"This is all your fault, you know that?"
It doesn't respond. It never responds. If it did I'd freak out.
But, tonight, just like every other night when we have this one-way conversation, it just lays there on the bed.
Sure, it can't talk, but that doesn't mean it can influence me.
It's beckoning me. Calling out to me.
But I'm here because of this damn thing. My life is where it is because of it.
I hate it. I hate what it's made me. I hate what it's taken away.
It's not about the rewards, it's never been about the rewards. Now it's just about maintaining a certain stability. There has to be one constant in my life.
It knows I depend on it now. It knows that despite everything it's done, no, BECAUSE of everything it's done I need it more than anything.
It slips on as easy as ever, I'm on autopilot now.
The window is open, the city is waiting.
I turn to the mirror I placed by the window just for this purpose.
"I hate you," I say to the reflection as it mimics me, hating me in return.
And once again there is no Peter Parker, there is only...
***
Spider-Man
Issue #1
Mr. Parker Goes To Washington
by Jason Kenney
http://www.digitallymystic.com/sites/fiction/ultmarv
***
"You still haven't taken it off, have you?"
The question wasn't meant to be sobering but it was. I started to play with my wedding band with my thumb.
"You still haven't changed your name, have you?"
That question was meant to be sobering and I was sorry I had said it as soon as I finished.
"You get used to something after so long," she said, running a hand through her gorgeous hair. "And I've always liked the way it sounds Mary Jane..."
"...Watson-Parker," we both finish.
"Well, I've gotten used to this. And I've always liked the way it feels."
Silence. She leaned forward on the balcony railing and looked at the city before us. I simply stared at her, admiring her beauty as I always have.
I tell myself once again the same thing I tell myself every thinking moment:
I was married to a goddess.
"Why did you move here, Peter," she asked, keeping her sites set on the city.
"It was a change of pace," I said as I came up beside her and leaned on the railing with her. "There's nothing left for me in New York. There hasn't been for years, not since Aunt May passed away."
"But why Washington? Why not somewhere else, some place a little quieter."
"I've lived in the city or near one all my life. It's a part of me."
She hung her head and closed her eyes. "I know."
She means she knows which part. I know which part, too. It's the part that drove her away.
"MJ," I said, turning to her and turning her towards me, "let's not talk about this. We don't see each other often enough, let's not fill the time with this."
She nodded and looked at me.
She'd been crying.
God, I hate myself.
***
"Excuse me, but how do I get to the White House from here?"
The man turned the gun towards me, but I was not about to let him get a shot off. With a practiced flick of the wrist, webbing shot from the back of my hand and wrapped around his gun.
Like a good little bad guy he still pulled the trigger.
Heh, I've always enjoyed the sound of a good backfire. And the string of curses never ceases to amaze me.
"My, you're just as articulate as the guys in New York."
Even with a sore hand he still had his senses and leapt at me, which I easily dodged.
"And just as smart too!" With a little pressure into the palm of my right hand I fired some more webbing at the would be thief, only this was special webbing. My left hand fired some of the same stuff near the top of a close building. Almost as soon as each strand connected with its target it contracted.
A special little concoction of mine made just for Washington DC. The buildings aren't as tall here and the streets are wide. Webswinging from building to building was pretty hard dodging trucks and people's heads. So, the amazing contracting webbing!
Not only pulls me up buildings but pulls things closer to me.
Like bad guys.
I quickly did my thing of bundling him up nicely with my regular webbing from the back of my hand and left him dangling for the cops to pick up and swung along right after I double checked to make sure the lady this guy was trying to rob got away. And she did. Looks like she remembered her purse too.
You wouldn't believe the number of folks who forget.
And I smile. Damn it, I smile. I hate this, I hate who I am like this, but I can't help but smile.
The site of the thief dangling there is amusing.
The thrill of saving another soul is refreshing.
The rush of the wind is exhilarating.
The joy of being Spider-Man makes me hate it more.
***
Man, working as a staff photographer for the Daily Bugle in DC is a cakewalk. No Jameson breathing down your neck, no Jameson demanding pictures NOW, no Jameson doing anything. He can only boss me around by e-mail, phone, or proxy.
He's in New York and I'm in Washington DC.
