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Bubbling excitement. That was what his father was always described when he would constantly pull out the family photo album, the album that Miles knew was the album that only consisted of him, every picture, every memory, etched into the pages of that album. He would pull it out, and flip to the page he would always turn to, and point to the same photo. The photo of him holding baby Miles, as cute as a button! He would say, and Miles would disagree, but he would always keep quiet when he turned to his father and watched his face reveal a bittersweet smile.
He would then start talking, start babbling all about the moment the photo at the time captured, and Miles would listen intently, but after the first few times, he would simply tune it out. There was no way of keeping him silent, no matter how much he tried, his father wouldn’t budge, constantly overriding his own complaints about how embarrassing it was, with even more vivid description of his first steps. He wished he could listen to his voice one more time, he wished he listened every time, although part of him knew he would have probably left if he had to go through that one more time.
It’s so weird. Grief is so weird. He didn’t know what to feel when he watched his mother struggle to keep her sobs quiet in the thin walls of their apartment after the news had reached them that her husband, his father had died tragically, after attempting to save a young child from rubble collapsing on them. Neither survived. It’s not like he didn’t care for his father, he loved him, his mami would always point out how she was glad he at least took up some features of his father, and some of his mother. She would always joke that the reason she was so glad was because she really didn’t want another child if he ended up looking completely like one of them and not both. He guesses that was understandable, everytime he heard of childbirth it sounded like some horror movie, he wonders how there hasn’t been a horror movie about that. He could see the title, The Childbirth or something similar.
He loved his father, so why did he feel irritated towards him after his death when he would witness how stressed his mama was through the crack of her bedroom door, papers scattered on the desk he could only assume were bills. Why did he feel angry at him whenever the house felt colder and emptier than usual when his mama left for another twelve hour shift for the third time in a row that week? Why did he struggle to feel anything when he watched the casket his father was to be laid in the ground, the wailing of other people tuned out into background noise? Why is it, that in the most serious moments he never felt much but when he wandered aimlessly in their apartment he would always, always, see that godforsaken album cover when he snapped out of it? Why is it that his fingers would start to tremble and struggle to flip the pages, more, and more, as he gets closer to the photo he’s constantly heard the same story of, and when he finally gets to it? A dry chuckle, at first, wow, he really did change. It certainly was a change from him now, he was chubbier, and he didn’t have dark circles under his eyes, he really was..as cute as a button. That chuckle devolved into a heave, and it only got worse as tears blurred his eyes.
Why is it when he looked down at a field trip slip, he had to bite his inner lip to not let his eyes get too watery at the wrong thing as he stared at the “guardian’s signature is needed”? It’s not like it was specified, so why was he struggling to not cry in class? It reminded him of the days where he would patiently wait on the couch, nearly dozing off but forcing himself to stay awake until he heard the familiar jingle of keys and the door opening, the familiarity of the heavy steps, and that’s when his younger self would brighten up and run to him, showing him a field trip slip, pleading for him to sign it.
He missed his dad, in the most annoying, and stupidest way he could have possibly missed him.
He missed him when a cop car passed by him on the sidewalk, he missed him when there was an empty spot at the table when he’s eating a meal, he missed him when he sat down on the couch, and while stretching his hand out, looking lazily for the remote in the dark, only for his fingers to brush past the permanent dip in the couch that he remembers was his spot. His spot on the couch. And it still is, in his heart at least. He missed him when he struggled to peel open an orange for a snack, (and because he needed to finish it before they all went bad, otherwise it would be a waste of money) and called for him. And he missed him a little more when all that came back to him was an echo of his call for his papa.
Right now though, he missed him dearly, his heart ached, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of the fact that he basically got beaten up on a mission as the Prowler, or if it was actually because he missed him. Regardless, it hurt. It hurt a lot, everything hurt, his muscles ached, his cheek on the cold floor, whatever liquid he heard or felt he could safely assume it was his own blood.
He could hear Uncle Aaron yelling to him about something, but he couldn’t fathom it. What is he saying? The shuffling and shifting of his arms was a struggle, he couldn’t even put his upper body weight onto his arms without crumbling on the spot, his face smashing into the ground again. Still, he lifted his head up, his eyes teary, as he stared at Aaron, hidden, and injured himself, clutching at his shoulder. His eyesight blurred for a few moments, and for a second, he saw his dad in the place of Uncle Aaron and his breath hitched. Miles desperately tried to open his mouth, to say the word out loud, dad? But he couldn’t, he couldn’t even get a single sound out. His arms gave out and his chest slumped onto the ground once more, absolutely refused to try and pitifully carry his body weight. His eyes closed briefly, thinking over to the past months he wasn’t like this. Some sort of vigilante, some sort of anti-hero.
He remembered how excited he was, reading every single comic about Spider-Man, friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, about how he would protect his local neighborhood, sometimes even the world, and he always wondered when his Spider-Man would come. It was only the crushing blow of his father’s death that he was stripped out of his delusion, and he realized no one would come save this neighborhood. No one will swing in the sky with an iconic red and blue suit when someone is in trouble. Spider-Man isn’t coming. He doesn’t even exist.
That’s why he took up being the Prowler, isn’t it? That’s why he took it upon himself to discard his Uncle’s original design of the Prowler to make it more akin to Spider-Man. Sure, there’s no Spider-Man, he isn’t even Spider-Man, he isn’t a hero, all he’s doing is being selfish, all he’s doing is trying to help his ma, and trying to fulfill his dream of having a Spider-Man in his life. So what if he took up a dangerous role just to fulfill some childish dream? So what if he knew he wasn’t prepared for anything and ended up getting at least one bruised limb before he got the basics clumsily down? So what if he knew Uncle Aaron knew why he took this role in the first place? So what if he knew the reason Uncle Aaron refused to look at him at times was because he knew he was the sole responsibility of the injuries on his body?
