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I thought that after doing some much needed and highly procrastinated soul searching (i.e., accepting my full identity as both Peter Parker and Spider-Man) that the headaches and corresponding sensory overload would stop, but my initial prediction has unfortunately remained unsupported.
I was good for a while, truly. My senses felt heightened, but in the best way imaginable. They were no longer overwhelming, flooding my every thought and preventing my every action. It’s like my body just instinctively sensed any immediate danger and naturally prioritized any sense that acted like a beckon, determining my very next action, and blocking out anything that in that very moment would be deemed trivial.
Again, I was good, which is largely why I felt so immensely blindsided when this feeling of goodness momentarily dissipated. Before I had previous symptoms like headaches and dizziness that I could track and monitor, providing insights as to what possible parts of my routine could be contributing to said previously expressed discomfort. However, this time I had no previous symptoms. One moment, in the indescribable time when it’s too late to be night and too early to be morning, I’m just swinging back to my apartment that’s remained, for the most part, unchanged when everything, for me, changes.
It’s almost like a switch has been flipped, illuminating a room with far too vivid white lighting, or a lever has been pulled, rerouting a train from near destruction, but I feel the lighting that’s coming from every direction, resulting in my own kind of abrupt internal destruction of sorts. I’m in the middle of swinging, nearing my apartment after just finishing my patrol, when it happens and I can see everything, including my limbs getting closer and closer to the ground that once was so incredibly far away.
I suck in a breath that I can hear and feel in both my ears and chest while I desperately web shoot towards the roof of a building that’s not too far away and just manageable enough from my current distance. For a split second I worry that I’ve miscalculated, feeling the souls of my feet through my suit hit the rough asphalt, before I’m immediately jolted higher and higher, and away from the ground that I just brushed. Then before I know it my whole body is scraping against some other rough surface that I soon recognize as a poorly unkept rooftop that is definitely not up to code.
Certain parts of this rooftop have undoubtedly been weathered, snow and rainfall have gradually chipped away at parts of the concrete, creating dips where it should be smooth. Through my suit I can feel every part that’s uneven, even if it’s just barely so, and it makes my skin crawl. When I pull myself into a position where I’m just barely sitting instead of haphazardly laying like someone who partied too hard, some pea-sized pieces of concrete give way and brush against my suit and they sound like what I’d imagine nails scraping against a chalkboard to sound like. I instinctively and audibly grimace, but right when the sound leaves my mouth I stop because even just that reverberates.
I stay still, trying so desperately to just silently catch my breath that I can feel quickening partially due to what I’m physically feeling and partially due to the fact that I thought that I was past this.
I can hear everything; Nothing is instinctively being blocked out. I can hear the quick rise and fall of my own chest as my right hand desperately applies pressure, willing the pace of my heartbeat to slow. I can hear the couple that’s just two blocks down discussing their dream vacations. I can hear someone’s leaky faucet that they really should get fixed. I can hear someone opening a can and the several gulps that follow. I— I can pretty much hear everything within a specific radius that feels like it’s stretching throughout the entire borough.
My other senses have been heightened as well including my vision, smell, and taste, which is why I’m regretting eating Takis earlier because I currently feel every particle of red dust coating my tongue. I close my eyes, which is putting it mildly, because I’m actually squeezing my eyes shut so violently to the point where I can feel the pressure radiating not just from behind my eyes but from in front of them.
It’s like time is no longer as I know it and Dr. Strange has somehow come back and casted me into some kind of parallel reality. I don’t know how much time has passed because time no longer feels linear. The familiar sky where air pollution smothers the stars provides no help because when I finally, and begrudgingly, open my eyes it’s still dark out. One moment everything is everywhere and the next moment my senses are back to their normal that I’ve previously just started to adjust to. It happens so quickly and yet not quickly enough to the point where I feel like I’ve just imagined it.
