Chapter Text
bendy pens - today they gave me this tiny flimsy pen I can barely hold, and dissociative amnesia, also known as [Holes, holes, more holes!]- I guess it's because I can't be trusted with something sharp, but a condition where one experiences memory gaps that may include an inability to recall personal information, usually of a traumatic nature[You are the result of a ripped-out formula! How are you supposed to make sense like that?] it's really annoying trying to write and draw with this thing lol It is commonly associated with long-term extreme ["You don't belong here". Don't worry, I'll do the remembering for you. I'm okay with it this time.]
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The teneral awoke slowly.
The bright light pierced the shadowed den behind his eyes as he emerged, stumbling and bleary, into consciousness; ascending from the depths of what felt like a year-long dormancy.
He blinked open his eyes, squinting painfully against the searing light. He tried to raise a hand to cover them, but met fierce resistance; something was pinning his limbs down.
Slowly, his eyes adjusted to his surroundings. A tiny, gray-walled room met him, illuminated by a hellishly strong fluorescent light. The straps tying him to the cot under him by his wrists and ankles were snug, but not tight. He looked down; he was wearing a purple hospital gown and odd yellow socks. What of his skin that was exposed to the air felt uncomfortably cold, like the nascent flesh of an insect callow, and he longed for a blanket.
His mind was cobwebs, an ancient clinging landscape echoing the presence of vanished spiders. He was lost, confused- but too far removed from time and context to feel alarmed.
The door clicked open.
Miles strained his head to look. A woman came in, wielding a clipboard and a big plastic smile. "Oh, someone's waking up!" she cooed, her voice was overly soft and coddling, like she was speaking to a toddler. Even with his brain absolutely crawling to life like an ancient laptop after being asleep for what felt like years, he found it condescending. "Good evening, Miles. How are you feeling?"
"Where... where am I?" he mumbled- or tried to, at least. His lips feeling like they were moving through honey. It was more like whhaawramai?
Nevertheless, his utterance appeared to be understood by the lady. "You're in a psychiatric hospital, sweetie. Don't worry, We're going to take care of you, okay?"
Miles furrowed his brow. "Why am I in a psychiatric hospital?"
Again, it was a mumble, but again, it seemed to be understood nonetheless. "You've just been having a bit of hard time lately. But don't worry. We promise, everything's going to be okay from here on out." The lady started undoing his straps.
In his sluggish mind, with even the faintest hint of a memory or understanding on how he got here utterly absent, it didn't make any sense at all. He wasn't the kind of kid to end up in a psych hospital. What the hell was going on? Who put him here? What was even happening?
"Where are my parents?" He lifted his newly freed hand to rub his eyes, trying to encourage the hibernation out of them a little faster.
"Oh, they'll be coming to visit you again later today." The lady peeled off the last strap from his leg. "You can sit up, now, honey."
"Again? They been here?" He slowly rose on trembling bony arms, though the effort to do so was great for a body which felt like it'd been asleep for a thousand years.
"Mhm, they have."
"Why don't I remember that?" Miles fought to pull himself into a more straightened, stable sit-up, but for his hubris he was punished with the realization his head was throbbing in pain. His chest, too, ached like he'd been run over by a train- like his lungs had been working so heavily it bruised his insides.
"It's okay, don't worry, this is normal. You just had a treatment, and the side effects can include some memory issues. But don't worry, chances are good that it'll all come back to you, okay?" She patted his arm.
"What did I need treatment for?" he mumbled. Especially a treatment this, apparently, intense. Last he checked, he was a pretty normal kid.
"You're going to see your psychiatrist, Dr. Miguel O'Hara, now. He's going to fill you in on everything, okay? Now you think you can stand up?"
"Um..." The lady began nudging him off the cot, but Miles didn't think his feet were up for the challenge, the way they were shaking. "I can try..."
She eased him into standing. Miles began to lift a foot, and it became immediately obvious he needed a refresher on how the thing worked as his knee buckled and the lady had to catch him. After nearly falling a couple times, eventually he was able to mostly stumble forward on his own, though the movement pattern was less "healthy normal human boy" and more "shambling reanimated corpse". Her guiding hand kept on his shoulder as he was slowly shepherded out the door into a hallway.
The walls were clinical green and the floors were clinical gray tiles. The only form that broke up the monotony were the steel doors. All had windows, but most seemed to be covered from the inside.
He stumbled forward at the nurse's command, feeling distantly like a sheep being led to slaughter. The more his mind woke up, the more questions pierced their way through the cobwebs.
Seriously, why was he here? Why couldn't he remember the last thing he remembered? What, exactly, was this treatment? Did his parents agree to this? Where were they? Were they worried? What about school? That was pretty important! Would he be able to keep up with his assignments in here?
They came to a wider hallway, interspersed with pots filled with greenery and shrubs- though even from a distance Miles could tell those leaves were artificial. There was an office to the side. They went in, revealing a room that seemed a step more fit for humans than the blank, disconcerting one he'd woken up in; there were chairs, a desk, counters, cabinets, and an examination table. The room was bisected by a curtain.
