*These characters are copyrighted and don't belong to me. I'm merely trying to amuse myself. *
He brushed away the dirt from the opened wound on his left kneecap and kept running. He felt winded and surely he would pass out in a few more minutes if this kept up. His lungs were on fire. Whipping his head over his shoulder, he stole a glance. They were gaining on him. He gasped as he felt the muscles in his legs rapidly give out.
I'm dead. I'm dead. I'm dead...
"HELP! PLEASE!!" he squealed as it hurt to breathe. He didn't want to resort to that. He sounded so desperate. So... weak. So...pathetic. And it hurt him to face all those facets out in the open, where he was vulnerable the most. It was just more comfortable to be left alone with all the contents covered and contained within the lid. To go through life the way he wanted to.
Ohmygod...gonna pass out. Screw whatever pride he had left, he just wanted to LIVE. He wanted to go home and see his family. Maybe it didn't seem like anything to anyone, but the boy always tended to forget the iniquities of the outside world when he was at home. It was a place of sanctuary until school began again. He was still naïve to ever consider suicide, not that he ever would commit it, because it meant causing his loved ones a great deal of pain.
Droplets of sweat rolled off his forehead and down his neck. The GATE! If he could reach it in time and climb the links he'd be able-
He felt someone grab a handful of his hair and pull. Hard. He shot backward and landed on the hard ground. He felt a tingling sensation in the back of his head, which shot up to his eye sockets as it made impact with the solid dirt and grass.
"Hey there. Where do you think you're going?" mocked a voice in a parenting tone. Someone pulled him up by the lapels of his shirt and to his feet, his tie lashing around his skinny neck. The boy closed his eyes and braced himself for the impact of a fist, which didn't help much. The boy fell to his knees holding his stomach with tears rolling out of both clenched eyes. His glasses slid off the bridge of his nose and the nose pads now lodged themselves into his nostrils, making it difficult to breathe.
Snickering. Then guffawing.
I hate them all. They--they all deserve to die. Eye for an eye. Tooth for a tooth, bruise for every frikkin' bruise. I wish I could--
"Parker's such a girl." A monotonous voice came. Like the whole situation was a casual affair, approached over and over again until it was more common sense than fact, just to get someone to respond for conversation's sake. He was starting to get light headed and then--
******************
It was his sixteenth birthday. The dining area was set up like a banquet fit for kings and maybe a few cavalries as well. Harry Osborn walked up and down the long rectangular tables of food. Lots of people, lots of muffled laughter to which belonged to most of his dad's executives and business friends. Sure, he had been enthralled to hear his father say he was throwing him, HIS own son, Harry, a birthday party, or "special occasion" in his father's own words, but he didn't think it was going to be so...um, boring? Whatever it was, he couldn't think of the word at the moment and he found himself slowly walking back to the table set in the center of the room, where most of the adults stayed away from because it consisted mostly of Harry's friends. Some acquaintances from the last private school he was excused from and a couple from here and there. Harry really didn't feel as if he was doing a well enough job to keep these relationships however, as most of them got together to hang out a few days a year and they rarely ever called each other.
"You enjoying yourselves?" Harry asked and it came out more sarcastically then he intended it to.
A blonde haired boy put on a smile and what pained Harry was that it wasn't fake at all.
"Oh yeah." Tom responded. "You're dad's a pretty cool guy. I mean, he has a way with doing business with people" he gesticulated over to Norman Osborn who was busying himself spouting what seemed to be a few friendly jokes as he served the wine out.
Harry suddenly felt depressed. His friends seemed to be enjoying themselves, which wasn't a bad thing, but Harry would have been much happier if there were less of his father's friends there. That way, Norman maybe would have given Harry a little more attention. Hell, it would have been the best if his father, god forbid, just took Harry and his five friends on a fishing trip and spent the whole day staring at dirty water. Maybe it was more of Harry's wishful thinking.
