Yay! I posted! Sorry, my Internet service was stupid and I was offline for a while there. I'm seriously incredibly sorry. I don't usually take too long to post, so don't lose hope just yet. And Ms. Coulbourne – thanks for all the updates, I appreciate them. : )
I don't own Spider-Man. Or M.J. Yeah, blah blah blah. I do, however, own Strand, Dr. Marcel (think chapter 4 and such), Mr. Black/Sean Rotheby, and anyone else that I invented but can't think of right now. Have fun if possible, sorry again for the long downtime I had…
(Song clip from Good Charlotte's "The Day That I Die" and all of "Movin' on")
PS – the reason that some of these chapters are boring (well, some readers think they're boring, but my favorite was chapter 8, so it's not everybody…) is because I'm…stalling. Yes, I admit it. I have a few ideas for the next "big" thing to happen, but I can't decide. I have a feeling chapter 11 will have more action and all that good stuff, so stay with me here.
Food! So hungry…
How many days has it been? How long since I'd last eaten that…whatever it was that I'd eaten while at…before I got here…? The internal question trailed off in my mind, party because I couldn't answer myself, and more because I couldn't stand not answering myself. It disturbed me to find that Strand's last potion had been more than a bit worse in effects. My memory was being eaten way, and only my most recent recollections stayed totally intact. Important things, too, such as who I am and who M.J. is, stayed…I could still shoot my webbing and knew that I'd been shot earlier this…week? Month?
But for how long? How long would I remember these things?
My jigsaw puzzle was falling apart, and any of the pieces that I had placed in the proper spot were permanently homeless. All the kings horses and all the kings men would never be able to put my world back together.
After Strand was finished messing with my head – figuratively – I wrapped him up more, being nice enough to allow his nose out to breathe. I covered his eyes and mouth and made sure he wouldn't escape. Then, I left. It was so easy…I just got up and walked away.
Of course, I still had a mind strong enough to remind me to stay away from people, so once I reached the top of a wooden staircase (that, by the way, I don't remember descending down), I shot a web to the top of the run down building and hid out on top. I didn't recognize anything; either I was just far away from home, or the drug was worsening. A view of my surroundings provided me with the knowledge enough to tell that I was in a working class suburban area, much like the one I used to live in with…her. Images flowed in my brain, but with no words to sort them out. She…I used to live with her. I remember that. And an old man. They shared the same traits; gray hair, kind, reassuring eyes, and always-smiling mouths.
Aunt May.
Uncle Ben.
The smiling faces faded in my mind as a gunshot seemed to ring through it. An old wound was reopened, the illusory blood portrayed by forgotten feelings, as familiarity resurfaced.
(FLASHBACK START)
We sat in the car, Uncle Ben and I, just before the wrestling match. I was only a beginner, a baffled kid with a newfound talent – an unnatural talent, but a talent nonetheless. I reached down to the stereo and turn up the Alien Ant Farm song (that I couldn't stand) only because I needed it to keep from Uncle Ben's questioning glances. I can't let him know.
Focusing on music didn't help; I felt guilty. And I should. He never hides anything from me, and here I am doing just what he wouldn't…which is just what I wouldn't normally do. He knows it.
"Thanks for the ride, Uncle Ben." Relief swept over my nauseous body as the car pulled up in front of the downtown library.
"Now, wait a minute, Peter…We – ah…we need to talk."
Crap. I shrugged off his proposition, playing like the innocent child that I was…well, that I used to be. "We can talk later."
"We can talk now," he reached down to turn off the god-awful 'music', "if you'll let me." A speech followed, one that didn't help me feel any better about hiding my…powers…from my two closest friends. I didn't want to, I really didn't. But how could someone expect me, a teenager under masses of innovation – not to mention fear and indefiniteness – to not object when Uncle Ben told me what I already knew? That he, indeed, was not my father. I mean, c'mon! Wouldn't you? Not that it matters, because you're not me. I did object. I got…angry. I wasn't thinking, I wasn't putting everything into perspective.
(FLASHBACK END)
No, that lovely little endowment of my character - putting things into perspective before acting - didn't emerge until later.
You know how this story goes. Uncle Ben said those six crucial words, I went in, won the match, blah blah blah…and, as I'm leaving…the crowd of people, crying and shaking their heads in disbelief… The tingling in the back of my head, and the heaviness in my heart. The realization that something bad had happened.