"Just take a seat here, okay, Miles?" She patted the examination table, and Miles did as he was told, grateful to not have to stand on his weak shaking feet.
He felt almost like he'd woken up in an apocalyptic aftermath bereft of most anyone, with the eerie dimness of the building, the lack of windows, and the fact not a single other soul had been seen or heard on his way over here.
After the lady took his vitals (which he was assured were all "looking good", in that dissonantly cheerful voice of hers like he was a kindergartener getting gold star stickers), the door opened.
Whoa, that guy's HUGE, Miles thought, eyeing the guy's over-the-top muscles.
"Good evening, Miles," the man said, pushing the door closed behind him with a hand. His face was stoic, but not unfriendly. "I'm told you're having some memory loss. I'm your psychiatrist. Do you remember me?"
"Um... no, sorry," Miles admitted. Not an inkling.
"It's alright. Amnesia is a normal side effect of the treatment you just had. My name is Dr. Miguel O'Hara. But you can call me Miguel."
"Uh, hi."
This Dr. Miguel O'Hara then looked over at the lady. Whatever was in his eyes, her demeanor changed under it. It was the subtlest thing, but her body hunched smaller, her eyes angled away; as she quickly bid Miles a farewell smile and nod before rushing out the door as if she was in a hurry to get out.
It was almost like she was frightened of him. Which left Miles wondering if he should be frightened, too.
Miguel came over, pulling up a chair to the side of the examination table, and sat down. "How are you feeling?"
"Um... confused," Miles said honestly, shuffling on his seat. "I have no idea what's going on."
A light smile halfway appeared on Miguel's lips, as if this was good news. "That's alright, Miles. I imagine you have a lot of questions right now."
"Well, yeah..."
"Well, do you remember anything? About why you're here, why you might be here...?" Miguel gazed at him, eyes seeking something.
Miles just shook his head.
"That's alright. Let me explain. A month ago, your parents brought you into my practice. They were very worried about you. You were suffering from an acute psychosis, which means you were experiencing delusions and hallucinations- that is, perceiving things that weren't real. Does that make sense so far?"
Miles stared at him, stunned. He could hardly process that information for a moment. "... I... I was?"
"Yes, you were." He peered down at his clipboard, as if checking something. "Since then, you have been diagnosed with schizophrenia, post-traumatic stress disorder, and, provisionally, unspecified dissociative disorder."
Honestly, Miles failed to parse any other words after one certain point: "Schizophrenia?" he echoed in disbelief. Now that the cobwebs were clearing, the alarm was starting to creep in. Just yesterday- whenever that was- he'd been a normal, totally fine, average kid. Now he was being told he was schizophrenic?!
"Yes, that's right. I don't want to scare you, but I also need to be perfectly honest with you, Miles. Your condition was very concerning and severe to us." He leaned in, expression serious. His voice lowered, as he spoke: "You're here, because you attempted to jump out a window."
Miles reeled. "- I- I- Out a window?!"
"Three stories up," Miguel confirmed with a solemn nod, face somber and empathetic. "It terrified your parents. They agreed to let you stay here, in our inpatient facility, so you could get the very best care and treatment under close supervision, where there would be no chance of that happening again."
Miles tried to wrap his mind around this. He couldn't understand- how could he ever bear to do that to his mom and dad?! How could that really be him?! He could've died, and- why? How? How could he have ever gotten mentally ill at all, let alone that bad?!
"Oh my god," he whispered quietly, feeling surreal.
Miguel gave him just a moment to process that information, then said, "I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions, so I can get a sense of where you are mentally after your treatment."
"Um... okay, sure." He blinked, the world fogging. "Um- is- is it cool if I lie down? I'm kinda dizzy..."
"Of course."
Miles slowly lowered his body down. He stared up at the ceiling, deciding to try and just focus on breathing for now, as Miguel adjusted in his seat. He reached for and took a clipboard left on the table beside them, and went through the papers, before starting.
"What's your name?" Miguel asked.
"Miles Morales."
"Your mom's name?"
"Rio Morales."
"Dad's?"
"Jefferson Morales."
"Good, good." Miguel's pen moved. In the eerie silence of the room, Miles could hear very plainly the scratching of the ink. "Where do you live?"
"Brooklyn."
"And how old are you?"
"Thirteen."
The pen stopped.
Miguel peered at him. "Thirteen?" he repeated.
Miles scrunched up his face. He'd answered that question just as automatically as the rest, but Miguel's reaction gave him pause. "Um... yeah, thirteen? I... think? Maybe I turned... fourteen recently...." He glanced up at Miguel for confirmation, but his face was a stone wall. "Right?"
"Miles," Dr. O'Hara said, "you are fifteen years old."
Miles stared.
"O-oh," he breathed.
"It's alright," Dr. O'Hara reassured him. "In time, you'll start to remember things again."
