So this is a little poem/headcannon/oneshot/I don't even know, that just sorta happened a little while ago, and although I didn't really have a certain character in mind at the time, I decided Peter can take responsibility, even though I hate to make him hurt. But, you know, it's just what we writers do, right? Oh, well. Here it is, I guess.
Trigger warning: blood mention, stabbing, death
Looking back, I didn't mean to do it. She had just caught me off guard; which, to be honest, was a rarity in and of itself, especially now with my new sixth sense thing helping out. I had been sitting, thinking I was alone, listening to the rain that left tear-stains upon the dirty windowpanes. The door let in a breeze that tickled my neck with icy fingers, so at first, I hadn't noticed when they were replaced by others; not until they trailed across my cheek to rest lightly upon my lips. My despondent mumbling ceased in an instant.
With the air as heavy as the aftermath of a rock-slide, and myself as still as if I had been caught in it, hesitant footsteps, dulled by the cheap carpet of the classroom, echoed sharply in my ears. I waited tensely, anticipation clogging my throat. An arm brushed mine as the intruder entered my vision, chasing my hand to seek sanctuary in the comfort of my blazer. My breath caught as wide eyes met mine, filling my vision with an uncanny mirror of the ocean beneath storm clouds; roiling with barely constrained emotion that threatened to drag me under should I dare to venture closer. So, with only a moment's hesitation, I closed my eyes, escaping the problem.
And was met with another. A soft warmth, somehow conveying hope and anxiety with only a touch, covered my lips; moments later bathing them in warm, sweet breath as my arm shot out reflexively, making her gasp. She reeled back, lips parted and eyes pained as we stared at each other in horror. Our eye-contact only broke when she collapsed, and I leapt to catch her, hands cramping with guilt.
Her eyelids fluttered, and I saw her irises disappear into her head as her eyes rolled back and she went limp in my arms. With an excruciating amount of effort, I dragged my eyes down her body; from her slack, pale face, to the fluttering arteries in her neck, down the crisp white of her shirt to where it become webbed with red, all the way to where it sat, proud and ambitious. The knife. My knife.
It had seen blood many times before – hell, it had come close to being responsible for the loss of a life – but never had it been liable to be accused of being a murder weapon… until now. The rent it had made in the shirt exposed the torn flesh that had, prior to this day, had never seen the light of day, nor would it have had any inclination to do so. But here we were. Me; a murderer. Her; dead.