Chapter Fourteen: The One Where It Suddenly Gets Serious For A Bit
The moon fled eastward like a frightened dove, while the stars changed their places in the heavens, like a disbanding army. A soft breeze settled around Harry Osborn's shoulders as he walked into the cemetery. That same breeze made the world around him shiver a little bit. The slick green leaves of the tall trees rustled, and the long curtain of ivy dangling from the branches began to wave. When the ivy blew in the graveyard, it casted the prettiest lacelike shadows on the ground. They reminded Harry of banners, rippling over the dearly departed in silence.
Tombstones covered the dale, the smooth marble surfaces shimmering in the moonlight. He spent most of his spare time here , though not out of any awareness of mortality. Like every young adult, he intended to live forever. Instead, he was here to visit someone. A voice screeching in the back of his head. A missing piece of his soul. His father, Norman Osborn.
He lay there beneath the insect-infested dirt, a visage of white bone licked clean by the maggots that had wiggled their way into the coffin. At least, that's how Harry imagined it. The thought alone made him feel somewhat lost. He had never been close to his father. Norman had been the typical 'rich dad that didn't have time for him'. In fact, for most of his life, Harry was certain that his own father favoured Peter as a son; he was a brilliant student, unlike Harry, and understood the work that Oscorp did on a much deeper level.
Harry had always craved his father's attention. There were even a few times when he wished death upon the man that neglected him...but when that finally happened it almost broke him. No matter how feeble their relationship was, Harry still loved his father. It was something he didn't realise until it was too late.
Harry tucked his hands into his pockets, staring at the marble angel that hovered above his father's grave. It was kept cleaner than anything in that entire cemetery; apparently money can get you a pretty decent grave...but how much would that lone statue mean once his name was lost to the ages?
Shh. Did you hear that? A rustling in the wind that was shivering to life? It was a voice. A low one that was almost inaudible beneath the dreadfully eerie scenery. An Osborn. Not Harry. Another. The ghost that clawed it's way out of the rotted flesh of Norman Osborn's corpse.
You disappoint me, Harry.
The phantom whispered this to the stillness of the graveyard, and the dirt that entrapped him pushed his voice forth. Into the world of the living. Into Harry's very soul.
The boy didn't jump, nor did he quake with fright. He smiled. A crooked, maniacal smile. The voice of his father had finally returned. It had been almost an entire week since it's last visit. He thought that his father had abandoned him again...but no, he was wrong. Norman would never leave. They were connected by blood, and as long as it still pulsed through Harry's veins, Norman's voice would call to him.
"Father..." Harry almost sighed in relief. It had been so horribly quiet without his father's presence. "I know. I'm sorry, I'll try visit more often."
The formless voice laughed. It laughed so hard that it almost broke the barriers of Harry's mind.
I couldn't care less if you visit the grave of an empty shell. I'm not here anymore, I'm with you. That's why I'm disappointed, Harry. I've watched, helpless, as you run my company into the ground.
Harry's breath hitched. "B-But...our profits have-"
Money has nothing to do with it! You've watched as those buffoons buried my work! Revolutionary discoveries, all dismissed because you haven't been paying attention!
Harry fell to his knees, and blades of grass glued themselves to the pants of his navy blue suit. "I...I'm sorry..."
Don't be sorry. Be better. Continue my work. Use it to capture my killer... Spider-Man.
Harry nodded, slowly, and kept doing so as if he were afraid that a demon might drag him down to the seven circles of hell if he stopped. The wind was chilling his cheeks with a bluish tint, but he was more concerned about that marble angel. It seemed to be staring at him now with hollow, lifeless eyes. His father's eyes.
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Oh, how cerebral and mysterious. Did you enjoy that? That macabre meander through the mind of a misguided maniac? Did you enjoy the attempt at decent literature? Good, because now we abandon it entirely to travel through space and time itself to rejoin our friend Peter Parker as his life is told to you through the use of poop jokes, constant half-hearted attempts at humour, and a fourth wall that does not exist on any fabric of reality whatsoever so, actually, there isn't even a fourth wall. It is a lie.
The football game was about to begin, not that Peter cared in the slightest. He had already practically stuffed his backpack full of free sweets and chips, as well as maintaining a hotdog in either hand. He would take a bite out of the left one, then the right, then the left again. He would do this until both those handfuls of bunned goodness were entirely consumed...then he'd go and retrieve two more.