I followed the murderer to the warehouse. To his death. And no, I didn't get to do it. He tripped and fell out the window before I got my…my chance. It's morbid, I know. But I wanted to do anything possible to that man, anything at all that would make him feel even a fraction of the pain I felt when I saw my Uncle Ben die on the street.
Yeah. Anything would have made me feel a little better.
"Not true, Peter." I opened my eyes that had involuntarily shut during the day mare-memory and they rose to the star filled sky. "Nothing would have made you feel better. Nothing."
And now where was I? After all that I'd vowed to do for him, for myself, for mankind…hopeless. It was all a fruitless, pointless battle.
Meaningless. Absolutely, positively, meaningless. That's all there is to it. Maybe it's best that in a few hours I won't even remember who I am anymore.
"Not like I knew who I was before."
[Can you feel the cold tonight?
It sets in but it's alright
Darkness falls I'm letting go
All alone but I feel just fine]
A crisp breeze from the north gave me chills and made me shudder, and I realized, that, once again, I didn't know what to do.
********M.J.'s POV*********
SQQQEEEEAAAAK-CLANG-WHOOOOOOOOSH.
My body moved off the seat a few centimeters with the momentum of the subways' stopping, and my hair blew from my face as the doors athwart me released.
I was out that door before you could say "Spider-Man".
Mr. Bla—Rotheby, however, lingered on the train, looking unsure as to what he should be doing.
"Well? Come on." I stood outside the door, coaxing him with my hands and forcing a happy look onto my face. He reminded me of a scared dog with his tail between his legs.
"Why?" The expressionless face remained just so, and my strained smile transformed into seriousness.
"Because. You've done wrong, and you know it. When you do something wrong, you should go back and fix it so you don't feel guilty." I seriously felt like I was talking to a stubborn six year old. I mean, he just stood there, looking at me, not moving. Vacant to every degree.
Finally – before the subway left again, thank god – his body relaxed and he stepped from the train. "I guess you're right." We walked from the station. It was impiously quiet; the quaint town in which we had stepped foot was so unlike New York City. Few people could be seen outdoors, even in the twilight and wonderfully cool fall weather. The breeze pushed dead, crunchy leaves under our feet and into the empty street. Glancing around, I noticed a sign for a subway headed home; I tugged on Mr. Rotheby's arm and pointed towards it.
"Ok, yeah. We need to go there, I guess."
I took a final look out into the creepy, unidentified town in Sullivan County and we walked to the entrance. Inside was a newspaper stand, and, since the train hadn't yet arrived, I borrowed some money from Mr. Rotheby and bought reading material. I was depressed to find that they didn't carry the Daily Bugle, which I would have chosen over The Wall Street Journal and The New York Times, but anything was better than nothing.
Exactly three minutes and eighteen seconds later – I know, because all I did while I waited was watch the clock above the newspaper stand – the train arrived. Upon boarding, I handed Mr. Rotheby my paper. He took it with a questioning glance, to which I explained, "I'll be right back, I need to use the restroom."
Entering the quarter-of-a-cubicle-sized bathroom was challenging enough, but what was even harder was looking at myself in the mirror. I hadn't slept properly in days, nor had I eaten anything close to baring any sort of nutritional value. The bags under my eyes were bigger than the bags I bring home after a full day's shopping at Macy's. My skin was pale, my hair disheveled from lack of suitable styling and brushing. Translation: I looked hideous. I sat on the toilet for a while, with the seat down, just thinking. A few tears spilled due to stress, worry, hunger, mental pain…I don't think a full bottle of aspirin could have saved me.
Unless it killed me.
I stood up again, ready to face myself in the mirror. That last thought had really scared me. I knew I would never kill myself or do anything stupid, but…man, it would be so nice to not have to deal with this right now.
THUD. "Ow!"
I jumped from a sudden vibration and noise at the door and wiped the streaks from my cheeks. It sounded like someone had just run into the door…I fought an urge to laugh. Usually, I'm the one doing things like that.
"M.J.? I really gotta go, aren't you done yet!?" The laugh escaped and I smiled a genuine smile. Mr. Rotheby.
"Yeah. I'm done." I spent a few moments trying to open the door, which opened into the small room, and managing not to get stuck. It's kind of sad, because I actually needed Mr. Rotheby's help in doing this.
