Steve Rogers walked through the halls of Brooklyn High School, keeping his head down as he scurried away. The laughers, the snickerers, all of them stared at him. They hurled insults and shouted their catcalls at him from their respective positions.

"Greaseball!"

"Scrub!"

"Brodie!"

James, the captain of the football team, stuck his leg out and tripped Steve, sending his books sliding forward on the tile. He hit the ground with a thud, and scrambled to pick them up and get to his feet. He pushed the doors to the courtyard open, happy to get away from those who bullied him. He walked down the gray sidewalk, trying to remain positive. The kids at school were always making fun of him, but he managed. That wasn't what was scaring him. For the past few weeks, his Momma had been very sick. He hurried home every day to take care of her, often missing out on events with his best friend, Bucky. Today, Bucky was coming to get him after dinner for a movie. As he walked up the sidewalk with his worn white shirt, tattered dress pants, tearing-at-the-seams shoes, and his father's old coat, he kicked a can in front of him, trying to get a handle on his emotions. It wouldn't do his Momma any good to see him upset. The feelings of being a social reject were sometimes too much to bear. It made him feel so alone sometimes. It was during these times that he relied on God. With God, he knew he was never alone. He climbed the front steps to his apartment complex, then climbed the two flights of stairs and made his way down the hall to apartment 23B. He opened the wooden green door and felt a sense of relief: he was home. He hung his coat on the coatrack.

"Mom! I'm home!" He called.

"Mom?" He asked again. He went into the master bedroom. The room was white with the green curtains drawn in. From the doorway he could see the silhouette of his mother, in her nightgown with her normally pulled-back hair billowing around her. He flipped on the light switch and saw her more clearly. In later years, especially troubled times, he remembered how her face looked that day. Her eyes were shut, and her lips were shut, despite the bit of blood that had made it's way down the side of her mouth. What was most prevalent, however, was the stillness of her chest.

"Mom?" It was a whisper, a pleading cry of desperation. There was no response.
The world evaporated from underneath Steve's feet and tilted sickly on it's head. Breathing became laborious, and he thought he might pass out. He was still standing somehow- he realized. He had to move. He had to do something. The weight of the situation was crashing down on him like boulders. He was terrified to mess with the moment that seemed suspended in time. Carefully, cautiously, he stepped forward. Surprisingly, the earth didn't shatter. He took another step toward his mother. More scared than ever, he touched her wrist. It was ice cold. He flinched as if he'd touched a flame. Terror made him start to shake. He started to back away from her, and wanted so badly to wake up from what he fervently hoped was a dream. He stumbled into the kitchen and started finagling around the cabinets for dinner to make. He had to do something to occupy himself. He started boiling the water and dumped in pasta. He salted the water, and waited. He watched the water bubble in a dreamlike state. Numbly, he finished cooking and dumped canned sauce over it. He ate by forcing himself to, and did the dishes. It wasn't until he got to the bathroom that he froze.
He looked at himself in the tiny, dusty, mirror, and the full impact of what was happening hit him. He only saw his mother in the mirror. It was the image that broke him down. He shook, tremors rocking his body. His knees gave out and made impact on the tile. The tears started welling up in his eyes, and he didn't try to restrain them. His world was falling apart. He yelled and screamed as he cried, furious with God.

"What have I done to deserve this?" He shrieked. He knew he could be angry with God- God could take it. He couldn't bring himself to be mad at his Momma. She hadn't done anything wrong. He screamed and cried until he couldn't breathe and was hoarse. Shakily, he got to his feet, still crying, and looked in the mirror. He looked as broken as he felt.

He couldn't go on this way. He was hit with memories of everything horrible in his life. Suddenly, he was hollow. There was no reason to live anymore. He knew what he was going to do. He went to his Momma's room, very careful not to look at her. He grabbed the keys out of his Momma's bureau and went into the living room. He stepped toward it carefully. It was the one place he was forbidden to go. The liquor cabinet. He unlocked it, and took a bottle of whiskey out. He poured a glass and set it on the kitchen table. Then, he went to find a piece of paper and a pen. He sat at the table and began to write.

Dear Bucky,

They always told us to look on the bright side. But after years of ridicule, humiliation, and torment it's all come to a head. Let's face it, I'm just a skinny kid from Brooklyn with health problems. I don't mean anything to anyone anymore.

Momma died.

She was the last reason I had to go on. Now I have nothing. I'm so sorry if I hurt you, but I can't take it anymore. Keep fighting the good fight.

Steve

He set down the fountain pen. There was nothing more to say. He looked at the glass of whiskey on the rocks, and swirled it around before downing it fast, savoring the burn as it coursed down his throat. Finally, he went to get the final piece of his suicide: the .45 Colt Revolver. He picked it up and ran his fingers over the smooth surface. He checked if it was loaded, and to his pleasant surprise there was one bullet left. He went into the living room, prepared to die. He raised the gun to his head, tears streamlining down his face.

It was in that moment that fate interceded, and a knock came at the door.

"Bucky." The word sounded like an expletive. Steve put the gun down and went to the door. He wiped his face before opening it with a smile plastered on his face.

"Hey Bucky." He said, sweetly. "I'm sorry, but I can't make it tonight. Something came up."

"Really? What?"

"Mom's taken a bad turn, I can't leave her here, I'm sorry."

"I'll stay with you then."

"No," he said all too quickly, "I can handle it. Don't worry about me. You go enjoy your movie."

"I can't leave you like this."

"Yes you can!"

"Steve," Bucky said in a knowing voice, "what's going on?"

Steve was quiet for a moment, before he finally spoke.

"Momma died."

"Oh, Steve..."

And there it was, the pity a part of him had dreaded, but the understanding he needed.

It broke him.

The mask of composure he had so carefully created shattered, and to his horror and chagrin, he started to cry. Bucky hugged his best friend, who buried his face in his shoulder. Bucky ushered his friend inside, and then saw the residue of whiskey in the glass, and the note.

But the gun was what grabbed his attention.

"Steve..." He whispered in shock, "were you..."

Steve nodded.

Bucky was at a loss for words, and simply tried to keep his best friend standing. He didn't let go of Steve for fear of him trying to get to the gun.

Steve was crushed, simply put. He had no idea why his best friend was still there, but he didn't question it.

Somehow, his best friend gave him the tiniest sliver of hope that someday everything would be alright.