And the beats are so easy! Politics, politics, politics. Sure there are crimes, but they have people for those already, locals to handle that stuff. I'm an outsider, I don't know anything about the city itself, so I get the easy stuff.
Today it's chasing a congressman to hound him with questions about some affair. I'm just there to take pictures as he waves, smiles, and states once again "no comment".
Easy enough.
Joseph "Sparky" Phillips is the wonderful office manager down here and he's no J. Jonah Jameson, let me tell you. The man couldn't hold still, he was always moving. That and his short, bulldog appearance made people think of him kinda like... well, a bulldog. Only, gentle. Thus the dog nickname, Sparky.
"Hey, Peter," he said to me as I came back from taking all the pictures the congressman would allow, "can I talk to you for a second?"
"Sure thing, Sparky," I said as I followed him into his office.
"Close the door behind you," he said as he sat down at his desk. I did and sat across from him.
"What's up?"
"Well, Peter, I'm changing your assignments."
This was unexpected. I mean, it's not like the congressman story was going anywhere, but they were always in need of embarrassing photos.
"I'm sorry," I said, "am I doing something wrong?"
"No, no, it's not that," Sparky said, leaning back, "it's just that I have had a story come up that fits you better than anyone else. You've covered it before, actually, in New York."
Crap.
"Did you know that there have been at least five Spider-Man sightings in the past week?" asked Sparky, leaning forward again. He was getting uncomfortable sitting down. "You covered him in New York, got pictures, hell, spoke with him, right?"
"Yeah," I said with a sigh and leaning back. Why me?
"I want you on that."
"Sparky, isn't there something else, I mean, I pulled the Spider-Man beat in New York. I came here for a change."
"Peter," said Sparky standing up and moving from around the desk to sit on the front of it, "this is big. There are no superhero types in Washington. You only find them in New York or anywhere else, but not Washington. Spider-Man's here for a reason and I want someone on him that knows him. You've covered him for a while, I assume you have a feel for him, probably would have better luck sniffing him out than anyone else.
"Besides, Jameson specifically said he wanted you on it."
Jameson. No matter what city, the Bugle is still his paper. And as long as I work for the Bugle, I work for Jameson. I can't escape him, no matter how much I may want to.
Like so many other things.
I sighed. "Look, I know you want a change, and you'll get it. Just get us started on this story and I'll try and get someone else on it. But, until then, I want you to get me pictures and stories of this guy. And not just sightings, everyone will have those, get me up close and personal. You're the only one who can do it, Peter, you've done it before."
Why, why, why, why won't it leave me alone?
I don't want to do the story. To do the story there has to be a story to write. That means there has to be a Spider-Man to be seen. That means I have to put it on again.
And I'm trying to hard not to, I really am.
I hate it.
Now more than ever it haunts me.
I nodded.
"Good. I know there's the schedule change since Spider-Man's usually only moving at night, so I'll give you a couple days to get settled."
"No, no, don't worry about it," I said, waiving Sparky off. "I'll start tonight."
"Great," said Sparky with a clap of his hands, "good. Go home now and rest then, you'll be up late tonight. I want a call from you or some kinda note every morning by 10, unless, of course, we have a story."
"Of course." I stood up and Sparky grabbed my hand and shook it.
"Thanks, Peter."
I just nodded again and left.
Damn costume.
I went into the bathroom down the hall.
Damn Spider-Man.
I went into a stall and closed and locked the door.
I hate you.
And I broke down.
I hate you Peter Parker.
I hate what you've become.
***
"How did I ever lose you, Mary Jane Watson-Parker?"
"You had a choice, Peter Parker..."
***
The webbing fires from under my wrist, grabs the building and pulls me towards it. I lash out with my other hand, firing webbing across the street and swinging again.
My arms work without me thinking, this is all instinct now. My mind is racing through thoughts, where I am, who I am, why I continue to torture myself.
The anger builds.
My webbing misses and I tumble. I could catch myself, but I don't, I let myself fall, then, at the last possible moment, I shoot webbing, grab a building and get pulled diagonally away, swinging into an alley, high enough to miss the ground, low enough to hit the dumpster.
I feel the hit, I feel the pain as it runs through my body, feel the ground as I fall to it, and I lie down and start to cry.
I've been doing that too much lately.
