It was April 25th, at exactly 9:26 p.m., when he lost his first person.
No, that wasn't right. He'd lost people before. There was that one time at the museum (What was it again? No, it didn't matter) where he had lost track of Ned in the immense crowd of people. He'd lost Ned in the crowd that time.
Or the time he had wandered around the city, looking for a little old woman he had tried helping earlier. No good it seemed. He'd lost her, too, in the crowds.
Or, was it a different kind of lost this time? He wasn't looking for someone- he knew where the person he had lost was. He was looking right at him. So, what did he mean by lost?
He wasn't sure. He was conflicted. What else could "lost" mean? Lost was an adjective- he knew that. By definition, lost meant unable to find one's way; not knowing one's whereabouts. But that didn't make sense. He knew where the man was. He was looking at him.
And yet, he had lost the man.
A sudden impulse prompted a mad dash through the city, an instinctive urge to run run run. It was wrong- he knew that. He shouldn't be running. He should be helping to find that man he had lost (No, he knew where he was, the man was not lost). But his legs kept moving, his arms kept reaching, and his mind would not let him rest. Run run run.
An animalistic compulsion to scream was ripped from his lungs as buildings passed by, his vision blurring in and out of focus. It was loud- his scream that is (Or was it his mind screaming at him?). He knew it was loud, not because he could hear it himself, but because he could see people looking up as he passed by. It was a guttural noise- he knew that because the birds flew away sporadically when he came close, their wings flapping rapidly as they fled.
Something was pulling at him, tugging at his chest as he heaved lungfuls of air in. It felt as if a hand had enclosed around his heart, squeezing it and dragging him back to the man. The man he had lost.
Was it even a man? He didn't think it was. But who could tell? He could- Peter Benjamin Parker could tell. It had been a boy- not even old enough to shave. It had been a boy like him.
Another urge to scream wormed its way up his throat, but he refused to let it out. He could feel it fighting, feel it rising, his mouth beginning to open as it forced its way out. He did not want to scream. Peter Parker refused to scream- not when the boy had been so silent. So silent.
He bit his tongue in an attempt to keep the noise from escaping, the taste of copper following. It was a welcomed difference from the ash that had settled in his mouth, and he bit down harder.
The sun was setting over Queens, creating a sunset that strangely fit the scene below it. Varying shades of red covered the sky, the bright orb descending into darkness. It spread over the horizon, tentacles of scarlet bleeding into the bay as the sky reflected off of the still water. It bled and spread and encompassed Queens in its red embrace. It seemed to hug the city, everything washed in its cardinal overtone.
It was supposed to be beautiful. It was supposed to be the prettiest sunset Peter had ever seen in his entire life living in Queens. But it wasn't.
It wasn't.
It looked too much like the boy who he had lost. It looked too much like the concrete that had been stained where he had fallen. It looked too much like the roots of his blonde hair, tentacles of red splaying outward.
It looked like the boy who Peter could not save, in all of its red glory.
Perfection was said to be something unattainable. An illusion created by one's own expectation of themselves. To have perfection was to be perfect in everything one does, says, plays, creates, and dreams. That was what society claimed perfection to be.
Peter Parker thought otherwise.
Perfection was attainable. Maybe not the kind society thinks of, but his version certainly was. Peter Parker's version of perfection was not messing up. Getting good grades. Being a good friend. Being a good nephew. Being good.
He did not have to be perfect to have perfection. He understood that. Maybe, at one point in his life, Peter had strived to be the embodiment of perfection. Society said perfection was being well-known, well liked, pretty, smart, athletic, perfect. It was hard to describe perfect, but society somehow managed it.
Peter did not fit society's standard of perfection. He was nerdy, not smart. He was bullied, not well liked. He was wimpy and weak, not athletic. He was a teenager, not pretty. Peter Parker was not perfect.
And he was okay with that.
He had found his own perfect and had strived for it each and everyday. He never noticed it, but he did. He pushed himself to be better, and maybe that was all perfection was. To be the best that one could be, no matter who one was or where they were from.
But, Peter Parker was not perfect.
It started with his looks, all the way back in the sixth grade. He never noticed it, but he had acne. A pimple or two adorning his still baby fat clad face. He never noticed because he never cared, and society hates it when you don't care. Society hates it when someone is blissfully ignorant of their flaws. But, society will educate the ignorant and make the blind see what they could not before. Peter Parker was always willing to learn- he liked learning after all.
Peter Parker learned he was ugly.
No one cares much about athletics when you're younger. If you don't run around and play tag with the other kids, it was alright. You just wanted to do something different and that was okay.
But society hates those that are different. Yes, you should embrace your differences, it's what makes you unique and you you. But, if you're too different, or what makes you unique is too unique by itself, society will educate you.
It loves to teach and be bold and tell others what they should be doing.
Peter Parker still loved to learn- it was how he improved and how he got better after all.
Peter Parker learned he was weak and he was too skinny. That he should be tall and well built, covered in muscles with a well defined jaw and clear skin.
Peter Parker was not any of those things.
Society tells everyone otherwise, but popularity is everything. It's what helps you climb to the top. It's what guarantees friends- lots of friends. Being popular meant having the advantage. Having control. Being the best. Having the power to educate others on their flaws and looking down on them because of it.
Being popular meant being perfect.
