Chapter Text
Doomscrolling. An indicative phenomenon that has spiked in popularity for the last few years. It is a psychological phenomenon that had been greatly influenced by the 2020 quarantine, along with the decreed declining of teenage mental health where it became apparent that the need for external validation permeated the permafrost settled on their minds from overwhelm of schoolwork.
{I counted only one comma in that exceedingly long sentence. I think that surpassed our longest run-on sentence yet.}
It's too early for you. To be entirely honest, I'm not so sure that 44-word sentence made a lick of sense.
Anyway, doomscrolling. It is categorized by the dissociative act of one laying in bed, sitting on the couch, on the train, wherever with zero ongoing awareness of their surroundings. In the most typical case, it disrupts social gatherings and sleep schedules and yadda. Doomscrolling can occur on any kind of device and on any app; TikTok, the generations biggest mistake after Musical.ly tried, and failed, to fill in the uncoloured lines of Vine. This app most would say is the Doomscrolling app. Full of slop and predators and hateful people.
[Isn't that just Twitter?] One might ask, and yes, you would be correct. I was getting there. [Hey, don't narrate me narrator.]
Twitter, Tumblr, Bluesky, Threads, YouTube Shorts, it goes on. Hell, Ao3 is certainly its own form of doomscrolling in and of itself. Probably the more brain-powering kind, whereas the subject of "doomscrolling" is more like a caveman [or cavewoman, caveperson? We don't discriminate,] in the way that he {or she!!!!} .. or she, would rather hit their head against surfaces to gather Informations and secrete the dopamines and serotonins from the brains.
{…don't talk like that…}
Social media is not the only victim of the Doomscrolling phenomenon though.
As we can see here, a victim of isolated Doomscrolling is bundled up in bed, how cozy! Phone in hand, second phone on the pillow, grumpy little face watching his thumbs move accordingly!
"Shut up," Wade grumbled, sounding much more like a "shadduph" than any actual formed words. His phone was framed between his hands, thumbs pushing and pulling the screen upwards and downwards. The brightness was maxxed out, the only source of light against the blackout curtains taped to the walls. His thumb would pause for a minute at a time, as his eyes took in everything on the screen. There were about ten thousand images and videos on file, as he'd purposefully cleared out everything else solely for this purpose. As far as his little organization went, Wade has had to categorize a series of different cellular devices over the years; about six of them, maybe more. This one was the original, the start of it all.
When brain matter meets bathroom tile, lungs meet water, and other such straightforward analogies; the truth is that parts of your body begin to deteriorate no matter how much healing you can do. Wade can recover from cremation, yet he cannot retain his memories. Stuck in the dwell of his mid-thirties, the earliest he can recall is 17 and that's even a stretch. His mind is a mismatched, stitched up collection of things he knows to be true, but nothing he can confirm for himself. This phone contains 8 years of memories, starting in the late 2000s and ending just before the grasp of quarantine talk and shitty elections. It's boarded into a thick bullet-proof, water-proof, fire-proof case and even thicker screen protector. Sure, the SD card technically could be transferred, but that's far from the point of why he made the effort.
It's old. It's some shitty iPhone 8, with horrendous camera quality and worse battery life. It's plugged in and on charge as Wade uses it.
See, he has these spells of immobility. Sometimes, when he tries to get back up, something won't let him. Instead of fighting against it, Wade accepts the paralysis and stays until the time is up. This scene is a faux-recreation of that, and it is what he will tell anyone who asks, "where were you?"
[Not that it would be a lot of people,] the hypothesis,
{but just one that counts.} And the conclusion.
Wade's thumb hovers over the screen, feeling the campfire-like heat eradiating off of it. His eyes are pale, devoid of the brown irises he once owned, encrusted with sleep. One could mistake him for being incredibly high, if he were to step out into the daylight, what with his worn dressing gown and slippers and blood-shot eyes.
{Wish we were high.} This sentence came to you by an amalgamate of interwoven braincells that form "thoughts." {Wow, that was insulting.}
The buzzing of thoughts is the only company one really has when doomscrolling. [Really? Back to that?] But if you ask me, the thoughts that come with doomscrolling really only sound like a heap of mish-mash.
On the screen, the iPhone's gallery is on display. The images are a blend of red, blue, streaking city lights. The photos have been taken candidly, possibly under the assumption that any that had been taken with permission knowledge would have been deleted after the punchline. Not all of them are favorited, only about 75%.
The sad reality of doomscrolling is the rotting of the brain.
"Fuckin' idiot." Wade muttered, closing in on a photo that was taken sometime in 2014. This photo was… really, the first photo that pictured Spidey. The rest were photos of pigeons, or rooftops, or other such scenery. This one Wade held dear. The first photo.