************
He didn't know how the heck he survived that one or got out of it, but he knew one thing: that Flash Thompson and his crew of morons didn't kill him and he didn't have to pick up his remains afterwards, which was a really good thing. Peter Parker had stayed a little later after school to help Mr. Matthews clean up after Chess Club and he had missed the late bus after trying to get his jammed locker door open for fifteen minutes. It was really no problem though. He figured he could walk home, it was sunny and it was a nice day after all. He could pass the park, which he did, only to meet up with his worst nightmare. Peter was a rather skinny fifteen year old, not too lanky, but awkward enough. He was short too, it wouldn't be until his senior year in high school when he'd shoot up several inches and go through some other changes too. His glasses didn't help his image any further in the eyes of puberty stricken kids caught up in the popularity disease, cool fads and hot school athletes. He was brainy, yes, but the worst thing was he sat alone. And he was quiet and awkward when he spoke and he just wasn't...anybody. He was ...doofy looking (to practically the whole student body) and an all around dorky freak. Oh yeah, and people like Flash Thompson LOVED to hate him. So it was just his luck for a geek like him to cross paths with Flash and his gang on the way home past the park and for him to freeze in fear after Flash started walking toward the other boy seemingly wanting to vent out his frustrations of the day on Peter's face.
"Hey, what's up, buddy?" Flash had said. Surely not in a friendly way, but in a tone that mocks you, that insinuates that you're such a frikkin loser. And that scared Peter the most. That he didn't know how to respond to that, so he just stood there for a few seconds, his eyes magnified by his heavy prescription glasses and started walking away. In the other direction and feeling more like dropping dead right then and there to save himself the humiliation. That's when someone shoved him hard against the iron fence and before he knew it, he was running for his puny life. He didn't know exactly how it ended, but after being punched in the stomach, one of Flash's friends, Daniel Cole or something, was about to make a nice imprint of his sneaker on Peter's forehead when Flash had mumbled something about his dad killing him if he didn't get home before five. So seeing as Peter was already down for the count, they became satisfied enough and left him alone, on the ground, trying to take in air.
Peter had gotten up as soon as he was sure they were gone. And he really felt sick at that moment. He was sure he was going to vomit a whole trail home. Ew. Couldn't think about that. He felt as if he's been shot in the stomach twice and it was all he could do to keep himself from crying. He poked at his stomach experimentally. Waves of pain shot up through his esophagus and the skin that was his stomach felt as soft as a pillow.
******************
"Hey, Peter! How'd school go and everything?" Ben Parker looked up from the novel he was engrossed in prior to his favorite nephew's arrival. He had decided to take the last of the two vacations, deserving of employees such as himself each year, this week. It marked the end of the really big holidays and it hadn't been too cold out lately. Just perfect for spending some quality time with Peter, he had tried to convince his wife to let Peter take off a few days from school or at least one so the two of them could go somewhere fun, but May wouldn't see it until Ben brought up the possibility of it being the last vacation he's going to have and it would be a while until he had another one. With a roll of her eyes and a sigh, May had agreed to let Peter take off Friday (which would be tomorrow) since he wouldn't have a lot of work to make up.
Peter dropped his bag on its usual position beside the door.
"Uh... it was kind of tiring. I'm glad I'm taking off tomorrow." Of course I got the snot kicked out of me today too and I felt like I was gonna die, but you don't really need to know about that part. "Hi, Aunt May."
May Parker entered the living room shortly after hearing Peter's voice. She had a dishtowel over her shoulder, her left hand placed loosely over her hip in a motherly fashion. She smiled as Peter went over to sit beside Ben to read the paper. It was all so cute. Her two favorite boys were sitting together. Yes, BOYS, whenever she was asked how many children she had, she would always respond two boys. It was more out of her own amusement since her husband had a lot of energy. Not to say that Peter didn't, he just wasn't into all those boring sports that Ben was into. The truth of the matter was Peter was more mentally gifted then physically. It just wasn't in his genes to throw a football or become the world's most graceful acrobat, and even if it was directly stated to Ben and May, they couldn't have cared less. May had enjoyed spouting off to her friend, Anna Watson, about Peter's accomplishments in school, not hiding any bit of pride and love for him (much to Peter's chagrin if Aunt May had been talking outside in public with HIM there to experience the doting) and likewise Anna about her niece, Mary Jane, whom she tried to visit often.
Now, however, May's smile had quickly faded after spotting what looked to be dried blood just above the boy's left brow.
**********
"So you won't be coming back...ever?" asked Scott Richards, another friend of Harry's. "That sucks, man. Where would you be going then?"
"Midtown." Harry replied. He didn't bother to look up at his friends' mortified faces.
"Damn, I feel sorry for you. A freaking public school. There are a lot of unsophisticated a-holes there."