"Okay..." Miles managed weakly. Just focus on breathing, Miles. Just focus on breathing, he tried to tell himself, even as the world seemed to look more and more upside down and wrong. Had he really missed so much time? Was he really a high-schooler now? That meant he'd definitely finished puberty, right? He wondered what that was like, and how it was possible he didn't remember.
"Now... I need to ask you some more specific questions. Some of these may seem odd to you, or they may upset you. But I want you to try to answer them as best you can anyway, as they're very important. Do you understand?"
"Okay, y-yeah, I understand." Miles shuffled uncomfortably on the table, eyes wandering away from Miguel's intense eyes.
Miguel readied his pencil again. "Do you have an uncle?"
Miles's brow furrowed, and he wondered what that had to do with anything. "... Uh, yeah?"
Miguel's eyes were piercing. "What is his name?"
"... Aaron Davis."
Miguel turned his eyes down to the paper. He seemed to stall before asking his next question. When he did, the words came out slower, a hint of hesitation in his stoic, professional tone.
"And... is your uncle alive?"
Miles paused. "... What do you mean, is he alive? 'Course he's alive," Miles answered with a nervous laugh.
Miguel's eyes did not change, or lift from the paper.
Miles swallowed anxiously, eyes going wide, heart dropping. He asked, trepidatiously, "... I-is he alive?"
Miguel did not answer. He simply wrote something down. The stony silence filled Miles with some icy and terrible-
- and, faintly, on its distant cusp, burning red.
-Oh my god, is Uncle Aaron...? No- no, it can't be.
Dr. O'Hara interrupted his once-again growing horror with a total curveball. "Who is Spider-Man?"
"Sp-" Miles faltered, staring at Miguel in abject confusion. "Spider-Man?"
Miguel nodded, face dead serious.
"... Uh... he's... a superhero guy, I guess...?" Miles answered slowly.
Miles really didn't like the way Miguel was looking at him. So intense, as if this was one of the most important matters in the universe. Miguel asked, "And... nothing else to you?"
... He cast his mind for anything particularly special to him about Spider-Man, and came up blank. He thought the dude was cool, like pretty much everyone else. He saved the city like a hundred times. But Miles wouldn't call himself a fan, per se; he'd met Spidey fans, they were intense. He wasn't intense. Failing to draw up anything more than a vague, detached appreciation, he replied with an uneasy question of his own: "... Should he mean something else to me...?"
Miguel shook his head, smiling again, wider than before. It was almost... triumphant. "No, not necessarily." He scratched in a few lines on the paper.
"Then why...?"
Miguel peered up at him. "You... want me to explain?"
"Um... sure?" Miles pushed that assent forward cautiously, uncertain if it were the right decision.
Miguel sat up straighter, turning to face Miles straight-on. "As hard as it might be to believe, for the past year, you have been experiencing the delusion that you are Spider-Man."
Against all the building dread, Miles managed to laugh at such an absurd sentence. "Me? Spider-Man? That's crazy! Isn't he a 20-something white guy?!"
Miguel only nodded, smile remaining on his face. "It does sound a little strange, doesn't it?" He spoke it almost carefully, like Miles's confusion at the idea was a delicate bubble, and if he spoke too loudly it might pop. "Your parents will be here soon. They'll be able to tell you all about it." He rose, clipboard falling to his side. "Why don't we get you to your room?"
"Uh, sure." Miguel held out his hand to offer his help in standing, and Miles took it.
"I will warn you," Miguel said on their way to the door, "there is a camera inside your room. There will also be checks every 30 minutes, for your safety."
"That feels... overkill," Miles protested meekly.
"It's facility policy for high-risk patients like you. But we expect in a few days, if your recovery continues to go well, that you'll be moved to the low-security ward. There, you'll have more freedom."
Miguel took him down the weaving halls to his room, and the whole time, his hand never left Miles's shoulder. It made Miles feel pretty uncomfortable, and several times he tried to lean away or otherwise silently express discomfort, but Miguel never seemed to take the hint- in fact, his grip only tightened.
The door to his room was the same as all the others in this eerily silent hall. Miguel unlocked it with a key, and pushed it open.
Miles ventured cautiously into the dark room, frowning at the stereotypically padded walls and floors. There was a stiff-looking bed, all round soft kiddie edges, with no pillow and exactly one blanket which seemed firmly attached to its frame- and that was that. It was the sole piece of furniture in the room. There were no windows. The only other object he could see was the light embedded in the ceiling, set to a dim level.
"Dude, this sucks," Miles could not help but say out loud, as he stood in the middle of it.
Miguel chuckled a little under his breath from the door. "Well, it's not supposed to be a hotel."
Is it supposed to be a prison?! Miles answered in his head. Though maybe even prison cells had more life to them than this.
"Once you're moved to the low-security ward, you'll have a better room, I promise," Miguel said, a small note of warmth entering his voice. "You understand, after what happened with you, how we need to take precautions." His voice changed, becoming darker, quieter. "You'd, uh, be surprised, how... creative, the high-risk patients that come through here can be. ... Even with something as simple as a desk."
