Hi, I'm currently editing this story. I will repost the chapters (1-9) again soon with edits. The story will hopefully be smoother (grammar, story consistency, and tighter writing). I can't wait to finish editing and expand the characters and story arcs. I have tons of ideas for the story, and I've been reading more Spider-Man to get inspired. Anyways, for those who will join me in this ride, I thank you.
The Spider-Man
Ch 1: The City Sleeps
A stranger in a common land only paints the scene but he does not create it.
The firewood was good, it spoke to Peter as the cold weather of New York City engulfed him. Tired and beaten, he rests next to a homeless woman who dragged him to safety. The woman had bags to spare from her eyes to the junk she carries, but alas Peter did not judge, he appreciated the help. After all, he understood it was his doing as to why he ended up resting underneath a bridge in God knows where.
The surrounding area looked dead as if a carcass was forgotten and kicked by the side of the road. The cars and apartments seemed empty. Lifeless. A tint of blue hue splattered across the streets made it seem like the moonlight had a magnifying glass. A strange looking place Peter thought, but strange was the night in most days. Although tonight was different, perhaps because this was his first time being beaten down. Something was off earlier.
The woman stares at the fire as if it were its friend. She knows the feeling all too well. Peter stares at the fire and breathes in the warmth. My bones are near breaking point. I think my head was damn near blown off, but thanks to this lady I'm alive. I have no idea how she dragged me here. Where the hell are we? Peter then tries to get up, but his body is betraying him.
"'Ey kid, you were banged up bac' ther'. I don' think it' be good for ya getting up in the cold." She said with a raspy voice. The cold certainly had gotten her good but add the constant pack of American Legends lying on the sidewalk and she had a combo resulting on a croaking sound.
Peter tries but his body is too heavy as if his jacket is filled with cement. The woman gets up to check his head and warmth. She looked tired and in need of a shower. Layer upon layer to keep warm, yet she still looked frail. Peter wondered why the help, she seems to need it more than himself.
She sits opposite him. She looks at him with a curious look. As she reaches to warm her hands he speaks.
"How long have I been out?" He asks, his voice sounding very innocent. His face matches his voice but bruised and red. Cold so cold.
"A couple of hours, maybe more" she continues to warm herself up. "It's a strange world we live in, I mean a kid like yo'self beaten and left out on the street like that." She stares at him with a face of longing.
"no one helped you so I figured I should…" Silence. The wind brushes them. The sparks of the burning wood are the only noise piercing the moment. The city that never sleeps is indeed sleeping in this part of town.
"Thank you, I was busted up pretty good." Peter tries to put his head up but to no avail. He is weak.
"What happen? I mean how'd you get busted up?" The woman asks worriedly. She is concerned about his health. No phones nearby and no means for a homeless person to contact an ambulance. In New York, the strangers stay stranger and thus on the fringes.
"I got in a big, big fight," Peter smiles as if to know an inside joke, "but I was way over my head."
The woman checks Peter again. "You seem to be getting betta" Her voice, on the other hand, seems to be getting hoarser. "I can walk a ways to get ya some help, but you're going to have to wait here." She tells him awaiting his response.
Peter stares at the burning wood. The sparks speak to him. With great power. "no, no. I can rest up more. I can, it's fine. Plus, you seem to need some rest yourself."
She smiles and so she sits. Peter is in awe of the silence, he had not heard the city speak, but here there is a silence that is not calming. Rather it is sad. He remembers his failings and regrets and he sees this woman who has sacrificed her night to save him. He wonders why.
"why did you help me?"
She looks at the moonlight and grabs a cigarette from her coat pocket. As she lights it up, she speaks, "well I don' know, I figure I should. I mean a kid on the street should be enough," she draws her cigarette looking at Peter. "you know you're the only person to have spoken to me this long." she smiles as she puffs smoke. She looks at the moon wondering something.
Peter can tell she is tired and alone. He wants to help, but he is too weak. "I'm glad I can provide conversation. Would it be weird if I told you that your probably the first girl I talked with? Like full sentences and stuff, haha" both share a laugh. A light moment for two individuals who rarely have'em.
"'Ey kid, can I ask you some'ing?" She smiled and seemed caring. Like a mother asking her child for a hug.
"uh, sure." Peter seemed surprised by the sincere smile and treatment. It was foreign to him. Yet this woman had simply helped him and kept him warm.
The woman sits next to him. She fixes the rags she placed on him and she continues to give that warm smile.
"I had a son once." Her smile as she talked seemed melancholy. Her eyes matched. "He was about ye high. Seemed your age. What is you? 15?"
Peter knew where she was going with this conversation. He knows those eyes of grief anywhere. His body was gaining strength, but he knew he had to hear her out. He needed to hear her out. "yeah, I am 15." He reaches for her hand and she accepts his hand.
"I miss my boy… and seeing a kid like yo'self beaten like this. On the street of all places, Jesus. If there is a Jesus, I knew I had to help you." She seemed tired and Peter couldn't help but notice her frail nature and trembling hands.
"You need rest. Please, you've taken care of me far more than anyone has, apart from uncle and aunt, you're the nicest person ever," Peter gives a brief laugh "I mean it." He wants to cheer her up. After all, she saved his life.
She looks at him with a face that has lived a hard life. A life of booze, smoking, and starvation. She looks at him with a face that has also loved and cared for others.
"Can…I mean…" she musters her courage, "can I sleep next to you?" she asks. Her voice cracks and she lowered her head in embarrassment.
Peter is still weak but gaining his strength little by little. He sees a broken woman in front of him. He ponders what all of this means to her. "yes, I'm almost able to get up, but go on ahead."
The lady lays next to Peter and she puts her arm around him. She hugs him and slowly her eyes water up. He asks her "what is your name?" as he holds on to her arm resting on his chest.
"My name is Rebecca," she responds barely able to hold back the tears. The fire burns bright mystifying an orange circle around them. She continues to hold on and the tears are no longer able to be hidden by her downhearted eyes. The streets near the unknown bridge of New York heard weeping, echoes of a lost soul. Too many are heard around these parts. The unknown.
Not long after Peter gets up and Rebecca is asleep. He covers her with the blankets she lent him. Before he left, he put a note next to her with directions to his Aunts homeless shelter.
The letter said:
"Friends, food, and a nice warm bath await you there. Please, I hope you go, and you're no stranger to me. I see you and I thank you, your friend—Peter Parker."