***
"...Spider-Man."
It doesn't respond. It never responds. If it did I'd freak out.
But, tonight, just like every other night when we have this one-way conversation, it just lays there on the bed.
Sure, it can't talk, but that doesn't mean it can influence me.
It's beckoning me. Calling out to me.
But I'm here because of this damn thing. My life is where it is because of it.
I hate it. I hate what it's made me. I hate what it's taken away.
It's not about the rewards, it's never been about the rewards. Now it's just about maintaining a certain stability. There has to be one constant in my life.
It knows I depend on it now. It knows that despite everything it's done, no, BECAUSE of everything it's done I need it more than anything.
It slips on as easy as ever, I'm on autopilot now.
The window is open, the city is waiting.
I turn to the mirror I placed by the window just for this purpose.
"I hate you," I say to the reflection as it mimics me, hating me in return.
And once again there is no Peter Parker, there is only...
***
Spider-Man
Issue #1
Mr. Parker Goes To Washington
by Jason Kenney
http://www.digitallymystic.com/sites/fiction/ultmarv
***
"You still haven't taken it off, have you?"
The question wasn't meant to be sobering but it was. I started to play with my wedding band with my thumb.
"You still haven't changed your name, have you?"
That question was meant to be sobering and I was sorry I had said it as soon as I finished.
"You get used to something after so long," she said, running a hand through her gorgeous hair. "And I've always liked the way it sounds Mary Jane..."
"...Watson-Parker," we both finish.
"Well, I've gotten used to this. And I've always liked the way it feels."
Silence. She leaned forward on the balcony railing and looked at the city before us. I simply stared at her, admiring her beauty as I always have.
I tell myself once again the same thing I tell myself every thinking moment:
I was married to a goddess.
"Why did you move here, Peter," she asked, keeping her sites set on the city.
"It was a change of pace," I said as I came up beside her and leaned on the railing with her. "There's nothing left for me in New York. There hasn't been for years, not since Aunt May passed away."
"But why Washington? Why not somewhere else, some place a little quieter."
"I've lived in the city or near one all my life. It's a part of me."
She hung her head and closed her eyes. "I know."
She means she knows which part. I know which part, too. It's the part that drove her away.
"MJ," I said, turning to her and turning her towards me, "let's not talk about this. We don't see each other often enough, let's not fill the time with this."
She nodded and looked at me.
She'd been crying.
God, I hate myself.
***
"Excuse me, but how do I get to the White House from here?"
The man turned the gun towards me, but I was not about to let him get a shot off. With a practiced flick of the wrist, webbing shot from the back of my hand and wrapped around his gun.
Like a good little bad guy he still pulled the trigger.
Heh, I've always enjoyed the sound of a good backfire. And the string of curses never ceases to amaze me.
"My, you're just as articulate as the guys in New York."
Even with a sore hand he still had his senses and leapt at me, which I easily dodged.
"And just as smart too!" With a little pressure into the palm of my right hand I fired some more webbing at the would be thief, only this was special webbing. My left hand fired some of the same stuff near the top of a close building. Almost as soon as each strand connected with its target it contracted.
A special little concoction of mine made just for Washington DC. The buildings aren't as tall here and the streets are wide. Webswinging from building to building was pretty hard dodging trucks and people's heads. So, the amazing contracting webbing!
Not only pulls me up buildings but pulls things closer to me.
Like bad guys.
I quickly did my thing of bundling him up nicely with my regular webbing from the back of my hand and left him dangling for the cops to pick up and swung along right after I double checked to make sure the lady this guy was trying to rob got away. And she did. Looks like she remembered her purse too.
You wouldn't believe the number of folks who forget.
And I smile. Damn it, I smile. I hate this, I hate who I am like this, but I can't help but smile.
The site of the thief dangling there is amusing.
The thrill of saving another soul is refreshing.
The rush of the wind is exhilarating.
The joy of being Spider-Man makes me hate it more.
***
Man, working as a staff photographer for the Daily Bugle in DC is a cakewalk. No Jameson breathing down your neck, no Jameson demanding pictures NOW, no Jameson doing anything. He can only boss me around by e-mail, phone, or proxy.
He's in New York and I'm in Washington DC.