A chill ran down Miles's spine, and suddenly he didn't feel too bad about his accommodations. "... I get it," he granted slowly, as he took a seat on his bed.
"Now usually, hospital policy for the high-security ward doesn't permit visitation in patient rooms. But given your state and circumstances I think we'll make an exception and let your parents visit you here. I can assume that's alright with you."
Miles plucked at his blanket. It was soft, not too bad. "Yeah, totally alright."
Miguel's face turned more serious. "You'll be locked in the room. If there's anything wrong- anything at all- knock on the door and call for us, do you understand? I will be right down the hall."
"Okay..."
"And one last thing." He pulled something from his pocket; a crumpled note. On it, was scrawled a human figure; instead of a face, there was a black scribble of a hole. "This is a drawing you did to show me one of your most frequent recurring hallucinations." He handed it to Miles for him to get a good look, even though Miles had little desire to hold onto it. Just looking at it creeped him out. "If you see this figure- or anything else unusual, but especially this- I want you to come notify me immediately. Do you understand?"
"Uh... y-yeah," Miles said. The drawing made things feel so much more real, and he was quick to push it back toward Miguel, not liking the feeling of holding evidence of his craziness in his hands. "Yeah, I'll tell you right away. Man, I- I was real crazy, wasn't I?" He forced a smile, trying to make a laugh, like it was funny.
Miguel just raised an eyebrow. He didn't crack a smile in return. "You should rest," he said. "Until your parents get here."
And just like that, he went to leave. Miles, a little confused and at a loss for what else to do, went to sit down on the miserable excuse for a bed and rest like he was told.
Miles laid on the bed in silence, staring up at the ceiling and playing with his hands. His legs bounced, and his mind spun with the unbearable pressure of keeping back all the questions and concerns.
He was aware of the camera Miguel had mentioned, somewhere in this room, watching him, recording his every movement. He swallowed uncomfortably, finding his eyes kept darting around looking for it, but oddly, no matter how many times he scanned the rim of the ceiling, he couldn't find even a hint of it. The camera must've been hidden, maybe between one of the pads in the wall. He supposed that was clever. Must've been a lot of crazies coming through here, trying to outsmart those cameras, doing stuff out of sight of them. When the camera wasn't visible though, there was no way of knowing what was out of sight...
Thirty minutes passed, and there was a knock on the door.
It opened, and once again Miguel poked his head in, his eyes stony and cold falling on Miles.
"Just a check," he said.
Miles offered a thin, crooked smile and a nod, and Miguel closed the door. At once the smile dropped off his face, and he swallowed anxiously. Why was it his psychiatrist, specifically, checking on him? That was slightly odd, wasn't it? You'd think it'd be like, a lower-ranking nurse or whatever? He supposed it didn't matter.
Minutes passed again, and Miles tried tapping a beat to one of his favorite songs on his chest, though his fingers failed to match as the song swam in and out of his brain and he kept starting over. He was just about getting it right, though, when the door again creaked open.
Miles looked up. Has it been thirty minutes already? Felt like way less than that.
But this time, it wasn't Miguel who walked in. It was-
"Mom! Dad!" Miles exclaimed, writhing up from the bed to greet them- but within seconds they closed the distance for him, their arms throwing around him tight.
"Miles!" they cried in unison.
Miles almost couldn't believe it. He didn't realize it until right now, but he found himself shocked, that despite the crazy, upside down world he'd just woken up in, where he'd been parasitized by a crazy version of himself that believed he was Spider-Man and went around jumping out of windows- his parents were still the same, and they still loved him, just as much.
His mom's hands reached up and half-caressed half-gripped his face, as if trying to hold him steady in a relentless storm. "Baby, are you okay?! How are you feeling?!"
Miles had been keeping it together. In fact, he'd really thought he was pretty chill right now, all things considered. But at seeing his mom's face, her worried eyes, her desperation, Miles's bottom lip trembled, and he burst into tears.
She pulled him close, caressed his head into her, kissed his forehead. "Oh, no llores. Todo estará bien," she reassured him softly.
"What's going on, mami?" he whimpered. "I don't know what's happening."
"What do you remember, kid?" his dad asked him in a whisper, as if raising his voice above one would break him. "Dr. O'Hara told us you might have some memory issues..."
"I don't remember anything," Miles sniffled. "He told me I'm schizophrenic, and- I need all this treatment and- I don't get what he's talking about."
"Okay, son, it'll be okay," his dad reassured him softly, rubbing his back. "Relax, take some deep breaths, alright?"
Miles did as he was told, and melted into their embraces, letting tears fall down his cheeks. He sought their comfort, their warmth. Knowing they were here for him, just like always... it could make him strong enough to face anything.
"It'll be okay, Miles. It'll be okay. You'll start remembering things soon, okay?" his dad continued to reassure him, just stroking his back. "Just relax. We're here."
Slowly, in their comforting embrace, he calmed down again.