"Yeah, but I heard it's a lot easier. I can always find someone to write my papers if things get too hard. I doubt anyone would turn down the money I'm offering."
Daniel snickered. "Yeah, really Harry. But you think you're really going to find some kid who's dumb enough to spend all his time doing your homework?"
"Hey, like I said. It has to do with the money. It's worked before."
*******
If Peter didn't know any better, Aunt May looked like she was suffering from a heart attack. She had her hand on her chest, her brows etched together and her mouth in the shape of an "O". Like she had just been insulted.
"Peter, what happened there?" she used her index to tap her left brow. Peter looked at her funny for a moment and then used his hand opposite her left to reach up and feel above his brow. There was a small cut there and the dried blood fell away in crumbs.
"Oh, I got that in Phys. Ed." He almost coughed. "We're doing a kickball unit. I was running to home base and I kind of slid the wrong way." Would she believe that? "It's okay though. I didn't even know I had gotten cut until you mentioned it."
"And that bruise too?" she walked over to him and gently slid the short sleeve up to reveal a big fresh bluish spot. Boy, she had eyes like a hawk.
"Y-yeah."
It was enough to convince Aunt May. "Well, go wash it out before dinner. I Have band-aids and aloe cream in one of the drawers in the kitchen and I-"
Ben had ruffled the newspaper and cleared his throat. "The boy's fine, May. I think if it was a desperate situation, he already would've passed out on us by now. Isn't that right, Pete?" he winked at the boy.
Peter smiled. "Yeah. I'm okay, really."
After Aunt May had announced that dinner would be ready in a few hours, Peter had dismissed himself to his room. He jumped onto his bed, his rear popping down onto the soft pillows against the headboard. He reached into the bottom drawer of his night table and pulled out a stack of his comic books.
Captain America. What a cool guy. He'd been Peter's hero since he'd been able to read comics. It was out of vague memory that Peter remembered his father, Richard, handing him his first issue around his fourth birthday.
********
"Here you go, Peter." Richard Parker had said.
"What's this, daddy?"
The older Parker got down on the floor next to his son and pointed at the picture of the big man in the weird costume. "It's a comic book Peter. You see, it has pictures and words that tell a story. This guy, Captain America, he's a super hero. You know like that show Superman you watch on T.V.?"
The boy's blue eyes looked back into his father's brown ones. "Oh yeah! Does Captain America save people too?"
"You bet."
"Woooowww..."
"Yup."
"Oh geez, Richie." Mary Parker had rolled her eyes at her husband. "Are you sure Peter's old enough to read those?"
"Of course, honey." Richard looked up at his wife as if she asked him if he needed food to survive. " I loved reading comic books growing up. They tell such great stories. He'll understand them."
*******
So here he was, Peter, eleven years and almost 200 issues later. It was sort of a secret hobby of his. He even took the extra steps to make sure that no one from school was around when he went into the comic shop each month to purchase an issue. Not that they'd really be in a comic store, they probably thought reading those things were for wimps like him, but still it never hurt to take precautions.
He considered comics a way of escape for him. And secretly he wished he could be like one of the heroes in their stories. Yeah, he could see it. It was a lame dream, but it was not meant to be shared with anyone besides himself. He'd be like...no, he'd BE Captain America. He'd bring justice to those who deserved it. Protect the defenseless. Save the girl. The girl with fiery hair and blue eyes.
He lied softly on his stomach, his feet on the head board, his head resting in both palms, getting lost in his books. He saw himself as that hero. It was his face, glasses and all pasted on to the image of Captain America. He'd have this really deep voice, not at all like the tenor pitched one that he owned now. He played his corny movie again in his head.
"Help! Please!" some defenseless person would say. They would be running for their lives. Feeling like the hunted prey. Running from the present evil. Running for their innocence.
And he, Captain (Peter Parker) America, would jump in at the right moment, landing a perfect side kick to the bad guy's groin, making him cower in pain and fear. And then he'd point his gloved finger at the guy and say-
"Peter! Ben! Dinner's ready!"
No, that wasn't right. Peter had been abruptly taken out of his daydream by Aunt May's calling and suddenly noticed the pleasant smell of potatoes coming from downstairs and accentuating his room. He stashed his comics away again.
For now he had returned to being plain old Puny Parker. The small boy who was a secret hopeless romantic, who had more layers to him than a mean fat kid on a winter day and a baseball combined, he was a dreamer. An awkward nobody who was pushed into the background in the scheme of things. For now.