Some may say that he was taking advantage of the good nature of his college for supplying free food...and they'd be absolutely right. He was also partaking in a little thing called 'stress eating'. He arrived ten minutes late, which was still earlier than usual, but Belle was nowhere to be found. Considering how impossible it was to lose the brightly coloured and unusually happy girl in a crowd, he was starting to think that she had forgotten all about him.
Well, she certainly wouldn't be the first...
As he wandered through the bleachers, Peter was starting to feel an anxious knot lodge itself in his throat. It was almost enough to distract him from the sight of Flash Thompson nearby...almost.
It'a impossible to describe the disappointment that ravaged Peter's mind at the sight. He hadn't considered that the people their college football team were versing could have included Flash...suddenly the free food just didn't seem worth the headache.
He could hear Flash arguing with one of his teammates. They were insisting that Captain America was the greatest hero the world had ever seen, and Flash was calling him a moron...saying that Spider-Man could beat him within an inch of his life. Peter rolled his eyes. Flash had always been a bully, and somehow maintained a strange respect for the webbed hero despite his own ego.
Flash's gaze flickered upward. "Hey, what's the loser doing here?!"
Peter groaned. He really didn't feel like dealing with Flash today...not that he ever felt like it.
Flash's expression twisted into one of amusement. One that said 'I'm going to punch Peter Parker in his stupid face'...you know, if expressions could talk. Which they can't. Let's not rule anything out though. Then, he started lumbering towards Peter. Not walking or marching. Lumbering, like a damn giant.
Without a second to waste, Peter dashed in the opposite direction. Sure, he could probably take Flash on and make him look like the idiot he had always been...but the secretly powerful nerd had to maintain the illusion that he couldn't even tie his own shoelaces properly. It was a burden that came with the Spider-Man gig. He had to lose every fight outside of the suit, despite his ability to win.
He had just rounded the corner when he felt something tug him beneath the bleachers. He flailed, but managed to stop himself from fighting back as Flash ran right passed him. The towering idiot didn't even think to look under there.
Peter sighed, but that relief was swiftly stolen away when he turned to see the paint-smudged face of Annabelle Lee. She practically squeezed the air back out of his lungs, which was totally rude by the way.
"I... I thought you forgot about today." Peter mumbled nervously, noticing the hotdog grasped in Annabelle's hand. It was covered in ketchup and grilled onions. "I mean, I'm glad you didn't because I'm pretty sure I'm failing this literature unit."
Annabelle, who was usually so incredibly joyful that it was almost strange, was now staring at him with dull and almost disappointed eyes. She took a bite out of her hotdog, and the ketchup dripped down onto her shirt. She didn't seem to care. In fact, once she was done chewing her food, she wiped the sauce off her shirt with her index finger and licked it away.
"Are...you okay?" Peter asked, starting to become concerned with her silent eating.
"I'm going to be honest with you, Peter." Belle started, and those words already filled him with anticipation...not the good kind. "I said that I'd help you with this unit, and I will, but I want to get this over with as soon as possible."
Peter's heart sunk. Audibly. In fact, the last sound that you heard was Peter's death; whether it be a nursery rhyme or a computer modem. Don't question that statement, it just was. "Did I do something to upset you?"
"I'm...very opinionated when it comes to family." She admitted, and there was a blaze of sorrow in her eyes that almost drowned Peter entirely. "I understand that not everyone has a good upbringing, and that's why it's even more important to protect the people that raised you right. Your aunt was always good to you, wasn't she? That's the vibe I got at least..."
"Yeah, of course." Peter answered immediately. "She's...the best person I know."
"So why did you abandon her when that weird 'Wisp' guy showed up?"
There it was. The all too common misunderstanding that came from being Spider-Man. It always happened, and there was never a good enough excuse that didn't make him look like a jerk. "I... I remembered that I had...an essay to do...?"
Annabelle's eyes narrowed in confusion and Peter debated jumping off a bridge somewhere. "We were being attacked by a man that could turn into a ball of light, and you thought that was an appropriate time to leave your aunt and do your essay?"
"...Yeah." It was at this moment that Peter resigned himself to the fact that Annabelle Lee would despise him forever. He couldn't blame her either. This entire situation made him look like one of the worst people to have ever lived. Well...maybe not worse than Hitler, but still pretty bad.
"Look, I understand that you were scared. I just don't understand why you didn't take her with you..." Belle murmured, then took a deep breath and buried the dismay into the back of her mind. "Sorry, I never should have mentioned it. Let's just start studying."
Annabelle stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight. He could see clearly now that her entire outfit was splashed with green and blue paint, just like her face. It made his chest ache. He wanted to know what she had been painting, but he doubted that she'd want him to ask. Not now...maybe not ever.