"Have... have I really been schizophrenic...?" he asked in a sniffle.
His dad sucked in a breath and exhaled a gentle, hedging, "Yeah..." His mom nodded in confirmation sympathetically.
"He told me I, uh, been thinking I'm... Spider-Man...?" He pulled back a little from them as he said it, wiping tears from his eyes and producing a nervous, uncertain laugh as he watched their faces. "Is- is that for real?"
His parents exchanged glances, all wide eyes, faces tense with a sudden beam of light at the end of a dark tunnel that they didn't know yet whether to trust.
"You... don't remember that at all?" his mom asked cautiously, as if taking an exploratory first step on a creaking wooden bridge.
"Nah, not at all," Miles answered, watching their faces with the ever-compounding dread as his close companion. "How did I even believe that?"
His mom's smile was slow, sad, but sincere. "Oh, you had this whole story..."
"Yeah, it was... complex," his dad offered with a little, restrained laugh.
Their expressions told a long, devastating story of pain and heartache and confusion. Even in the depths of his confusion and anxiety, it made Miles feel so terrible. He couldn't understand this incoherent and bizarre Other Miles, who had apparently been ruling his life, hurting his parents like this.
"I'm... so sorry," Miles told them quietly, voice breaking a little. He took a deep breath, tears once again filling his eyes, as he built up the momentum to speak aloud such a horrible truth: "... Miguel told me I tried to... jump out a window."
What came in their eyes was gutting. Tears filling them, they again pulled him close.
Miles pressed desperately hard into them, wanting to apologize and grovel profusely at their feet for ever not being in their grip. He may not know much, but what he did know, was that right now, he hated the Other Miles- and he would do anything to make sure he would never come back.
"It was terrifying, Miles," his mom breathed, and his heart broke at the pain in her voice, and he sobbed. "If Jess hadn't grabbed you just in time..."
"Who's Jess?" Miles asked uncertainly through his tears, unsure if it was the right time to ask.
"Your therapist," Miles's dad informed him.
I tried to kill myself in a THERAPIST'S office?! Miles thought in disbelief. Dang, that's... ironic. He was starting to get the sense, that Other Miles defied understanding, and every new thing he learned about him would only leave him more confused and lost.
"Never, ever, ever, ever, ever do that to us again, do you hear me?" His mom pulled back, and looked him in the eye as she said it, her gaze intense, pleading.
"Never ever ever ever ever ever. I promise," Miles said strongly, with the most conviction he'd ever had in his life, gazing back into his mom's eyes unwavering. He softened, once again searing with a stab of self-hatred. He said, "I am so, so sorry, you guys."
Once again, she hugged him close. His dad's grip was so tight Miles felt it was a little hard to breathe.
A comfortable silence fell over the embracing family. Miles's eyes passed over his mom's shoulder to the walls, scanning them again. He remembered the camera, and felt eerie, violated at the idea of an extraneous party witnessing their vulnerable family moment. He wondered if his parents knew about it.
... Still, there was something he desperately needed to ask. Something that simply could not wait for however long it would take for a true private moment with his parents.
It took him a while to drum up the courage to broach it, and even just the thought of approaching it made his heart pound, his stomach drop, and his fingers begin to shake- embodied warnings of something terrible.
But finally, in a voice as light as snow, he began to speak of it.
"... Um... so guys, uh... another thing Dr. O'Hara said to me, uh, kinda, like, really- really freaked me out, and, I-I- I don't know if I should ask about it- but-"
He swallowed anxiously. They were both staring at him expectantly, he could feel it, but his eyes fixated on the ground, unable to lift.
He could feel it. The immeasurable darkness of the question, so frigidly cold it burned hot. Still, boldly or stupidly, he stepped forward into it, because there was no other option.
"... Is Uncle Aaron... okay?"
He dared look up to gauge their reactions. His mom lifted a hand to her mouth, tearful eyes seeking her husband's, who looked on in tragic despair, some tears burgeoning in his as well. Miles sank a further million fathoms.
"... Miles, son..." His dad's voice was very careful, though it carried a terrible pain. His eyes watched him tragically, uncertainly. "Your uncle... passed away."
... On some level, Miles had known the words before he'd even said them. But that didn't mitigate their impact. A thousand-ton asteroid, hitting his earth.
His breath came out heavier. "Oh- oh my god. What- what happened to him?! How could that have happened! Just last night he-!!"
Wait. Pause. Just last night?
They looked over at him, the words understandably just as curious to them as they were to him. "Just- just last night, baby?" his mom interrogated, sniffling.
"I... I don't remember," Miles said slowly. Firmly adrift from concrete time or context, he didn't actually remember a "last night" at all, and yet those were the words he'd used. "Oh my god, I don't remember anything." His breath was coming out in a still-ever-faster pace, his heart sinking. He all but yelled, "When did he die?!"
His parents exchanged glances that spelled something terrible.
"When did he die?!" Miles again repeated, only more urgently-
When does it happen?!
