I feel the knife going in, I’m feeling anxious. Not enough to kill me, I thought it’d happen fast. B

I feel the knife going in, I’m feeling anxious. Not enough to kill me, I thought it’d happen fast. But I’m feeling it now, and I feel anxious.Natasha would look at him sometimes. After they had trained and they sat on the bench, wiping at the sweat on their foreheads - she would look him over. But he couldn’t return the look, he’d be focused on something distant, on nothing, on anything.“Talk to me,” she would beg sometimes. “It’s been two months Clint, no one blames you,” she would console him at other times. But it wasn’t that. He could hardly remember the faces of those he had shot down. He couldn’t remember if he had ever had a conversation with one of them. Or if he had ever laughed, joked, eaten, played, fought with any of the numerous agents he had killed. It wasn’t that.He couldn’t bring himself to say anything, he would only nod and reel himself back into the present. He’d offer her a smile, one that never really touched his eyes. She would let go of the matter, for the time being at least and life would move on.He couldn’t bring himself to say that sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could see his face. More vividly than anything else, more clearly than anyone else’s - he could see that face and it burned him, it cut him, it worried him. It haunted him. -- source link

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