It’s only once I go to stand up from my very unsuperhero-like position that I know for certain what I just experienced is real. As my hands find my knees my head practically rattles, sending an ache that’s all too familiar everywhere. I can feel the pulsing that I thought I abandoned behind my eyes and temples as well as a persistent pain that’s coated every inch of my skin. While this headache definitely does not feel great, not by a long shot, I would still take a headache over sensory overload any day because a headache acts as either the calm before the storm or the restoration that soon follows after. Sensory overload instead acts as a category five hurricane, plowing through my senses towards anything in its general vicinity.
Swinging back to my apartment feels too intended in a way that makes me feel unsteady. Usually when I swing it just feels natural, but right now I’m mentally calculating the force needed for the distance that I’m going as well as the corresponding aim required. It feels like I’m trudging myself through quicksand. It’s like the pulsating in my head is causing every other action that is typically so natural to be lagging behind.
I’m so grateful to reach my dingy and just barely unlocked window frame that I almost forget that I still have to pry it open. At first my grip falters, but then I’m stumbling into my apartment. I immediately head to my medicine cabinet and reach for the comically large bottle of Advil, popping a few into my mouth.
I naively and selfishly want to convince myself that what just happened is a fluke, but I know that deep down that’s not the case because that would just simply be far too easy and when have I ever known anything to be easy? I know that what I experienced tonight matters, but as my head finds its way to my pillow I find myself chasing sleep, something that usually doesn’t come this easily, instead of answers.
***
Ever since the hospital visit where I was unmasked in front of Frank and jokingly poked fun at him crying (which no matter what Frank says he was in fact crying), Frank and I have been teaming up more often, but not necessarily always on the field. He does his own thing and I do mine, which still results in us occasionally running into each other, but we’ve been more so teaming up when it comes to intel and scrap materials, and tonight is one of those times where we’re meeting up to discuss possible information regarding military-grade weapon and technology theft. So instead of patrolling so late into the night where it’s practically morning, I’ve ended my patrol early and am gathering information that will be just as beneficial to the safety and security of the city.
Once my feet hit the ground of Frank’s booby-trapped boathouse I instinctively avoid the traps and find my way to the part of the very large infrastructure that acts as his residence. He knows that it’s just me so he doesn’t bother to look up when I enter, instead he’s intently focusing on stirring his chili that’s currently being heated on the stovetop. He grunts one word that I would guess is being proposed as a question, “Chili?”
I find myself reaching for my mask, having forgotten that it’s still on my face, removing it as I go to speak, but my voice comes out too gruff. I try again, clearing my throat, hoping that the second time’s the charm, “Um, no, thank you. I— I ate earlier.”
Frank’s suddenly whipping his head towards my direction, imploring, “C’mon, kid. You’re telling me you’re still skeptical of my fantastic fucking chili?”
I can’t help but smile, teasing, “I think that the FDA is skeptical of your chili.”
Frank scoffs, “Yeah, yeah, well, screw the FDA. What do they know?”
I could go on to describe their mission statement that theoretically aims to continuously ensure the public’s health, but there’s no real bark to my bite, so I instead just chuckle. Then it’s just business as usual and we’re discussing leads that Frank’s somehow acquired. Part of me is curious as to how he’s acquired this information and the other part of me, if I’m being honest, selfishly does not really want to know every single detail as to how he’s acquired said information. By the time we’re done discussing the intel and going over a partially thought out plan, Frank’s finishing up his chili.
That’s when it happens. Again.
One moment everything’s fine, great even, until suddenly it’s not. The ceramic bowl that once held his sketchy chili and the just used metal spoon sound like a construction site as they violently slide, no, scrape against the countertop.
No, no, no, this cannot be happening again, especially here, and especially in front of Frank. If I knew that this was coming I could’ve somehow prepared myself and came up with some sort of flimsy excuse, quickly leaving before any Frank-style questioning began, but I didn’t know that this was coming. I, again, feel caught off guard in a way that feels like my soul has been stripped bare and put on display for everyone to not only see, but to closely inspect. The switch has been flipped and the lever has been pulled, meaning that there’s no going back. There’s only so much fighting I can do to hide this part of myself that for a long time I’ve done a decent job, well, not including detective DeWolff, of keeping hidden.