He brushed away the dirt from the opened wound on his left kneecap and kept running. He felt winded and surely he would pass out in a few more minutes if this kept up. His lungs were on fire. Whipping his head over his shoulder, he stole a glance. They were gaining on him. He gasped as he felt the muscles in his legs rapidly give out.
I'm dead. I'm dead. I'm dead...
"HELP! PLEASE!!" he squealed as it hurt to breathe. He didn't want to resort to that. He sounded so desperate. So... weak. So...pathetic. And it hurt him to face all those facets out in the open, where he was vulnerable the most. It was just more comfortable to be left alone with all the contents covered and contained within the lid. To go through life the way he wanted to.
Ohmygod...gonna pass out. Screw whatever pride he had left, he just wanted to LIVE. He wanted to go home and see his family. Maybe it didn't seem like anything to anyone, but the boy always tended to forget the iniquities of the outside world when he was at home. It was a place of sanctuary until school began again. He was still naïve to ever consider suicide, not that he ever would commit it, because it meant causing his loved ones a great deal of pain.
Droplets of sweat rolled off his forehead and down his neck. The GATE! If he could reach it in time and climb the links he'd be able-
He felt someone grab a handful of his hair and pull. Hard. He shot backward and landed on the hard ground. He felt a tingling sensation in the back of his head, which shot up to his eye sockets as it made impact with the solid dirt and grass.
"Hey there. Where do you think you're going?" mocked a voice in a parenting tone. Someone pulled him up by the lapels of his shirt and to his feet, his tie lashing around his skinny neck. The boy closed his eyes and braced himself for the impact of a fist, which didn't help much. The boy fell to his knees holding his stomach with tears rolling out of both clenched eyes. His glasses slid off the bridge of his nose and the nose pads now lodged themselves into his nostrils, making it difficult to breathe.
Snickering. Then guffawing.
I hate them all. They--they all deserve to die. Eye for an eye. Tooth for a tooth, bruise for every frikkin' bruise. I wish I could--
"Parker's such a girl." A monotonous voice came. Like the whole situation was a casual affair, approached over and over again until it was more common sense than fact, just to get someone to respond for conversation's sake. He was starting to get light headed and then--
******************
It was his sixteenth birthday. The dining area was set up like a banquet fit for kings and maybe a few cavalries as well. Harry Osborn walked up and down the long rectangular tables of food. Lots of people, lots of muffled laughter to which belonged to most of his dad's executives and business friends. Sure, he had been enthralled to hear his father say he was throwing him, HIS own son, Harry, a birthday party, or "special occasion" in his father's own words, but he didn't think it was going to be so...um, boring? Whatever it was, he couldn't think of the word at the moment and he found himself slowly walking back to the table set in the center of the room, where most of the adults stayed away from because it consisted mostly of Harry's friends. Some acquaintances from the last private school he was excused from and a couple from here and there. Harry really didn't feel as if he was doing a well enough job to keep these relationships however, as most of them got together to hang out a few days a year and they rarely ever called each other.
"You enjoying yourselves?" Harry asked and it came out more sarcastically then he intended it to.
A blonde haired boy put on a smile and what pained Harry was that it wasn't fake at all.
"Oh yeah." Tom responded. "You're dad's a pretty cool guy. I mean, he has a way with doing business with people" he gesticulated over to Norman Osborn who was busying himself spouting what seemed to be a few friendly jokes as he served the wine out.
Harry suddenly felt depressed. His friends seemed to be enjoying themselves, which wasn't a bad thing, but Harry would have been much happier if there were less of his father's friends there. That way, Norman maybe would have given Harry a little more attention. Hell, it would have been the best if his father, god forbid, just took Harry and his five friends on a fishing trip and spent the whole day staring at dirty water. Maybe it was more of Harry's wishful thinking.