"I—ugh, why is this so complicated?! Here, I got this, now…hold that…yeah – no, not that, this…yeah…UGH!" I popped through the undersized doorway with a gasp for breath. As I brushed myself off, I turned to see Mr. Rotheby still in the same position, holding the door open. The look on his face was undeniable. His eyes sparkled with a new zeal as he bit his bottom lip.
"You're laughing at me! How dare you!" I put on a fake angry look and turned my back. A few moments of silence passed before I turned again to see him struggling to get into the bathroom. "See, it's not just me," I said in defense. "I'm not the only one who gets stuck in the doorway."
"You wanna help?"
"Nope. Not really. I'd rather stand here and laugh."
"Oh, ok. I see how it is. You just remember this, little lady."
Little lady? "I'll remember. Trust me. I'm going to tell everyone about it." His body disappeared into the room and I strolled back to my seat, picking up the dropped newspaper from the floor on the way.
Sigh. I need to get back to Peter. I glanced at the clock in the station as the train began to move. 7:23. Sighing one last time, I rested my head on the back of the hard plastic seat and put the newspaper over my face. "Just what I need. More waiting."
"We'll be there soon." I sat up as Mr. Rotheby, who I hadn't heard come back, patted my knee reassuringly. I lowered the newspaper to meet his face, and found him looking into my eyes with a gaze that I didn't like. He was fondling me with his eyes. Now, I've had plenty of men do that to me, but…I felt quite uncomfortable. Then, as suddenly as he'd reappeared, he lowered his head and moved his hand from my leg.
I had a feeling the puppy didn't have his tail between his legs anymore. No, that damn tail was wagging like a spastic snake, and I didn't like it one bit.
********Peter/Spider-Man's POV*********
It was like there was an angry hornet buzzing in my head, taking breaks every now and then to sting my brain. My fingertips and toes were numb from either the injection or the increasing coldness. Sitting on the rooftop, hands to my head, I remembered. One little detail about myself came back in the midst of my fading lifetime…
"I don't give up."
[When I think about my life
I wonder if I will survive to live to see 25 or will I just fall?
Like all my friends they just keep dying
People around me always crying
In this place that I like to call my home
Not everybody knows that everybody goes to a better place
Not everybody knows that everybody could be living their last days
But the hard times will come
And we'll keep movin' on (we're movin' up)
Keep movin' on
Life, hope, truth, trust, faith, pride, love, lust
On without the things we've lost
The things we've gained we'll take with us
And alls I've got are these two hands to make myself a better man
I wonder if I'll ever see the end of this
With all this rain it just keeps falling
On my head and now I'm calling
Out to someone else to help me make it through
Not everybody knows that everybody goes to a better place
And not everybody knows that everybody could be living their last days
But the hard times will come
And we'll keep movin' on (we're movin' up)
Keep movin' on
Life, hope, truth, trust, faith, pride, love, lust, pain, hate, lies, guilt, laugh, cry, live, die
Some friends become enemies
Some friends become your family
Make the best with what you're given
This ain't dying, this is living
Said we're movin' on, and we've got nothing to prove
To anyone 'cause we'll get through
We're movin' on and on and on and on…
Keep movin' on
Life, hope, truth, trust, faith, pride, love, lust, pain, hate, lies, guilt, laugh, cry, live, die
Some friends become enemies
Some friends become your family
Make the best with what you're given
This ain't dying, this is living]
********M.J.'s POV********
"How much longer?" It couldn't be far…we'd been on this god damn subway for hours it seemed.
Mr. Rotheby glanced at his watch, then to the map on the wall. "Um…well, probably about five minutes. Maybe. I think. Yeah, five minutes." Fidgety. He was fidgety. His sideways glances and sudden silence made me nervous. They freaked me out…
He likes me…
He likes me.
This cannot be. I mean, I can't…Peter is…and Mr. Rotheby is, like, old, and I love Peter, and…ew!
After a few minutes, the subway squeaked and rattled its way to a bumpy stop. My mind swirled the entire way back to the building where Peter was. Well, where he was when I'd left, anyway…and where I hoped he still was. I just kept thinking to myself, what if he's not there? What if they did something to him? Something worse than what they've already done?
What if…he's…
…dead…?
*****************************
THUD. THUD. THUD. CRASH!!
