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Peter crumbled under the pressure, his legs giving out from underneath him. He met the ground with a soft clack of flesh and bones against the black of asphalt.
Everything swirled and danced to a cruel song he couldn't hear.
It left the boy scared and confused, he shuffled forward sharp stabbing on his bruised knees. Cold pain was replaced by an emotional numbness leaving him devastated at the results.
It was all he felt as the world seemingly slowed and caved in around him.
It was.
His vision tunneled, a dead eyed stare surrounded by once warm doe eye brown irises.
He was still a Kid.
The ache in his lungs took hold of his tired and useless limbs. It didn't make sense.
None of it made sense.
An ugly cry crawled out of his lips with malicious intent. Peter shouted, fighting back the dull ache of his lungs that cried for air. He despised this feeling.
He deserved it.
He drowned out his thoughts with a scream loud enough to reverberate through the miles of empty air.
He screeched with all his might even as his throat cracked and burned with overuse.
He fell to the ground and curled in on himself, dragging his exhausted limbs closer.
Peter thought it would have been quicker, so he wouldn't have to deal with the emotional outcome. But he did. He let out wet gasps as it weighed on his frail shoulders as nothing happened.
Everything was Gone.
Without warning colors became sharper, the world finally tuning back in without remorse. Pete didn't like it.
Not his Blood.
Peter choked on water. Air he was struggling to let back in swished above the waves that threatened to pull him under.
This couldn't be happening.
The boy's vision blurred with the sting of warm tears and cold water. He gasped through the onslaught of feeling. The terror only the grip of deep water could bring, the everlasting sink of a ship.
He inhaled water by the gallons, his frigid fingers displacing the water in frantic useless movements.
He didn't know what to do.
Maybe he shouldn't..
He gripped his blood slick side and pushed himself onto his knees again. He didn't want to look at it. It scared him. He didn't want to die.
He screwed his eyes shut. He could do it. He could do it. He couldn't do it.
Peter whipped his eyes open and looked.
The sight left him cold with a belly full of fear that clawed up his throat. Putting all his nerves on edge, leaving him as tight as a spring ready to jump.
It was angry and inflamed, as if his side had been ripped open leaving his life to lay squirming in the open air like a maggot driven from its home.
It didn't matter, none of it mattered.
The feeling of betrayal stung. To have your trust in someone severed so severely cut deep. It was an ugly wound, one that would be hard to come back from if he did. It was hard to trust people.
Quentin was sure to make Peter's life the opposite of easy. It was his dying wish. One he was willing to scream out before he died. He wanted to haunt Peter with his actions even after he had died.
Peter didn't care. He didn't.
His friends had lost their chance of a future because of Quentin's stunt. He was hated because people don't like what isn't them, they want to control it with a strong fortified leash. They want to yank and pull to get it under their control.
It was Peter's fault for believing in such lies. He was a naive child person.
He didn't understand.
Broken ribs were heaven on Earth (excluding the train incident) compared to the sharp unebbing throb of a bullet, black dots had filled his vision but he had shaken them away quickly. Peter couldn't leave himself vulnerable any more than he had.
The pain blossomed from his shoulder and continued towards his wrist where it spread like a fiery forest over his limb and shoulder blade.
The agony however knew no boundaries spreading and spiking with his every move. He had to push through it for Aunt May, he could do it.
Aunt May.
He glared at his attackers with a withering stare, he had protected them. But this was how they repayed his anguish. With bullet holes?
No One. No One.
He could be shouting out a plethora of insults to the ones that hurt him, but it wasn't right it felt right.
Instead he just watched from afar. Thats all he could ever truly do, be distant.
Lonely.
Lonely.
Lonely.
He didn't want to.
Not his Blood
He heaved on the tight coil in his throat. It threatened to strangle him, suffocate him like a star letting out its last breath before its light was snuffed out.
A sad ugly noise was ripped out of him. A gutteral sob that wrecked his entire frame.
He let out a wheeze, the air too thick for his lungs. It scraped its way down his throat with unrivaled anger as hot and scolding as coals.
Not his Blood.
It was only him.
Not his Blood.
He couldn't do anything.
Not his Blood.