And Peter wanted desperately to be perfect- to have that kind of power and hold in the world. To be able to stand firmly in place and never have anyone question if he should be there or not. He wanted to have a place to stand, without fear of being trampled and pulled under the waves society set in motion.
But, Peter Parker liked to learn. It was something he was good at. He took in everything around him, observed, and deduced many things by doing so. He learned just by looking.
Peter Parker observed that he was skinny. That he was quiet. That he was too smart, no, nerdy, to be acceptable to everyone else. That the oil that slicked his face, no matter how many face washes he used, would not go away. That he was ugly. That he was socially awkward. That he sweat too much. That he was too short compared to all the other boys in school. That he was a teacher's pet. That he was a goody-two-shoes. That someone was always watching. That everyone was always judging. That everyone was always waiting for that chance to call out someone and tell them their flaws. And that….
Peter Parker was not perfect. Peter Parker was not good enough, no matter how hard he tried. That no matter what he did, he would always be a suck up and a loser that nobody liked.
That's why he got picked on. Everyone told him it was for his own good. That they were only trying to toughen him up since the real world would be much harsher. That he should lighten up, it's just a joke.
Peter Parker liked to learn. He was so good at learning that he was able to compile everything he'd ever learned into three easy to remember sentences.
Peter Parker was a loser that nobody liked.
Spider-Man was an amazing hero that always looked out for the little guys.
And 3. Peter Parker wasn't ever good enough but Spider-Man certainly was.
Those had remained solid facts he had stuck to throughout his entire middle and high school experience. They had remained true and unwavering, holding fast and being proven every single day.
Until April 25th, at 9:26 p.m., when reality had come crashing down and Peter Parker was slapped in the face with a dose of truth. Peter Parker was Spider-Man, and if Peter wasn't good enough, neither was Spider-Man.
They were both worthless.
But, that wasn't Spider-Man's fault. He hadn't asked to be created or made a superhero. He was just a byproduct of Peter's own mistakes. Mistakes. Peter Parker made too many mistakes to be considered good. He was always messing everything up, intentional or not. He let down his friends and his only living relative almost every single day.
Peter wasn't sure, exactly, how he managed to do it, but he was such an ignorant piece of shit of course he wouldn't notice, how stupid could he get? They all thought he was annoying and useless- everyone was just too polite to tell him. They were only his friends because they pitied the orphaned teen you had killed his Uncle- yes it was all his fault. His fault everytime. Every mistake, every fumble, every. Single. Fucking. Mistake.
His fault.
Peter Parker was worthless and a waste of space and he knew it.
But letting others know that he knew would only worsen the problem. If he told the people around him that he was aware of how utterly useless he was, they would waste their time and breath telling him he wasn't, when he knew for a fact that he was.
Peter Parker liked to learn. He was good at it. Learning came naturally to him- it was just so easy. Observe. Listen. Interpret. Repeat. It was how he learned, and how he became so aware. He was aware of everything about himself. About how stupid he actually was. About how nobody liked him because he learned so well. About how they all thought he was ugly and that he deserved to feel these awful things inside of him.
They were all just too nice to tell him the truth.
Which was why Peter Parker started telling himself the truth. He wasn't sure when it started, but it had become normal and the voices in his head were meant to help him (they told him so after all). They let him know what he was doing wrong (You idiot, can't you do anything right?). They advised him on what to do (They wouldn't want you there anyway- don't go. You'll just ruin the night for them). They reminded him of who he was and his place in the world (You're trash. Worthless garbage no one wants. You. Are. A. Loser.).
The voices kept him steady, reassured. They reaffirmed everything he had come to know and learn, and made sure the facts he knew stayed solid.
April 26th didn't happen the way it did, the voices told him. It wasn't Spider-Man's fault. It was Peter Parker's fault, because Spider-Man never messes up and it's always Peter Parker's mistake. Peter Parker killed that boy. Spider-Man wasn't even there. He was never there.
They told him the truth. They told him that Peter Parker always made the wrong choices. That every single mistake that Spider-Man had made had never happened. It had been Peter who had messed up.
Peter, who had lost Uncle Ben. It had always been your fault, you let him die- even with superpowers you just let him die-
Peter, who had almost gotten Ned and his friends killed. You're so stupid, how could you give a bomb to him and just-
Peter, that fumbled for words and proper actions around Mister Stark, who had only ever tried to help him. He's given you everything and yet you still whine and whine and whine and it never ends, why do you want so much, why-
Peter, who couldn't even fight properly for the man that had given him this new world. You barely did anything- Mister Stark was right, Captain America would've killed you if he had wanted to because you're so weak and stupid and-
Peter, for traumatizing his Aunt when she learned of Spider-Man. You let her see the other worthless side of you, you absolute piece of garbage. She wants to forget, that it doesn't exist, you made her sick, you made her like this-
Peter, who had killed, murdered, an innocent civilian, because of his own mistakes and stupidity. You let him die, just like Uncle Ben. You let him down, just like Aunt May and Ned and Mister Stark and everyone you ever cared about. It's. All. Your. Fault.
Hello! I'm trying something new from what I normally write, so I'm excited to try it out. Of course, this is a Spiderson and Irondad story but I think development between the two will take a bit. Updating this story will come second to my main story though, but I will try and update as frequently as possible!
Thank you!