“…iles? Miles, cmon bud, cmon,” an urgent whisper, a desperate attempt was what Miles heard when he opened his eyes again, his ears no longer had the blood rushing into them, lifting his head barely, he saw Uncle Aaron. Was it Uncle Aaron? No, he knew it was, the blurry figure crouched behind a wall, flickers of red on his figure, but every time he blinked he swore he saw his dad.
He remembered how his dad described his first steps. He had fallen, a terrible fall while unsupervised for a single minute, and he cried so loudly his dad came running out in seconds, the basket of unwashed clothes he was wery close to putting in the washing machine still in his arms. He was panicked, honestly, Miles forgot how his expression was, because he never explained it, all he focused on was Miles. That’s what his dad always did, he always focused on him. His father didn’t know what to do, apparently setting down the basket of laundry completely slipped out of his head, because Miles remembered he told him he tried encouraging him to crawl over to him, to let him see the damages if there were any. Apparently Miles quieted his wailing when he saw him, still sniffling and whimpering, he didn’t move.
“Miles? Miles, can you hear me?” He heard Uncle Aaron ask once more, worried for his nephew’s lack of response.
He remembered his dad continuing with his story after quieting Miles’s complaints of not wanting to hear it for the nth time. “And then guess what you did? Well, of course, you started crawling at first,”
He slowly got to his arms, lifting himself up with a wince, not fully upright, but on his fours. He doesn't think his legs could handle his full weight, but time was of the essence in any sort of mission—specifically in getting out of the scene, and he didn’t have that much time to crawl to where Uncle Aaron was, but god did it hurt like hell.
“but then, I assume you got irritated at the mud scraping at your boo-boo—“
“Dad, no.”
“..your boo-boo,” he continued with more emphasis, much to Miles’s dismay, “and after a bit of crawling, you had enough of it, and guess what you did?” He asked with excitement, but he didn’t even wait for a response before he continued, “You started walking—“
Miles pushed the tip of his foot onto the ground to try and lift himself up, trying to ignore the surge of pain that shot through his body, a warning telling him he couldn’t do it, but he didn’t heed it in hopes of achieving the opposite of what his body told him. He failed.
“I don’t think I could just suddenly walk..” Miles’s dad sighed, “Okay..so maybe you stumbled a little bit here and there, fell to the floor a couple times, but that was all a part of the process!”
He tried again, all part of the process right? He went slower this time, trying again to stabilize his foot on the ground and then attempted to stand up, he heard a loud bang coming from the distance, multiple footsteps nearing closer to where he was, his body freezing in terror and all his concentration vaporized. He fell back to step one.
He was getting increasingly more frustrated and more scared. He never got caught before, there were many close calls, yes, but Uncle Aaron would always save him in the nick of time when he realized he couldn’t help himself. What would happen if he did get caught? Who would he go to? Would he die? He can’t afford to leave his mama behind. He doesn’t want to.
“It was like a miracle, me and your mother were getting quite worried since you were already 2 years old and still crawling. But you started walking! You persevered and let your stubborn determination get to you! Unfortunate that that stubborn attitude didn’t leave when you were a baby.”
The footsteps were getting closer, but he wasn’t. He was still in the same spot. He tried one more time, this time out of pure desperation, he didn’t want to die.
He scrambled to put the weight on the soles of his feet.
His mom didn’t deserve to suffer alone in this horrible world, his mom didn’t deserve to have a husband and a son who’s equally selfish.
He stumbled, but he kept standing, he was struggling, his knees about to buckle down, but he tensed his legs.
What would happen if he did die? Would his mom die of grief?
“I kept on encouraging you, you know? That was the only thing to keep you from giving up and crying. Each time I kept on telling you to come over, you would giggle and walk a little faster.”
He limped to where Uncle Aaron was, he could see words coming out of his mouth, he wasn't sure what he was saying. But his gestures were more than enough to tell him that he was probably trying to coax him to not give up, to go a little faster. And he tried to. He really tried to speed up, especially when it felt like there were footsteps right behind him. The faster he got to Uncle Aaron, the faster the excruciating pain could relax, at least that’s what he thought.
His figure got closer, and closer, and he really hoped he got close enough, because that was all he could go. His steps slowed down dramatically, his body unable to physically continue, it was difficult to breathe, and he fell forward. Only for someone’s arms to wrap around him and pull him closer.
“I was so happy, as soon as you got close enough to me, I dropped the basket of clothes, and pulled you into my arms, laughing so much. I carried you away to tell your mom.”
He woke up in his bed, a bit disoriented, but in the comfort of the cold blanket over him, the comfort of his bedsheets underneath his lanky body, his home. He could hear some muffled conversation behind the door of his bedroom, shifting on his side he tried to overhear, but maybe it was too far, or he was too exhausted, or maybe it was the sudden spike of throbbing that caused him to stop trying to listen.
Regardless, he became victim to slumber all too easily.
He remembered how his mother would always compare him to his father. Maybe it was a part of how she processed grief, but everytime he would do something slightly similar to him, she would always smile so nostalgically. He never knew just how similar their behaviors were, until she started pointing them out. At first, he would deny it because no way was he that identical to his own father, he didn’t spend that much time with him, right? But he did. He always spent whatever extra time he had with him. He’s starting to accept it now, because what else are you supposed to do with information when it’s all up in your face, constantly acknowledged?
He’s so selfish, just like his father. Trying to take up a responsibility that risks him getting killed, what would his mama think?
Maybe in his dreams his mom will get a better son, and a better husband. Ones who can stay, because at this rate, he doubts he will.