on her breathing, like her therapist taught her.

Breathe in- 1, 2. Breathe out- 3, 4. Breathe in- 5, 6. Breathe out- 7, 8.

S.H.I.E.L.D, Captain America, Falcon, the Winter Soldier, waves of water, so much blood, so much screaming…

Breathe in- 1, 2. Breathe out- 3, 4. Breathe in- 5, 6. Breathe out- 7, 8.

She gripped tighter onto her leg, trying to focus on where she was. The people, the buildings, the freezing, cold air. The posters…

Death to false gods!

Death to false gods!

Death to false gods!

She didn’t have the energy to give the Avengers any more of her thoughts or memories. They weren’t worth the trouble. She had enough problems, and she finally had a weekend off. She didn’t have to worry about the Avengers, the mutants, or diplomacy.

She reached shakily into her bag, unable to wait, and pulled out a bottle of Vicodin. She discreetly poured out two pills and grabbed her water bottle. She swallowed them quickly with a swig of water. She put the bottle back and took in a deep breath.

Move on, she thought. Just move on. This is how it was meant to be.

Chick started walking again, slowly and steadily. Her apartment building was a few blocks ahead. She could see the windows from where she was.

It took her another fifteen minutes to get to her building. The phantom pains had not yet subsided, and had begun to creep up her spine. By the time she managed to get up to her apartment, her head ached sharply.

Her eyes felt foggy, which she knew meant that the meds were beginning to take effect. She saw her bed at the back of her studio apartment with tunnel vision. Nothing else mattered in the world, just her bed. She dropped her bag and began shedding her clothes as she walked slowly to bed. She stripped down and climbed in, forcing off her prosthetic leg with a sigh of relief. The sheets felt cool and clean against her skin, settling her aches. Closing her heavy eyelids, she stretched her muscles and massaged the scars on her leg. She felt the tingle of the Vicodin in her shoulders, first. Slowly, it spread through her body.

The posters flashed in her mind. She was helpless to stop it.

Death to false gods!

Death to false gods!

The crashing HYDRA ships.

The blood that washed the sidewalk.

The chaos and the fear.

Death to false gods!

Death to false gods!

Chick’s ears began to ring, but she felt no pain. The bed disappeared and she was floating.

She watched the Winter Soldier and Captain America fall from the sky with the final HYDRA ship. Watched the soaking wet Soldier leave the woods and stare her down. Watched him walk away from her as she lay dying; screaming and crying for help.

Her hope, fading for good. His hesitation to turn back around. His hollow eyes, begging to forget.

“Please,” she begged. “I don’t want to die,” she sobbed.

He walked towards her, reaching out his metal arm and lifting the heavy steel rigging off of her leg like it was nothing. Blood poured from the leg freely, and she felt a rush of blood flow back to the numbed limb. She screamed, grabbing his leg subconsciously. The pain was unbearable. She had never been so scared. She tried to move and shift her weight to make it hurt less, but she heard her bone crack and snap, causing her screams to grow.

As she cried, the Soldier bent down to her level and tore at a ripped piece of her clothing. It ran along the length of her waist. Her dark blue uniform was shredded and stained beyond repair. The Soldier tightly tied the piece of cloth around her leg as a turnequette.

Chick clutched her fist around a hook in his vest, trying to create some sort of closeness to him. She looked down at his busy hands, and saw the extent of the damage.

She wished she hadn’t.

Her leg was shredded from the middle of her right thigh, down. She saw exposed bones sticking through her skin. The leg was hanging on by a piece of muscle on the outside of her leg. Blood pooled around her.

She felt nauseous and dizzy, closing her eyes and leaning her head back. She fought back vomit and more sobs. She opened her eyes and saw his own bright blue eyes staring down at her.

“Am I- I going to d-die?” she whimpered, feeling cold. The Soldier said nothing, taking her hand in his, and pulled her fingers away from his vest forcefully. “Wait,” she said, panicking as he stood up. “P-Please!” He turned and walked away, leaving her there alone. “Come back, please!” she screamed, straining her voice. “You can’t just leave me!

“I don’t want to die,” she whimpered to herself between sobs.

It took minutes more until she heard the sirens coming for her. She screamed, and the sirens screamed back louder.

Chick gasped for air, waking up in a sheen of sweat, sitting up in bed. She took in deep breaths, trying to calm herself. She dragged her hands down her face, feeling trails of tears all the way down to her neck and ears. She rubbed at her eyes, sniffling, and kicked off the sheets with her good leg.

It wasn’t the first time she had that nightmare, and it wouldn’t be the last.

She reached to the side table for her extra bottle of Vicodin and bottle of water. She took one of the pills for her throbbing leg, and laid back in bed. She took in her surroundings, steadying her breathing. It was pitch black outside still, but the clock read 6:00.

Time to get up, time to move on.