I can’t help the grimace that abruptly leaves my mouth in reaction to the initial sound and every single other heighted sound that follows. My hands immediately go to my head, covering my ears, but if anything the pressure from my hands only adds to the noise, creating an odd buzzing sound beneath my skin and throughout my body. Just as quickly as my hands find my ears they go back towards their previous position at my side where I repeatedly squeeze and unsqueeze them in the formation of fists, my nails digging into my skin, which is a feeling that’s just barely acting as a distraction from everything else, but I’ll take barely. Hell, I’ll take anything that helps even if it’s just a beginning step in a very long equation.
It’s only once I process what Frank’s saying that I fully remember where I am and what I’m supposed to be doing. I blink several times trying to focus my vision on him when I see his worried expression, and his words catch up to me, “Hey, kid, can you hear me?”
He’s still seated in front of me, but the way he’s sitting is no longer relaxed. A minute ago, or at least I think a minute ago, he was lounging leisurely, well, as leisurely as Frank, the Punisher, can lounge, but now his frame is wired and his elbows are on the table as if he’s braced for some kind of impact, and I hate knowing that the change is because of me.
Suddenly he’s dramatically waving his hands in front of me, clapping his hands together, trying to get my attention, but the sound only makes me flinch, causing my eyes to slam shut. He’s still talking but I don’t know what he’s saying. Everything’s so loud to the point where every other sound acts as a forcefield to the sound that’s just in front of me. I try my hardest to force my eyes open, blinking against the pain that’s blossoming around my eyes and temples, frantically trying to find his gaze. I just want to communicate that this will pass and that everything will be okay because maybe if I can convince him I’ll be able to convince myself.
I try to speak, but there’s a lump lodged in the back of my throat, making the simple formation and stringing together of consonants and vowels difficult, “I— I can hear you.”
My eyes finally, and thankfully, land on his, and his worried expression is still present, if anything it’s only been amplified. He’s immediately talking as if I’ll suddenly lose the ability to communicate just as fast as I gained it. He looks uncertain, questioning, “You sure you can hear me?”
I can’t help but blink several times, fighting against the current of tears forming in my eyes, “Yes, I— I can hear you. I can hear everything. Um, uh, that’s— that’s the problem actually.”
Frank’s stare only intensifies as his eyes search my face repeatedly. It’s like I’m a puzzle that he’s so close to solving where just one puzzle piece is missing, and it’s only once I see him metaphorically find that puzzle piece that I close my eyes shut and lean my head against the cool counter. He continues, undeterred by my change in position, “Does this have to do with your spider-like senses? Or whatever the hell they’re called?”
He pauses for a moment, mentally searching for the words, and unfortunately, shouting when he finds them, “Your tingle thing!”
When I go to speak this time it’s slightly easier. It’s like I can feel the quicksand starting to slowly disappear, and I can’t help but hope that means that this is almost over, “Um, kind of. It’s uh, sometimes my senses are just overloaded, and I— everything's just a lot right now.”
Even though my eyes are shut and my head’s laying against the now slightly cold counter, I can still feel his eyes looking in my direction. At this point I’m not even sure exactly what I said and if I articulated what I was trying to convey in a way that’s at least partially understandable. I just know that what I said must’ve made at least a bit of sense because Frank goes silent. I’m not sure how much time has passed, it could be time that is nothing and it could be time that suggests something, but I wouldn’t know. Time feels like how it does when you’re a kid in the sense that it doesn’t really feel real. It feels like you’re just anxiously awaiting for a seemingly all-knowing and wise adult to tell you, but no matter what they say their response just feels arbitrary because time, no matter what, simply feels like a man-made concept used to uphold some kind of schedule.