************
He didn't know how the heck he survived that one or got out of it, but he knew one thing: that Flash Thompson and his crew of morons didn't kill him and he didn't have to pick up his remains afterwards, which was a really good thing. Peter Parker had stayed a little later after school to help Mr. Matthews clean up after Chess Club and he had missed the late bus after trying to get his jammed locker door open for fifteen minutes. It was really no problem though. He figured he could walk home, it was sunny and it was a nice day after all. He could pass the park, which he did, only to meet up with his worst nightmare. Peter was a rather skinny fifteen year old, not too lanky, but awkward enough. He was short too, it wouldn't be until his senior year in high school when he'd shoot up several inches and go through some other changes too. His glasses didn't help his image any further in the eyes of puberty stricken kids caught up in the popularity disease, cool fads and hot school athletes. He was brainy, yes, but the worst thing was he sat alone. And he was quiet and awkward when he spoke and he just wasn't...anybody. He was ...doofy looking (to practically the whole student body) and an all around dorky freak. Oh yeah, and people like Flash Thompson LOVED to hate him. So it was just his luck for a geek like him to cross paths with Flash and his gang on the way home past the park and for him to freeze in fear after Flash started walking toward the other boy seemingly wanting to vent out his frustrations of the day on Peter's face.
"Hey, what's up, buddy?" Flash had said. Surely not in a friendly way, but in a tone that mocks you, that insinuates that you're such a frikkin loser. And that scared Peter the most. That he didn't know how to respond to that, so he just stood there for a few seconds, his eyes magnified by his heavy prescription glasses and started walking away. In the other direction and feeling more like dropping dead right then and there to save himself the humiliation. That's when someone shoved him hard against the iron fence and before he knew it, he was running for his puny life. He didn't know exactly how it ended, but after being punched in the stomach, one of Flash's friends, Daniel Cole or something, was about to make a nice imprint of his sneaker on Peter's forehead when Flash had mumbled something about his dad killing him if he didn't get home before five. So seeing as Peter was already down for the count, they became satisfied enough and left him alone, on the ground, trying to take in air.
Peter had gotten up as soon as he was sure they were gone. And he really felt sick at that moment. He was sure he was going to vomit a whole trail home. Ew. Couldn't think about that. He felt as if he's been shot in the stomach twice and it was all he could do to keep himself from crying. He poked at his stomach experimentally. Waves of pain shot up through his esophagus and the skin that was his stomach felt as soft as a pillow.
******************
"Hey, Peter! How'd school go and everything?" Ben Parker looked up from the novel he was engrossed in prior to his favorite nephew's arrival. He had decided to take the last of the two vacations, deserving of employees such as himself each year, this week. It marked the end of the really big holidays and it hadn't been too cold out lately. Just perfect for spending some quality time with Peter, he had tried to convince his wife to let Peter take off a few days from school or at least one so the two of them could go somewhere fun, but May wouldn't see it until Ben brought up the possibility of it being the last vacation he's going to have and it would be a while until he had another one. With a roll of her eyes and a sigh, May had agreed to let Peter take off Friday (which would be tomorrow) since he wouldn't have a lot of work to make up.
Peter dropped his bag on its usual position beside the door.
"Uh... it was kind of tiring. I'm glad I'm taking off tomorrow." Of course I got the snot kicked out of me today too and I felt like I was gonna die, but you don't really need to know about that part. "Hi, Aunt May."
May Parker entered the living room shortly after hearing Peter's voice. She had a dishtowel over her shoulder, her left hand placed loosely over her hip in a motherly fashion. She smiled as Peter went over to sit beside Ben to read the paper. It was all so cute. Her two favorite boys were sitting together. Yes, BOYS, whenever she was asked how many children she had, she would always respond two boys. It was more out of her own amusement since her husband had a lot of energy. Not to say that Peter didn't, he just wasn't into all those boring sports that Ben was into. The truth of the matter was Peter was more mentally gifted then physically. It just wasn't in his genes to throw a football or become the world's most graceful acrobat, and even if it was directly stated to Ben and May, they couldn't have cared less. May had enjoyed spouting off to her friend, Anna Watson, about Peter's accomplishments in school, not hiding any bit of pride and love for him (much to Peter's chagrin if Aunt May had been talking outside in public with HIM there to experience the doting) and likewise Anna about her niece, Mary Jane, whom she tried to visit often.
Now, however, May's smile had quickly faded after spotting what looked to be dried blood just above the boy's left brow.
**********
"So you won't be coming back...ever?" asked Scott Richards, another friend of Harry's. "That sucks, man. Where would you be going then?"
"Midtown." Harry replied. He didn't bother to look up at his friends' mortified faces.
"Damn, I feel sorry for you. A freaking public school. There are a lot of unsophisticated a-holes there."
"Yeah, but I heard it's a lot easier. I can always find someone to write my papers if things get too hard. I doubt anyone would turn down the money I'm offering."
