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Everything hurts.
Peter doesn’t remember how he got here; sitting in an alleyway, stuffing several of his own gunshot wounds with ripped off strips of a rag-tag shirt he found near where he had collapsed, the scent of cigarettes still clinging to it. Hot blood seeps through the fabric and onto his already wet, trembling fingers as he shoves the fabric into the holes, applying pressure as best he can to slow the bleeding. The action produces a sickening squelch better ignored lest he throw up.
Colourful spots dance across his blurry vision, growing darker as the puddle of crimson underneath him expands, fanning outwards like a blooming flower.
Breathing shallowly, he starts to give up the endeavour, loosening his grip of his stomach and nearly closing his eyes before he catches a glimpse of movement.
He snaps his head over to see the source and finds—
“May?”
His Aunt stands a couple of feet away, staring down at Peter.
“May? Wha’re you doin’ ‘ere?” he asks her. She shouldn’t be here. Peter doesn’t remember why she's not supposed to be here. He’s so tired and his head feels fuzzy. May can help him. May means safety.
“M’ tired, May. It hurtsss,” he tells her, his voice thick with exhaustion. May doesn't move. She doesn't blink. She doesn't talk. She keeps staring at him. If it wasn't May, Peter would have been weirded out. It's like she's dead– a ghost staring at him.
“Wha’s wrong, May?” Why isn't she talking to him? Did he upset her?
“Don’t you remember, Peter?” she talks for the first time and shivers run down his back. Something is wrong. What does she mean? What's he supposed to remember? She almost looks unnerving.
“You killed me.”
…What?
No.
No, that can't be true.
He would never—
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The smell of gunpowder and concrete lingered in the air but was overpowered by the sharp metallic smell of blood. May’s blood. The sticky liquid coated his gloved fingers and stained them a darker shade of red.
The fire from the explosion lit up the space, chasing away the darkness of the night. Flames illuminated May's dazed face in flickering tones of orange, showing the thin sheen of sweat on her skin. Her lips were parted and her eyes glassy.
Her breaths grew shallow before they stopped altogether.
Her weak pulse faded as her heart stopped beating.
He choked back a sob at the look of her unresponsive body, his hands trembling as he stroked her hair, calling out for her to just look at him. She never did. He never got to say goodbye.
May died in his arms and it was his fault.
He let the Goblin kill May.
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He killed May.
May is dead.
How could he ever forget?
How could he ever forget watching her breathing grow weaker and her eyes go unfocused?
He wishes he didn't remember, but that'd be unfair on May.
Whatever's standing in front of him, it isn't May.
May’s gone.