"AUGH!! OW!" I reached for something, anything, as the last step of the stairway gave out under my body weight, but I found nothing.
"M.J.! Are you ok!?"
"Yeah…I think so."
"Well, c'mon, lets get you out of there." A large knuckled hand (bearing one traditional wedding band, I might add) reached down a few feet to help me up. I grabbed it, the whole time thinking, this is weird. Not just the fact that he's so…scary…but also the fact that no noises came from within the prison. No one seemed to be around.
Not even Peter.
Finally, after searching the totally empty – save one knocked out bad guy – warehouse, we located bloody footsteps leaving up the staircase. I followed the red track outside, where they just disappeared a few feet from the door. I glanced to the stars above as if to ask for advice from a higher being when a dangling web upon the building's ledge, swaying to and fro in the chilling breeze, caught my eye. Don't ask me why I noticed it, especially in the streetlight-less darkness, but thank God I did. It took and exerted amount of effort to climb to the roof. I managed to reach the top, though my out-of-shape lungs were gasping for breath by the time I got there. I soon found that that wouldn't be the worst of my breathing problems.
"Peter!" The breath no long passed from my lips; the faint wisps of whiteness that were rising from both Peter and Mr. Rotheby's mouths into the cold air did not appear at mine. "…Peter?"
No movement from him. I wanted to run, to lay with him, comfort him, but I couldn't. I was scared of finding out that he was hurt beyond repair.
"Aren't you going to…" Mr. Rotheby shoved past me and did what I could not. I knelt down on the pavement and cried, unable to look.
Not, however, unable to listen.
"Peter, are you ok? Answer me." A pause. "M.J., get over here!! He needs you."
"I…I can't, I…" The whispers trailed off and were replaced by his own. By Peter's whispers.
"M.J. M.J., hi M.J. I love you."
"Oh, Peter!!!" My body carried itself over to him, mechanically it seemed. I soon found my hands enveloping his rugged face, stubbly from lack of shaving, but still so beautiful. "Peter, what happened, where did they go!? How did you get out?!" The crystal eyes rose to meet my gaze, then shut as if repressing some dark secret behind the curtained eyelids. "Peter!"
"So many questions."
"We need to get out of here. Mr. Rotheby, where can we--" I turned to my right, where, just moments before, he had stood. But now he was gone. "Mr. Rotheby? Oh, fuck it. I didn't like him that much anyway. Peter, are you ok to stand?"
"Where…where are we going…where did he…"
"It doesn't matter. Anywhere."
"You're right," he said, his eyebrows furrowing together in deep though. "It doesn't matter. I know I love you. I remember that. That's all that matters, forever."
Oh my God! "The amnesia thing," I whispered to myself. "They actually used it."
*******Peter/Spider-Man's POV*********
I love M.J. I know that.
I always have, and I always will. I know that.
I am physically, mentally, spiritually, morally, and emotionally powerful. I know that.
But I can't do this. I can't have my life erased. I know that.
The cold is bothering you. You're in pain. M.J. is here, and she can – will – help you. Go with her.
"No. No, I will not listen to you anymore. I want my life back, and you have it. It's inside of you, somewhere. I know it! GIVE ME MY LIFE BACK!" Louder and louder. I was so sick of dealing with myself, arguing with myself. So sick of lying here, unsure of both future and past.
"OH, my god, Peter, what are you talking about!? What!? No, Peter, stop, that's your head, you're going to hurt yourself!! Stop! STOP!" M.J. pried my hands from their grip on my skull.
You'll find them, your future and past. But you need to go with M.J.
"I WANT IT NOW!" Louder still. My aggressive voice blared over that of M.J.'s, toning her out of my consciousness for the time being.
Pay attention to yourself. Pay attention to her. Be yourself, and you will remember.
"How the hell can I do that!? NO, SHUT UP! I'LL KILL YOU! I WILL!"
"Peter, please…oh my god, stop! Peter, you're scaring me!"
"M.J.? M.J., oh, I'm so sorry, M.J….please, don't cry, don't…" I reached for the hands that covered her troubled face.
Oh, Peter, look what you did! You idiot.
She just sat there on her knees, crying into her hands. "I'm sorry. I…I lost myself. I'm lost, so lost…you have to help me."
"Peter, listen to me. We'll get through this, ok?"
"Ok." I really, really hoped she was right.