- He let out a pained gasp, hands going to his head automatically. He didn't know what that was- he'd blinked, and in a flash it was like he was partially in another time and place that was so infinitely far, yet paradoxically right there inside of him. He got nothing from it but those searing words leaving his mouth and a hint of sorrowful but stony glances his way across an endless black landscape.
"- Miles, you okay?!" his dad asked urgently, hand gripping his shoulder.
"I- just tell me," Miles begged, trying to catch his breath under the shadow of it. "Please."
They looked at each other, as if silently debating whether or not they should tell him.
"... He passed a year and a half ago," his dad finally said, voice soft.
Miles wiped his eyes frantically, breath coming out of him faster and faster. He clawed for the capacity to ask, voice wavering, "What- what happened to him?"
His parents seemed hesitant to answer, looking at each other in that way of theirs- exchanging a silent conversation between them.
"... We'll... talk about it when you get out of here, okay?" his dad told him gently. "For now, you just focus on feeling better."
Miles sniffled. He found himself relieved by the idea of not having to talk about it right now, although a strong part of him wanted to demand all the information he could get. "Yeah, okay..."
There was a knock on the door, and it opened. "I'm sorry," said the nurse or whoever behind it, "it's lights out. You'll have to leave."
"We'll be back tomorrow, okay?" his mom told him urgently, stroking his arm.
"Okay," Miles sniffled, though he still wished they didn't have to go. He didn't want to go to sleep alone.
"Oh! Um, I almost forgot," his dad said, and he took something out from a bag Miles had been too caught up in everything to notice before.
It was a little blank sketchbook. Miles took the gift, wiping his eyes.
"They, uh, said I couldn't bring in any pencils or pens," his dad said with a light roll of his eyes present in his tone. "But they'll give you one if you ask."
"Okay..." Miles said softly.
He wondered, though, what the point was of drawing, if there was no Uncle Aaron to show his designs to. No Uncle Aaron to encourage him, to cheer him on, to teach him how to put his mark on the world.
He waited, until his parents had given him their final hugs and tearful, forced-smile goodbyes, and finally left, before tossing the sketchbook to the floor, curling up into a ball, and turning his head into his pillow so the camera- wherever it was- wouldn't see his tears.
...
The next morning, Miles was herded up to use the bathroom and then for breakfast. He was exhausted, bleary; he'd barely gotten any sleep, and he moved like a slug.
Somewhat to his surprise, the cafeteria reminded him a lot of the one at Brooklyn Middle- except for how the room was bisected into two sides with flimsy green tape. The side he'd entered on was substantially smaller than the other, which was filled with other teenagers. Unlike his purple gown, they were in green ones; they milled around, chatting together. Many were going through the lunch line with trays. Without the gowns and grippy socks, it would've looked like a regular school mealtime.
Despite the fact they were mental patients, a lot of them had smiles on their faces, hanging out just like regular kids. Encouraged by that, Miles moved forward, hoping to join them-
-but a hand grabbed his shoulder hard.
"Sorry," Miguel said stoically after Miles jolted. "High-security patients stay on this side of the cafeteria."
"Oh." Miles's shoulders sunk in disappointment, but he still reluctantly set about looking to his half of the cafeteria to find what passed as a friendly face out of his fellow super-insanes... only to find all of the seats absolutely empty. "But... no one else is on this side."
"You're the only one staying in this wing right now," Miguel said.
"- ... Oh. For real?"
"We are a small and specialized facility," Miguel said by way of explanation, once again grabbing Miles uncomfortably by the shoulder and herding him to one of the seats, even as Miles tried to lean away. "We don't get many inpatient stays, relatively speaking- especially of your complexity."
"I don't feel that complex," Miles commented, shying from Miguel's hand. "Hold up, I wanna sit over there." He pointed to one of the tables close to the green tape border, even as Miguel non-negotiably herded him to the table closest to the opposite door- literally as far away from everyone else as possible. "You know, a little closer to civilization, yeah?-" Miguel pushed him into the seat. "- Hey, can't I at least choose my own seat?" he halfway snapped.
"You'll be able to sit with them when you move wings," Miguel told him emotionlessly. "It'll only take a few days, assuming nothing goes wrong."
Miles pouted, glaring at the ceiling, but knew better than to argue. "Fine."
Miguel watched him for a moment longer, then nodded, and walked away. He assumed a stoic stance by the door, his eyes not leaving Miles.
– A sound came from beside him, and Miles jumped, and looked up to realize he'd been so focused on Miguel he hadn't noticed someone coming over with a glass of orange juice and a bowl of... what may have had aspirations of being oatmeal.
Just as quickly as the nurse giving him the bowl approached, they vanished, as if they wanted to minimize their time around him as much as was physically possible. Miles didn't think they'd even looked at him.
He wondered why he wasn't allowed to join the other kids in the lunch line. He looked over, and it seemed the other kids seemed to have trays with more passable stuff like toast or soup. He stared down at his comparably lesser offering and the crappy plastic utensils offered. Briefly he had the thought of rejecting it in protest. But his stomach was growling, and he realized he was starving like he hadn't eaten in days.
