Spiderman is dead: The story afterwards
Somewhere beyond happiness and sadness
I need to calculate what creates my own madness
And I'm addicted to your punishment
And you're the master, and I am waiting for disaster...
Electric blue eyes stare up at me.
It wasn't a cold look, but it wasn't lively and warm either-- just empty. Empty of life. The eyes didn't blink or flinch, and every second I look upon his eyes it gives me this cold feeling down my spine, colder than the metal tentacles that fused behind my back.
He looked cold too, and pale. His mouth was open, but no sign of oxygen came out. Small streaks of blood drips on every bruise I gave him, by the lips and forehead.
My two flesh-and-blood hands held his neck but loosened the squeeze grip. I suddenly found it's hard to breathe. It was like the ghost of this boy choking me back.
This boy...I've always wanted to capture this look. To watch this...boy, in which I've always thought was a man...die with a spice of shock and horror added to his face.
But I didn't want it to be this person. More than anyone in the world. He had a perfect opportunity for a better future.
He was brilliant, but lazy...on the second thought, he wasn't lazy at all. Just too busy. It had to be this boy, and innocent enough that would never kill. And I killed him with my bare hands. Peter Parker. The brilliant but lazy kid.
I killed Spiderman.
I release his neck entirely, now staring at the horrible red blood that is wet in my hands. They were Peter's blood. I strangled him to death.
I kept taking gulps of air, find it hard to breathe. Am I feeling guilt? This is a boy that could've lived a better future. But I wasted it. Am I feeling guilt?
No, I should be happy. I finally got my revenge. He killed my Rosie, my love and wife. Did he? Why do I feel doubt? Am I feeling guilt?
Yes...I do.
Tears threatened to spill. I began to touch Peter's dead face, restoring him warmth, hoping that it would bring him back to life. My god, what have I done?
"P-peter?" I softly whisper, almost to a whimper. Oh god, what did I do?
Why must it come this way? Why did I do this? How could this happen? I don't know how I got here, I don't know how I did this, and I don't know how it came to the bottom of this way.
But I do know one thing entirely: Everything's not okay. Everything's never okay. My tentacles comfort me, telling me everything is alright, everything's okay, but in the end, everything's not okay.
I'm a scientist, someone who vowed to work to help in the behalf of mankind. I worked on a project that would've won me Nobel Prize and me and Rosie would've lived happily in the future.
And this boy had warned me. He knew it would happen. And I didn't listen. I end up killing him.
I then started to run my hands through Peter's hair, feeling his golden brown hair. I killed him. This boy. He's dead. He's lying down in front of me, with his blood all over my hands. I killed him. I caused him pain...
You know he deserved it father, the tentacles tell me. He caused you pain in the first place. He killed your Rosie.
"No," I speak fiercely, putting my two hands on his head lifting it up. "No! Peter never deserved it! He was only trying to help people out! Those shattered glasses killed Rosie! I...killed Rosie..."
I placed my head down Peter's chest, trying to find a heartbeat and crying in regret. I've been selfish all this time, killing everyone I knew and once knew.
Who's next? Curt Connors and Harry Osborn? All my distant friends and families? All my pupils that I taught and studied science with? Peter's girlfriend, Mary Jane?
Will I kill myself?
I tried that once. It didn't work. The tentacles saved me...why did they! If they didn't, Peter would've lived by now! None of this would've happened!
Don't say that father!
"Shut up." I cried in Peter's chest, rethinking all I've ever done. Why did I kill him? I knew he was Spiderman, but the...tentacles convinced me to go after Peter and avenge Rosie. They're controlling me! They'll make me kill again and again, until I cannot go on!
"P-peter."
I'm a scientist, not a monster. Not a killer or madman. These arms talk to me, telling me to rebuild a failed experiment that could've destroyed my home. They comfort me, telling me that everything's alright.
But everything is not alright Two different people I cared and knew died because of me, Peter Parker and my wife, Rosie Octavius. Everything was not alright.
To be continued...
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