Peter clutched his head as it pounded with the rhythm of his beating heart. It thundered in his ears, as controllable as a shrieking mother grieving for her child. That he failed to save.
Not his Blood.
He was shivering. Sitting in the debris that was once a home.
Not his Blood. Not His
He couldn't breathe. He pressed his fists shut like a clam at the thought of the meager oxygen he didn't deserve need.
Not his Blood.
Peter sat frozen. Waiting for the world to go back. It didn't.
Not his Blood.
His gloved hands laid limp on his lap. They were covered in bright red. The substance of life.
Not his Blood.
Peter tilted his head and looked up. Barely visible stars twinkled in the blanket of the cool night. A complete contrast to the warm tears that had found their way slipping down his soft features.
The features of a child.
Not his Blood. Not his Blood.
He was cold. Nothing felt right.
Nothing was right.
His bones were cold. His very structure was frozen, his joints solidified. He couldn't move. He didn't want to. He wanted a hug.
Pete hugged held himself together, as if he could hold on only a little longer.
He couldn't.
His hands trembled and his head spun. Like a fan that was barely hanging on… He was barely hanging on, gripping at it with the tips of his torn and bloody fingers.
…
Was he? Or was he waiting for someone to push him over the edge?
He deserved hated it. He hated it. He hated it. Why did it sound so true?
He was being crushed. Life was being squeezed out of him. And all he could think of was his family.
He was 8 again and watching the light bleed from his uncle's eyes in a dark pool.
He was 9 watching his Aunt buckle under the weight of the world in front of him, struggling to stay afloat as the grief shoved her under.
He was 11 waiting for his aunt to tuck him in.
He had sat back, waiting and watching for everything to happen in his life.
Peter wouldn't do it again.
It was only him again.
He pushed uo straining against the sharp concrete that dug into his soft skin, it pressed against him hurting the integrity of his spine.
Everything hurt, it wasn't worth it. He wanted to scream and cry like a child. He was a child. He cried out as his arms gave out for the second time. His muscles spasmed and screamed in agony, he couldn't do it.
Now he was 14 and struggling to save his own life. Trapped below what was once a strong and capable roof.
He was fighting against his own doubts. Fighting against the urge to quit. He was Spider-Man.
Not Peter Parker.
All of Peter's desperation and dread of what might come was being squashed and suppressed into a small ball. Something that could be forgotten until it exploded.
He couldn't do it.
He wanted to erupt and cry in his parents arms. He wanted to be held and loved on like a child.
Peter wanted out, he wanted to be free of this crushing weight, both literally and figuratively.
Not his Blood.
He was kneeling, watching the one he called family die.
He wanted to hold her close, hug her, whisper empty promises in her ear as she left him.
He smiled at her as tears gathered in his eyes, threatening to spill as peter spoke with a hushed, ‘You’re Okay, you're fine..’
He'd do anything for her.
He couldn't.
Nothing would stop him.
Everything was.
He couldn't save her. He could never save those close to him.
Her breathing faltered as a pool gathered below her. It mocked him. He looked at her eyes, her wrinkled smile.
He couldn't do anything and it was killing him. There was no way she would survive.
His fault.
He lifted his hand, covered in her blood. It was still warm, unlike her lifeless eyes. He wanted to see her smile. Please.
Not his Blood.
There was a light at the end of the tunnel, in the shape of a hug from his favorite people.
They loved him.
They hadn't left him yet.
They would .
He got a hug. They were warm, their hold secure as they held him together. Keeping him from falling apart at the seams at the realization that Aunt may would never be coming back. His sobs were broken and quiet, he could barely breathe through the hurt.
It hurt so much even with MJ and Ned.
They were his anchors.
were
Were
Were
No one remembers him. No one. Not even MJ or Ned.
Just Spider-Man.
Every glance had him choking up. Her soft brown eyes flitted over to him as he took silent sips of coffee.
Everything reminded him of her. His neighbors curly brown hair, and his teacher's soft smile.
No one. No one. No one.
Ned’s Lego man sat by his bed. It's transparent blue electrical bolts hitting the morning light.
No one. No one.
Everything clicked and Peter woke up.