So, with a sigh, he went forward, and prodded at it.
Admittedly, the oatmeal, when he finally brought it to his lips, didn't taste as bad as he was imagining. It was watery, and bland, but it wasn't actively offensive. And the OJ was alright, too. All and all, he'd describe his breakfast as... acceptable.
He spent his time in this exiled corner of the cafeteria watching the other kids, who were looking over at him curiously, whispering to each other.
In particular, there was this one girl- white, blonde hair with pink highlights. For one reason or another, she seemed captivated by him. When Miles met her wide-eyed, expectant gaze, she moved like she was about to stand up and run over to him- but her eyes flicked to Miguel. Miles's followed them, and almost had to do a double take- the cold, intense glare Miguel was giving her could've stopped the Green Goblin dead in his tracks.
Nervously, the girl went like she never intended to move, focusing back on her tray. Though she still leaned over and whispered something to another kid. His eyes popped open wide, and soon their table seemed alive with hushed chatter and conspicuous glances over his way.
In mortification and discomfort, Miles half hid his face in his hand between his hunched shoulders. They probably all thought he was an ax murderer or something. That's what he'd think, if he was over there on the Crazy side, and looked over to see exactly one guy in the Super-Crazy side, forcibly sat as far from the rest of them as physically possible.
And maybe he deserved it. He'd spent the past two years or so thinking he was freaking Spider-Man, right? Yeah, he wasn't looking forward to having to explain that.
...
After breakfast, Miles was returned to his room; the door was unceremoniously locked behind him, and he was left all alone.
His eyes went to the sketchbook, expecting it to be found on his bed, but instead it was left discarded on the floor. He scooped it up, wondering why he'd left it over there. Or maybe it'd just fallen off and he hadn't noticed in all the disorientation of beinng woken up for breakfast.
Either way, his dad had said he could ask for a pen, so he went over and knocked on the door, like Miguel had told him he could do. As he waited, he tried to un-crumple some of the pages-
The door clicked open. "Yes?"
- It was spooky, how fast Miguel had came over. What had that been, three, four seconds? He blinked up at him for a moment, surprised.
"Uh... I just was wondering if I could have a pen or something?" He waved the sketchbook indicatively.
Miguel stared at him for a moment, then the door shut, and his footsteps receded. Miles stood there, slightly dumbfounded. Guess the answer's no...?
He turned his back on the door and began to drag his feet back to the bed with the useless sketchbook hanging at his side. He figured maybe he could use the sheets for origami or something. Or maybe-
The door opened. "Here."
Miles looked up. Miguel was handing him a pen.
"Oh, thanks," Miles said, reaching over and taking it-
Wait. Oh, come on. Seriously?! The pen was floppy and bendy and tiny, he could barely get a grip on it. Ugh, whatever. Miguel had already closed the door and left, so he just sat back down on his cot, opened his sketchbook, and tried to make it work.
...
A little later, Miles heard footsteps approach the door fast, and another set chasing them. Voices arose, and Miles stopped his pen to listen.
"... please, Miguel, I need to see him. I just need to, after everything that..."
He could just about make out the words of that one voice, standing right outside the door. There was more to the whispered exchange, more that he couldn't make out- and then, the door opened.
Trailed diligently by an especially scowly Miguel was a tall white guy, with messy short brown hair in a doctor's coat that wasn't fitted on properly. Dark circles underlined his eyes, and he had clearly missed a few spots while shaving.
When his eyes found Miles, they lit up like he was the best news of his entire life.
"Hi, Miles," he spoke softly, as if he was scared if he spoke too loud, the moment would break apart like a fragile butterfly. He moved that way, too, coming to take a seat by him with all the caution of approaching a nervous squirrel.
"Uh, hey?" Miles said, straightening up, watching the man with confusion.
The man's face glowed as if the first glimmers of dawn after a long and painful night, as he regarded Miles. There was something unmistakably sad, even despairing about it, though, like he was just as much in celebration as he was in mourning.
"How are you feeling, kid?" he asked him.
"IIIII'm okaaay," Miles said slowly, at a loss. "Um... sorry. My memory's kinda- so I don't-..."
"Oh, no, it's okay, it's okay!" the man said rapidly. "Don't worry about that." He put a hand to his chest. "I'm Dr. Peter Parker. But you can call me Peter."
"Okay... uh... how do we know each other?" Miles asked.
Miguel was the one who answered that question, for some reason. "He's one of your doctors here," he said stoically.
... Miles couldn't quite make that match with the way the man was looking at him, but okay.
"You're doing a lot better, right?" Peter's hand took and patted Miles's shoulder, absentmindedly, as if that was something he did all the time. Miles leaned away slightly, hoping this guy remembered that, whatever their backstory, he was a stranger to him right now.