Again, one moment everything is everywhere and the next moment my senses are back to their normal rhythm. It happens so quickly, and so abruptly, to the point where I feel like what I just experienced was somehow imagined and forcibly conjured up by some kind of unfamiliar being with torturous intentions.
While I’ve already experienced the shifting transition of my senses returning back to their normal, I decide to take a few extra moments to steady my breathing because I know that when I lift up my head I’ll be brought back to the present, and knowing Frank he’ll have several questions, and ideally, I would like to answer said questions not out of breath from simply just sitting here. I should be normal. God, it’s moments like these where I would, shamefully, practically do anything to be normal. Sometimes it just feels like no matter what identity quest I go on the finish line just keeps getting pushed back further and further until it’s a mere speck in the distance.
I concentrate on breathing in and out, repeatedly, and once I feel decent I lift up my head that feels like it’s full of rocks. The rattling feeling is violent, but I guess in that sense it’s familiar. This time when I blink my eyes open I’m no longer overwhelmed and my vision is back to how it was before this specific incident. Frank’s still seated in front of me, across the small worn table, but now he looks slightly more comfortable. He’s reclined backwards with his arms crossed in his lap, but it doesn’t quite come across as nonchalance. Maybe it’s because I know him, but I recognize this position as an attempt at nonchalance when worry lurks not too far beneath the surface.
I sheepishly find myself muttering, and gesturing towards the exit, internally wanting to flee, “Um, I— I should head out. Yeah, I’m going to head out—”
I go to stand up, but Frank’s serious stare that borders on glare-like keeps me fixed in my seat. He practically shouts, and I can’t help but partially sink into myself. While my retreat is partially due to his dialed up volume, it's also partially due to his tone that’s so reminiscent of anger and disappointment, and the worst part is that it’s currently being directed at me, “Ayo, Peter, where the hell do you think you’re going? I mean— Shit, man, I think I’m owed some answers. I don’t want to be y’know responsible for sending out the city’s beloved Spider-Man when he looked like he was just on death’s fucking door a minute ago.”
I know that he’s worried more than anything else, but his delivery is jarring and I can’t quite place why, but then it hits me, and it feels like the wind’s been knocked out of me. This exchange, maybe it’s because of Frank’s tone, reminds me of when Mr. Stark confidently and irrefutably declared, “If you're nothing without the suit, then you shouldn't have it.”
At the time I felt like I was nothing without the suit. Spider-Man was who everyone adored, I— I was just Peter Parker, and at this very moment, I, again, feel unworthy of the suit that I’m wearing. The mask that is usually associated with feelings of pride instead rests on the counter. I’m so in my head that I forget to even say anything, anything at all. I just stare blankly hoping that the words will come, but when they don't, more feelings of disappointment become directed at myself, and this time it’s not from Frank, it’s from myself.
Frank gestures wildly, his voice just noticeably lower, “Kid, c’mon— Earth to Peter!”
The lie escapes before I can find my footing and fight myself for the truth, “I’m fine.”
I can tell that he doesn’t believe me, logically I know that I probably wouldn’t believe myself either, so soon more words, more lies, tumble out of my mouth, “I mean it, Frank. I’m fine. I am fine.”
He tilts his head, “Peter. Level with me here, man. I mean— Fuck, do I have to utter a pretty please with a cherry on top? Or cross my heart and hope to die and all that shit? What do you want from me?”
I can feel the lump that’s still lodged in my throat because I know that this is Frank’s way of being earnest, “Sometimes my— my senses just get overwhelmed. Technically speaking my arachnid hormone levels increase far too rapidly in a manner that’s disproportionate to my human levels, causing uh, what just happened to happen…”
I initially found comfort in describing what just happened in a more detached way, but then comfort quickly turned into unease so I immediately shut up.
Frank jokes, “Humor me and translate all of that into layman’s terms. I want to hear it from you, Peter, not from Spider-Man.”