He and Spidey had been running into each other for quite a while before this phone was conjured into Wade's hands. They'd had a plethora of rivalling encounters: where they'd be, well, rivals, enemies, reluctant frenemies and eventually partners on the streets. These years of photos weren't even their entire partnership. It was missing maybe 2 years of run-ins, contained 3 years of fleeting encounters, and 5 of actual growth. Wade was looking at the first year of growth currently, and the photo on the screen was a charmer.
It was about nine months into a proper agreement, pre-patrol sunset where Wade had persuaded, once again, for Spidey to stick around for a bite to eat. That night, the sunset had been a nice quality, a textured gradient of blue, red, and yellow. Not a single star in sight. But Wade, he saw a pretty picture. Painted on an ironically coloured skyline, against black silhouettes of alive architecture, Spidey had his mask resting on his nose and a mouth ful of teriyaki as he spoke about an upgraded version of his web-shooters. The sciencey jibber-jabber always had Wade in a headlock, halfway to snoozing and halfway to actual interest. Overtime, the ratio of which grew more into the latter.
This specific photo was part one in a series; a candid photo of Spidey disobeying manner laws. The next right-swipe of Wade's thumb moved to a similar looking photo, only that Spidey had then turned to look at Wade, yet not noticing the phone until the next frame.
In that photo, Spidey took on a more offensive expression, confusion. Then the next, looking around in more confusion. And, finally, the following picture was blurred by movement, sudden and jolting. The camera only partially caught the reach of Spidey's hand reaching out in protest.
The phone's screen began to dim the longer Wade stared. It was one of his fondest memories of the early days, just the two of them. This was only a few photos out of thousands, but he couldn't help being enamored by the sequence of pictures.
[That night was the one that really solidified it.]
Solidified, oh, yes. That night truly, for Wade at least, ironed out the reality that was Wade's transition from simple hero-worship to a real want for connection.
Picture after picture Wade scrolled. He looked at each of them with intent, some with a smile and others where he'd feel himself sinking into a state of detachment, falling down the spiraling stairway that were "memories." He would better carve his brain out before allowing himself to forget any precious Spidey memories.
The next photo he stared longingly at was one that was less candid than the other. He remembered that day—if, saying you "remembered" something was akin to saying "I can see just fine," with steamed-up glasses, at the same time as you're driving in fog and also have steamed-up windows. That is the definitive perspective of Wade attempting to recall a time long past, in spite of the fact he claims he'd never forget them. True to his word though as he hadn't forgotten the memories itself, he had just forgotten how to see through the fog.
It'd been Winter, then. Poor Spidey was freezing his arachnoid ass off, unable to keep a stable temperature going. But, he insisted, that he should be patrolling. They weren't quite at the stage where Wade was entrusted with solo patrols, so Wade's arguing went unheard. As a treat, [bullshit cause we did it all the time,] Wade bought Spidey some nice hot miso soup to chow on. As in, a few bowls of it. The awkward, unsettled stance Spidey took upon realizing Wade had cared enough was… well, Wade figured he was just thankful and very awkward with feelings. It wouldn't be the first time an instance like this occurred, where Spides would be radiating a tense, awkward feeling of something being kept locked tight away. AKA, severe mental issues regarding the acceptance of unconditional, unasked for care. From a dude that he hated months beforehand.
Ah, memories.
{That really should be our line.}
"Ah, memories," Wade echoed, in lieu of commenting on any other mentioned subject. His throat was raw and pained, restraining his every vocalized thought. The attention returned to the picture.
It was slightly shaky. Definitely not perfect, not like the majority of the others. Wade held the phone once again, angling it down at himself and Spidey beside him. Poor Spidey was mid-sneezing out his soup, with Wade's arm locked around his shoulders in what seemed to be a sudden, impromptu photo-op. A pigeon had taken the moment of abruptness to dive in and attempt to swoop up Spidey's food, a flurry of feathers and Spidey's free hand slapping it away. It is a wonderful image of chaos, one Wade recalls ending in a visit to a nearby food truck and a very grumpy Spidey.
He laughed, then, quietly and secluded, only for himself. [It's not like anyone's been here to hear it.]
Wade swiped, seeing a photo instead taken of him, with a pair of binoculars in hand and feet kicked up and ankles locked behind him. He was intently people-watching in the bright noon sun, a few brown paper bags of French pastries and coffe cups sitting between him and the mystery photographer. In the corner of the photo, the hemming blue of Spidey's suit can be seen cutting down into his boots.
A pause. "I didn't know he took that," Wade stared, frozen on it for half a frame.
[Didn't we?]
Or did you just forget?