Miles didn't know how to respond. Even though he was quite confident he'd never seen this man in his entire life, that sadness, grief, on his face, was even affecting him, it was so stark, even as it co-existed with hopeful, relieved joy.
"Yeah, I am, I think. I don't really remember what I was like before, so..."
"Hey, that's alright." Peter glanced down at his sketchbook, which Miles was by instinct trying to angle away from him. "So, what are you drawing?" He smiled eagerly, leaning in to try and see it.
Miles automatically clutched his sketchbook to his chest. It was just doodles, but he only liked to show his art to his uncle- not even his parents were let in to see it very often. "Nothing," he said- and realizing that sounded suspicious, added, "Seriously, it's, like, literally just doodles, so..."
"Can I see?" Peter asked that question, but didn't wait for an answer, snatching it from his hands. Miles grumped, annoyed, but he didn't seem to notice. "- Wow, these are good!"
He said it so exuberantly and sincerely, like he really did mean it, but Miles still found it condescending. "It's... just doodles..." he reiterated slowly. "Nothing serious, y'know..."
"Don't be modest, kid."
"i'm not-"
"You've always been such a great artist." Peter patted his back, oblivious to his discomfort with that. "Keep it up, okay?"
"Yeah, uh, I will," Miles said cautiously, edging away from him.
"Peter," Miguel muttered, voice a little stern. "We need to go."
"Alright, alright." Peter stood up, handing Miles his sketchbook back. "See you later, Miles!"
"Yeah, bye," Miles said in a clipped tone.
They left, and Miles was left in the silence just wondering what the hell that was all about.
...
There was no clock on the wall of his room, but over the course of the day the coming and going of nurses dragging him to and from various activities (always trailed by Miguel, as if the guy didn't have anything better to do...) provided at least a semblance of time.
He had a visit with his therapist, Jess, who seemed pretty cool and nice. She repeatedly prodded him with probing questions, presumably seeking any sign of distress or insanity to jump in on- but Miles could honestly offer her nothing, as hard as he tried. He was kinda scared, but he was keeping his head above the water. Mostly, he was just bored and annoyed and eager to get out of this place, like anyone would.
There was also the "art room", which he was taken to as an apparent recreational and therapeutic activity. It was tiny, and there were only three activities that he could see: paints (all watery and toddler-safe, with the tiniest, flimsiest paintbrushes), "clay"- more like Play-Doh- and a checkers board missing pieces, which he had to confess didn't seem to him like an artistic activity. He was, of course, the only patient there, and once again his every move was being closely watched by Miguel from the door. Which in all honestly, left him rather stifled from pursuing the supposed purpose of being therapeutically freed by the joy of art.
Finally, visitation came, and his parents once again reappeared. This time, with less urgency, but no less warmth.
After releasing their opening embrace, his dad asked with a tired sigh, "How's it going here, kid?"
Miles sighed, placing his cheek into his hand. "The art supplies suck, the nurses all talk to me like I'm a toddler, there's literally nothing to do, but..." He offered them a thin, resilient smile nevertheless. "I'm not thinking about jumping out windows or anything, so, it's for the best, yeah?"
"Yeah," his mom spoke with a sad smile, exchanging a cautious, knowing glance with his dad. "We hope so."
He looked back down at the drawing he was doodling in his notebook, going in to careful continue the line. It reminded him of his next point. "I just can't wait to get out of here and see Aaron again. You guys know why he hasn't come visit me yet? He out of town or something?"
He knew something was wrong almost immediately after saying that; a silence, cold and eerie, fell. Miles looked up, and saw his parents staring at him with wide, alarmed eyes, suddenly frozen still.
Their alarm alarmed him in turn; Miles didn't understand. "What?" he asked, meekly, wondering if he said something wrong.
"Miles..." his dad began to break the silence, voice slow and- almost fearful. "Don't you remember what we-?"
"- I don't know, baby," Miles's mom interrupted his dad, a smile obviously cheap and plastic coerced onto her face, her fingers worrying her necklace. "We'll ask him, okay?"
She said it in just about the same cadence of the nurses who talked to him like he was 8.
"... O...kay..." Miles said slowly, confused and disturbed. "Is... something wrong? Did something happen?"
"N-no, kid, everything's fine," his dad said, with a matching smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You just focus on getting better, okay?"
"... Okay, y-yeah, I'll do that..."
The rest of the visit was fine, though they repeatedly dodged every question Miles asked about it and changed the topic. Miles was left blindsided and lost. Why were they acting so weird all of a sudden? Did it have to do with Uncle Aaron...? If so, what had happened?
Maybe Uncle Aaron... didn't want to visit him? - No, that was crazy talk. The moment he heard his nephew was in the hospital- even a hospital for crazies- he'd come running.
So... what was going on...? What if he was... hurt...?
But Miles found himself unwilling to ponder on it further, a feeling of dread enveloping him at the idea. Every time he stepped close he felt compelled to turn away, like an invisible wall in a video game.
Yeah, he'd just... do what his dad said, and focus on getting better.
Just... focus on getting better.