I can’t help but swallow and nod my head because yeah I did just kind of go into Spider-Man-press-mode, “Before everything happened y’know with Jean and you shooting me—”
He waves his hand, gesturing emphatically, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m pretty sure that all sounds familiar."
“Before then for a while I was getting these uh, headaches and I told detective DeWolff about them because it was getting kind of hard to hide at crime scenes. She told me that I was probably just working myself too hard and that I should take some time off.”
Frank scoffs, sarcasm coating his every word, “Yeah, and I’m sure as shit that you took that advice with willing and open arms.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes, “Yeah, I continued working because I— I just continued working because y’know that’s all I know.”
I shake myself out of the reservoir that my mind’s currently being pulled towards, “Anyways, um, repression let’s just say wasn’t the answer. The headaches turned into sensory overload, the wrist pain turned into organic webs, and I turned into the… thing that you see today.”
Frank’s nodding his head, clearly processing my admission so I continue, “When I was trying to get through to Jean she asked me if I’m Peter Parker or Spider-Man and I— I know it sounds silly, but that’s when I came to terms with being both, and for a while after that everything was good.”
Frank questions, “‘For a while,’ what the hell does that mean?”
“I— I was good, truly. Just recently, um, after one of my patrols it started happening again, and I really don’t know why.”
I chuckle in a way that suggests nothing’s funny, “I thought that accepting myself would be the cure, but I’m starting to think that’s not the case. I— I don’t know why this is happening. I just know that I need to figure this out because this can’t happen when I’m working. Frank, It can’t—”
Frank cuts me off, “Yeah, that shit’s important, it is, but right now I’m y’know more worried about the kid behind the mask. I know you, Peter, which is why I know that when it comes down to it you’ll show up even if you don’t believe that yourself.”
I find myself muttering dumbly, “That’s nice of you to say—”
Frank continues firmly, “No, I mean it, and If this ever happens again, call me. I’m serious. If you’re out on patrol and you get overloaded or whatever the hell, call me, and I’ll take over your shift. It would probably do you some good to listen to DeWolff’s advice, but I’m not going to beat a dead fucking horse.”
I want to interject and tease him about how he is most definitely the type of guy to beat a dead horse with how much he mentions Staten Island, but I keep that quip to myself and he continues undeterred, “I know that after all the property damage from that day there’s been a shit ton of crime, more than usual, but you’re not the only vigilante in the area, and before you make any comments, I know that you have some hero complex or whatever, but not everything rests on your shoulders and it would be irresponsible to think otherwise.”
He gestures, symbolizing some kind of theatrical conclusion, “Yeah, yeah, my old-man rant’s over.”
When he’s done talking I don’t do anything to conceal the smile that’s stretching across the entirety of my face, which causes Frank to add on an afterthought, “I don’t want to hear your bullshit, kid—”
Teasingly, I jest, “You care about me.”
He rolls his eyes in response, shaking his head simultaneously, but not really denying it, “Yeah, yeah, yeah…”
I know that Frank doesn’t like to be too sentimental, as he would describe it, for too long, but I need him to know that I appreciate everything he’s done for me, tonight and prior. I’m a little rusty at expressing my gratitude for something that is intertwined with vulnerability, usually I just thank local law enforcement and helpful citizens that act instead of allowing the bystander effect to get the best of the situation. I usually don’t find myself in situations where I’m truly expressing thanks that’s beyond a quick almost automated statement, which could be why I find myself stumbling incoherently, “I— I— uh, thank you, Frank—”
I’m not done speaking, not even close, but Frank’s already cutting me off, “I know, kid. I know.”
He’s giving me a way out, and selfishly, I take it. His stare is intense in a way that’s just so Frank and I know, in this moment, that we both without a doubt, have each other’s backs. Not just in the diplomatic sense between the Punisher and Spider-Man, but in the trusting sense that can only come from shared history between Frank and Peter.
I somehow smile wider, giggling, “Maybe now we’re even—”
“Don’t even say it, kid—”
“Y’know for Staten Island!”