And the beats are so easy! Politics, politics, politics. Sure there are crimes, but they have people for those already, locals to handle that stuff. I'm an outsider, I don't know anything about the city itself, so I get the easy stuff.
Today it's chasing a congressman to hound him with questions about some affair. I'm just there to take pictures as he waves, smiles, and states once again "no comment".
Easy enough.
Joseph "Sparky" Phillips is the wonderful office manager down here and he's no J. Jonah Jameson, let me tell you. The man couldn't hold still, he was always moving. That and his short, bulldog appearance made people think of him kinda like... well, a bulldog. Only, gentle. Thus the dog nickname, Sparky.
"Hey, Peter," he said to me as I came back from taking all the pictures the congressman would allow, "can I talk to you for a second?"
"Sure thing, Sparky," I said as I followed him into his office.
"Close the door behind you," he said as he sat down at his desk. I did and sat across from him.
"What's up?"
"Well, Peter, I'm changing your assignments."
This was unexpected. I mean, it's not like the congressman story was going anywhere, but they were always in need of embarrassing photos.
"I'm sorry," I said, "am I doing something wrong?"
"No, no, it's not that," Sparky said, leaning back, "it's just that I have had a story come up that fits you better than anyone else. You've covered it before, actually, in New York."
Crap.
"Did you know that there have been at least five Spider-Man sightings in the past week?" asked Sparky, leaning forward again. He was getting uncomfortable sitting down. "You covered him in New York, got pictures, hell, spoke with him, right?"
"Yeah," I said with a sigh and leaning back. Why me?
"I want you on that."
"Sparky, isn't there something else, I mean, I pulled the Spider-Man beat in New York. I came here for a change."
"Peter," said Sparky standing up and moving from around the desk to sit on the front of it, "this is big. There are no superhero types in Washington. You only find them in New York or anywhere else, but not Washington. Spider-Man's here for a reason and I want someone on him that knows him. You've covered him for a while, I assume you have a feel for him, probably would have better luck sniffing him out than anyone else.
"Besides, Jameson specifically said he wanted you on it."
Jameson. No matter what city, the Bugle is still his paper. And as long as I work for the Bugle, I work for Jameson. I can't escape him, no matter how much I may want to.
Like so many other things.
I sighed. "Look, I know you want a change, and you'll get it. Just get us started on this story and I'll try and get someone else on it. But, until then, I want you to get me pictures and stories of this guy. And not just sightings, everyone will have those, get me up close and personal. You're the only one who can do it, Peter, you've done it before."
Why, why, why, why won't it leave me alone?
I don't want to do the story. To do the story there has to be a story to write. That means there has to be a Spider-Man to be seen. That means I have to put it on again.
And I'm trying to hard not to, I really am.
I hate it.
Now more than ever it haunts me.
I nodded.
"Good. I know there's the schedule change since Spider-Man's usually only moving at night, so I'll give you a couple days to get settled."
"No, no, don't worry about it," I said, waiving Sparky off. "I'll start tonight."
"Great," said Sparky with a clap of his hands, "good. Go home now and rest then, you'll be up late tonight. I want a call from you or some kinda note every morning by 10, unless, of course, we have a story."
"Of course." I stood up and Sparky grabbed my hand and shook it.
"Thanks, Peter."
I just nodded again and left.
Damn costume.
I went into the bathroom down the hall.
Damn Spider-Man.
I went into a stall and closed and locked the door.
I hate you.
And I broke down.
I hate you Peter Parker.
I hate what you've become.
***
"How did I ever lose you, Mary Jane Watson-Parker?"
"You had a choice, Peter Parker..."
***
The webbing fires from under my wrist, grabs the building and pulls me towards it. I lash out with my other hand, firing webbing across the street and swinging again.
My arms work without me thinking, this is all instinct now. My mind is racing through thoughts, where I am, who I am, why I continue to torture myself.
The anger builds.
My webbing misses and I tumble. I could catch myself, but I don't, I let myself fall, then, at the last possible moment, I shoot webbing, grab a building and get pulled diagonally away, swinging into an alley, high enough to miss the ground, low enough to hit the dumpster.
I feel the hit, I feel the pain as it runs through my body, feel the ground as I fall to it, and I lie down and start to cry.
I've been doing that too much lately.
***
"...Spider-Man."