Daniel snickered. "Yeah, really Harry. But you think you're really going to find some kid who's dumb enough to spend all his time doing your homework?"
"Hey, like I said. It has to do with the money. It's worked before."
*******
If Peter didn't know any better, Aunt May looked like she was suffering from a heart attack. She had her hand on her chest, her brows etched together and her mouth in the shape of an "O". Like she had just been insulted.
"Peter, what happened there?" she used her index to tap her left brow. Peter looked at her funny for a moment and then used his hand opposite her left to reach up and feel above his brow. There was a small cut there and the dried blood fell away in crumbs.
"Oh, I got that in Phys. Ed." He almost coughed. "We're doing a kickball unit. I was running to home base and I kind of slid the wrong way." Would she believe that? "It's okay though. I didn't even know I had gotten cut until you mentioned it."
"And that bruise too?" she walked over to him and gently slid the short sleeve up to reveal a big fresh bluish spot. Boy, she had eyes like a hawk.
"Y-yeah."
It was enough to convince Aunt May. "Well, go wash it out before dinner. I Have band-aids and aloe cream in one of the drawers in the kitchen and I-"
Ben had ruffled the newspaper and cleared his throat. "The boy's fine, May. I think if it was a desperate situation, he already would've passed out on us by now. Isn't that right, Pete?" he winked at the boy.
Peter smiled. "Yeah. I'm okay, really."
After Aunt May had announced that dinner would be ready in a few hours, Peter had dismissed himself to his room. He jumped onto his bed, his rear popping down onto the soft pillows against the headboard. He reached into the bottom drawer of his night table and pulled out a stack of his comic books.
Captain America. What a cool guy. He'd been Peter's hero since he'd been able to read comics. It was out of vague memory that Peter remembered his father, Richard, handing him his first issue around his fourth birthday.
********
"Here you go, Peter." Richard Parker had said.
"What's this, daddy?"
The older Parker got down on the floor next to his son and pointed at the picture of the big man in the weird costume. "It's a comic book Peter. You see, it has pictures and words that tell a story. This guy, Captain America, he's a super hero. You know like that show Superman you watch on T.V.?"
The boy's blue eyes looked back into his father's brown ones. "Oh yeah! Does Captain America save people too?"
"You bet."
"Woooowww..."
"Yup."
"Oh geez, Richie." Mary Parker had rolled her eyes at her husband. "Are you sure Peter's old enough to read those?"
"Of course, honey." Richard looked up at his wife as if she asked him if he needed food to survive. " I loved reading comic books growing up. They tell such great stories. He'll understand them."
*******
So here he was, Peter, eleven years and almost 200 issues later. It was sort of a secret hobby of his. He even took the extra steps to make sure that no one from school was around when he went into the comic shop each month to purchase an issue. Not that they'd really be in a comic store, they probably thought reading those things were for wimps like him, but still it never hurt to take precautions.
He considered comics a way of escape for him. And secretly he wished he could be like one of the heroes in their stories. Yeah, he could see it. It was a lame dream, but it was not meant to be shared with anyone besides himself. He'd be like...no, he'd BE Captain America. He'd bring justice to those who deserved it. Protect the defenseless. Save the girl. The girl with fiery hair and blue eyes.
He lied softly on his stomach, his feet on the head board, his head resting in both palms, getting lost in his books. He saw himself as that hero. It was his face, glasses and all pasted on to the image of Captain America. He'd have this really deep voice, not at all like the tenor pitched one that he owned now. He played his corny movie again in his head.
"Help! Please!" some defenseless person would say. They would be running for their lives. Feeling like the hunted prey. Running from the present evil. Running for their innocence.
And he, Captain (Peter Parker) America, would jump in at the right moment, landing a perfect side kick to the bad guy's groin, making him cower in pain and fear. And then he'd point his gloved finger at the guy and say-
"Peter! Ben! Dinner's ready!"
No, that wasn't right. Peter had been abruptly taken out of his daydream by Aunt May's calling and suddenly noticed the pleasant smell of potatoes coming from downstairs and accentuating his room. He stashed his comics away again.
For now he had returned to being plain old Puny Parker. The small boy who was a secret hopeless romantic, who had more layers to him than a mean fat kid on a winter day and a baseball combined, he was a dreamer. An awkward nobody who was pushed into the background in the scheme of things. For now.