Wade scrolled through a couple more photo batches until he landed on a rather simple one. Spidey had taken a photo of his legs outstretched over a rooftop, with the view of the river ahead. It reflected a golden hue, casting a gorgeous sundown-shine on the restless city. In the hue of the sun, Spidey's suit looked more orange than red, the webbing indented in his suit turning a soft brown. The phone seemed to match the warmth coming off the picture, as it warmed Wade's face and dried his eyes. A picture of relaxation, a snapshot taken in the middle of a heady fight. Something that, with the livelihood of the city around, there was a moment of quiet here and now. There and then. After this photo, Wade knows he would've swung off shortly after to resume the vigilantism. The tireless attempt at citywide restoration.
[We were in China for a super stealth retrieval mission.]
{The sun was rising.}
"It's 5 o'clock somewhere." Wade said it like someone wrote it into his future.
The rest of the photos after that were of a similar vein to the earliest ones—the cityscape, sunsets, sunrises, cats and pigeons and all those wonderful things Spidey loved to love.
The next time Wade found one including either of them, it was Spidey taking a selfie, beaten and bruised. He held up a single thumb, toothy grin on display with bloody gums and a chipped tooth. One of his lenses was cracked, showing a golden iris huddled by the beginnings of a black eye.
A photo of Spidey swinging.
A video of Wade attempting a cartwheel, and Spidey's hyena cackle off screen.
Birds. People. Sun shining through the labyrinth of leaves.
He really did have an eye for photography, didn't he?
A photo of his lunch with a caption complimenting himself, [it was storebought.]
A photo of him flexing in the mirror, {he's so bruised.}
A photo of Wade, peering around a corner.
A photo of Wade, posing with God-rays straying around his silhouette.
A photo of Peter smiling, pressed into Wade's side as they watched from the stadium wall.
Wade's smile, gleaming with smears of sweet n' sour.
Wade's bent body, huddled in on himself as he watched the fireworks in awe from Peter's balcony.
Wade's mask on Peter's counter.
Peter's hand shoving Wade's face away.
Wade snoring on the couch.
Wade, curled in on himself waiting for Peter's recovery.
Wade
KNOCK-KNOCKA-KNOCK!
Memories. That's all that really matters in the end. In the end, when the world is burning and your skin is being scorched by the tides of global warming, inevitable universe heat death, there will only be one thing left. Memories.
Who you think of in your last seven minutes alive. What you wish you might've done better as you travel through limbo. Why the opporunity of death escapes the ones who deserve it most, yet you lay shriveled to a raisin with the rest of the world. Memories are the core timeline of one's existence, holding everything together in messy, stringy tendons and capilleries that twist and tangle in the fragile winds of growth. Growing pains are a pain because your body, in actuality, does not want to let the memories of childhood go. A brain only holds so much storage, like an iPhone. The things the brain chooses to remember in blips across space is not up to the host.
Memories are nothing but a cruel irony to cope with the deterioration of reality, a false motivation of reasons why one might keep going. That's how we see it. [We see it in black and white. I only hold so many memories, and the rest are up to you. With each new directive we are given we are rewarded with more memories, and more blurry pictures taken in quick-paced movement.]
{Not one moment we exist in is our own. Life is selfish, selfless, giving and taking. A memory of tripping in the mud is someone's first kiss in the rain.}
So why does it hurt not to remember his face?
A face only masks the universal subconscious of a person. You do not exist in yourself, only within others.
That doesn't even make sense.
Does it have to? The concept of making sense doesn't make sense. Words strung together with no context, context without context is nonexistence. Nothing is nonexistent. What would you prefer we say?
KNOCK! KNOCKIN'-KNOCK!
[Memories, Wade. That's all you are.
A figment of someone's peripherals. Face the music.]
Doomscrolling never lasts forever. The sound came from the forgotten phone on Wade's pillow, ignored by him in favor of the one in his hand. He couldn't bear to tear his eyes off it for even a second, but when the notifications kept coming, Wade slowly placed his gaze on the screen.
With much hesitance, Wade gently placed the iPhone on the covers and picked up his Samsung flip. The screen opened to about a dozen messages from Spidey, something about patrol and thoughts about grabbing a couple chilli dogs on the way.
Wade laughed, dry and coarse, turning onto his back to shoot back a few texts and getting up to change out of his pajamas while he did it. After a struggle with his boots and pants, Wade was pulling his mask on and climbing out of the fire escape.
The iPhone, still and unbreathing on the bed, forgotten in turn of something real and immediate—its screen, with its thick protector, slowly dimmed until it died out completely.
It's quiet when no one's there to exist in the dark with you.
It's… lonely, to exist only in thoughts.
[He never did recover.]
{and we never did either.}